Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [17]
Dead-Eye looked over at his son, asleep in this safe house of peace, and prayed that his guns would not betray him on this night.
• • •
DEAD-EYE KNEW IT was a setup the minute he stepped out of his car.
Four men stood around Magoo, each wearing a long leather coat, standard designer wear for the heavily armed.
The Spanish man was behind Magoo, nodding his head as Dead-Eye approached.
“Hello, my friend,” he said. “You are here.”
“I’m here,” Dead-Eye answered, looking over at Magoo.
“Now we can do business,” the man told Dead-Eye. “Enough of this silly talk between us. We have to trust each other. You can’t do business without trust. And I trust you. It’s what I told Magoo. If you are a cop, then I am a cop. Then we are all cops.”
“Chatty motherfucker, ain’t he?” Magoo said, smiling over at Dead-Eye.
“Too chatty to be a cop,” Dead-Eye said.
“It’s cold out here,” Magoo said. “Let’s take it upstairs. I think better when my teeth ain’t chatterin’.”
They walked around the corner in a group, past graffitistrewn walls, Magoo holding the middle, the Spanish man next to him, four leather coats filling out the huddle. Dead-Eye stayed in step behind Magoo.
“Lips here tells me you pretty good with a gun,” Magoo said, looking over his shoulder. “Took out one of his boys before he could even blink. That true?”
“Pays to advertise,” Dead-Eye said.
Magoo stopped, bringing the entire caravan to a halt. He turned to face Dead-Eye.
“I ain’t too bad myself,” Magoo said. “In case you was wonderin’.”
“I wasn’t,” Dead-Eye said.
They stood before the entrance to a large housing complex. The benches around them were filled with sleeping homeless and users eyeing their next score. The few patches of grass at their feet were littered with bottles, used condoms, and split needles.
“What sort of piece you carryin’?” Magoo asked Dead-Eye.
“Askin’ to buy?” Dead-Eye answered with a smile. “If you are, it’s gonna cost you.”
“I ain’t askin’,” Magoo said.
Dead-Eye heard one of the leather coats to his left click a chamber into a semi. He looked over at the Spanish man, who smiled back at him and shrugged his shoulders.
Dead-Eye unzipped his pea-green army surplus and reached into a side pocket. Magoo put a hand on top of his arm.
“Do it slow,” Magoo said.
Dead-Eye nodded and pulled out a semiautomatic, showing it to Magoo.
“Release the clip,” Magoo said, looking at Dead-Eye and not the gun.
“You ever do anything for yourself?” Dead-Eye asked, staring back, letting the silver cylinder slide from the gun to his cupped palm.
“Only what I need to,” Magoo said, turning away.
• • •
THEY MOVED AS one, past a flurry of curious eyes. One of the leather coats held the heavy green door to unit number six open with one hand. The other stayed in his pocket, cradling a cocked gun.
Dead-Eye walked with his head bowed, mind racing. He had just made the biggest mistake an undercover could make—he had trusted a marked man. He had bet his life that the Spanish man feared him more than he did Magoo. Moving down the urine-stenched hallway of the project, Dead-Eye knew he had wagered wrong. Worse, he had told no one about his meeting, stubborn in his belief that he could bring Magoo down alone.
Now he had less than five minutes to figure out a way to save his life.
“You ever seen my place?” Magoo asked, the group stopped in front of the double doors of the elevator.
“Don’t think so,” Dead-Eye said, scanning the faces of the men he was up against.
Except for the Spanish man, they were heavily armed and, considering the odds, confident enough to take him out at close range. Dead-Eye was down to one gun, a 9-millimeter Hauser, jammed in the back of his jeans. It might be good enough to drop two, maybe three. But in a large space, like Magoo’s apartment, Dead-Eye had no chance. Too open, too vulnerable. It left him with only one choice, one place to make his move.
The elevator doors creaked open. The group got in and turned forward, one of the leather coats pressing the button for the fourth floor. Squeezed into the four-by-five