Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [116]
Pins reared back and tossed a strike down lane six. “Still think you’re going to beat me?” he asked Andrew.
“I know it,” Andrew said.
“Want to bet on it?”
Andrew cast his eyes down to the shiny floor. “I can’t bet you,” he said in a low voice. “Got no money.”
“It’s not a money bet,” Pins said.
“What kind, then?”
“I’m going to be gone for a while,” Pins said. “I need somebody to look after the alley for me. Make sure things don’t get out of hand. Interested so far?”
Andrew’s face was lit with a smile. “Yeah,” he said. “You know it.”
“Now, if you win,” Pins said, “if you beat me, I’ll pay you to look after the place. But if you don’t, then you work the place for free.”
“That’s a sucker bet,” Andrew said, strutting to the floor and reaching for a ball.
“Only for the loser,” Pins said, sitting back down and smiling up at the happy boy.
He and Andrew bowled late into the warm night. Outside, the happy shouts of Andrew’s first victory over Pins could be heard echoing down the emptiness of deserted streets.
• • •
GERONIMO SAT IN the steam room, a white towel draped around his waist, the medallion his mother gave him hanging around his neck. He let the steam wash over him, the sweat flowing down his body like a waterfall, his eyes closed. It was a ritual cleansing for Geronimo, a warrior about to go off and do battle. He knew his time had come, his destiny near enough for him to touch, and it brought a smile to his face. It was the way it was meant to be. He no longer needed to fear being found crunched over a broken computer terminal surrounded by dust and a blank wall, his heart filled with a sad weight. Instead, Geronimo would meet up with the device that waited for him. A device that would challenge his spirit and bring life back to his soul.
Geronimo removed the medallion from around his neck and rested it on the wooden slab by his side. He no longer needed its protection. His way had been found.
17
MRS. COLUMBO WALKED toward the black van, a bundled latex-covered doll held close to her chest. The van was parked off the side of a hill, hidden by a thick cover of trees, ten miles north of Camden, Maine. Four armed men stood around the rear doors, polished shoes scuffing against the sandy ground. Two others sat in the front seat, windows rolled down, their faces up to the sun, necks leaning on headrests. A black Cadillac was parked at an angle next to the van, its four doors open to the breeze, the three men inside checking and cleaning the clips on their semiautomatics.
The outskirts of resort towns were the favored exchange spots for Lucia’s crew. Dealers and mules could come in and out, do business openly, and not garner any attention. The towns were accustomed to large numbers of visitors traveling, staying for only days or even hours before heading back home. It was easy to blend in.
It was even easier, as Lucia quickly discovered, to buy inexpensive condos on resort properties and utilize them as work bases and show places for prospective clients. Brokers especially were warm to investors who closed deals with cash. Lucia Carney owned seven such condos, all purchased in someone else’s name, each located at a five-star resort situated within a long drive or a short flight to a central drug distribution city. In such places a mule and her team could blend in with soccer moms, golf-crazed dads, and scrambling toddlers, and just as easily disappear from view.
It was, without question, a perfect setup.
Mrs. Columbo’s heels chipped against the corners of the tiny pebbles beneath her feet, kicking up small pockets of dust. She stared up at the van and could see the packets of cocaine, stacked high in the rear, all nearly glowing in the reflected glare of the Cadillac’s lights. She walked slowly, hemmed in on one side by a short, gray-haired man holding a revolver, and on the other by a sour woman who had met her at the Portland airport, identifying herself only as Angela.
They had made