Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [128]
“Real fast,” Mrs. Columbo said with a laugh.
“Plus, you’re a better shot,” Boomer said.
“Most wives are,” Mrs. Columbo said. “Cop or not.”
“That’s why I’m still single.” Boomer signaled to make a left turn.
“So, you gonna tell me about her?” Mrs. Columbo asked. “Or do I have to get all my info secondhand?”
Boomer nearly rammed the ball end of the dozer against the back of a Dodge Dart. “Remind me to pistol-whip Nunzio next time I see him.”
“He couldn’t help himself,” she said. “I squeezed it out of him. I was a homicide detective, remember?”
“I went out on a date,” Boomer said. “Not a hit.”
“And …”
“And I had a great time. And I’m gonna see her again. And that’s all I’m gonna say for now.”
“Why?” Mrs. Columbo said. “You turning shy on me all of a sudden?”
“No,” Boomer said. “I’m anything but shy.”
“Then why won’t you tell me about her?” Mrs. Columbo asked, grabbing on to Boomer’s right arm.
“Because we’re here,” Boomer said.
• • •
GERONIMO RAN UP to the driver’s side and jumped onto the side panel runner.
“Rev. Jim and Pins in place?” Boomer asked.
“They’re on each end of the avenue, rerouting traffic,” Geronimo said. “And they’re not all that happy about it.”
“Why?” Mrs. Columbo said. “They’ve got the easiest job. Next to mine.”
“They’re back in uniform.” Boomer laughed. “I got two sets of blues from a friend down at the Chinatown precinct.” As Mrs. Columbo covered her mouth with her right hand, joining Boomer and Geronimo in the laugh, Boomer asked, “Building empty?”
“I went with Dead-Eye and checked through every floor,” Geronimo told him. “Nothing in there except for a couple of attack dogs that we cleared out and enough cocaine to make every junkie in the city smile for a week.”
“Why no guards?” Mrs. Columbo wanted to know.
“She doesn’t need any,” Boomer explained. He turned the dozer so the wrecking ball faced the front of the building, the street now empty of all traffic. “Any dealer or junkie even thinking of making a move on her would be too scared to touch the place. Even with nobody there, that building is more secure than Fort Knox.”
“Until now,” Mrs. Columbo said.
“You bet your sweet little ass until now.” And with that, Boomer shifted the gears on the rig forward.
Geronimo grabbed on to a yellow pole alongside the large front wheel, signaling Dead-Eye away from the front entrance with his free hand. Dead-Eye smiled and nodded, walking closer to the dozer, waving Boomer forward.
“Aim for the center of the building,” Dead-Eye yelled, his hands cupped around his mouth. “That way you’re sure to knock something down.”
“Listen to him,” Boomer muttered, moving the rig at full throttle. “All of a sudden he’s Fred Flintstone.”
Boomer brought the rig to a halt as soon as it jumped the curb. He rammed the gears into park, then began to shift and pull the wrecking ball crank toward the boarded-up first-floor window.
“I guess it would be a waste of time asking if you’ve ever run a machine like this before,” Mrs. Columbo said, watching the ball sway from side to side.
“Total.” Smiling, Boomer eased the shaft forward and watched in awe as the ball crashed against the prewar facade of the building.
The first loud hit brought brick, wood, and dust particles tumbling to the ground. Geronimo and Dead-Eye stood on opposite ends of the building, gold shields hanging from leather straps around their necks, huge grins on their faces, holding back small clusters of passersby.
Boomer turned in his seat and looked over at Mrs. Columbo. “You wanna give it a shot?” he asked. “Unless you think you’re not strong enough.”
“Move it over, old man,” Mrs. Columbo said, standing in her seat, waiting for Boomer to slide down from the rig.
“Try not to kill anybody,” Boomer told her.
Mrs. Columbo cranked the gear forward, moving the wrecking ball away from Boomer and toward the left side of the building. “Clear the decks,” she shouted as the ball hit with a louder crash than the