Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [36]
• • •
WITH THE MONEY he’d saved from the army, plus his heavy overtime earnings as a cop, Ryan bought his first home, a single-family wood frame on Staten Island, six miles from lower Manhattan. It was the first place he could ever call his own, and he stocked it with books, electronic equipment, stereos, radios—all the toys of a childhood he was never allowed to have.
He worked constantly; his expertise was sought out by every undercover operation team leader throughout the five boroughs. Ryan linked his affinity for computers to his electrical magic show and turned the tedious routine of police surveillance into a state-of-the-art experience. He could tap on anyone, from mob bosses to drug rollers to politicians bagging payoffs. He could lay a wire anywhere, from a car bumper to the hull of a yacht, the sound always clear, the reams of information the tapes generated almost always enough to put away the voice. He was the best bug the NYPD ever had.
The respect the other cops showed him was comforting to Jimmy Ryan. It was his first taste of family.
The cops on the job called him Pins.
Ryan loved bowling and was captain of the Manhattan Task Force team. Every Thursday and Sunday night, he could be found pounding lanes at alleys throughout New York, competing against other squads from around the city. He was the police league’s MVP three years running, holding a steady 201 average and walking off with an armful of trophies.
As much as he loved what he was doing, he had his life beyond the police force planned out.
He would open a small electronics store within walking distance of his home and think about doing six-month tours as a professional bowler. Neither job would be done for the money, but for the pleasure.
They were simple dreams.
Ryan had spent a childhood locked away in silent places where faces and names blended together. It taught him not to stray far from the cold glare of reality and to trust only what he found comfort in, what he knew would never betray him. The cold, sterile world of electronic surveillance was all Jimmy Ryan ever counted on. The shiny brown lanes of smoke-filled bowling alleys were his sanctuary.
And like his home and the police department, the rare places he could call his own.
• • •
THE MAN WITH the heavy Spanish accent sounded agitated.
“You were supposed to bring the cash yourself,” he told the woman in the red pumps.
“It couldn’t be worked out,” the woman answered coolly, traces of a southern accent hidden by a dozen New York winters. “So I had a friend arrange it. He should be here in a few minutes.”
“We didn’t ask your friend to bring the money,” the man said. “We asked you.”
“I’ve known him all my life,” she said, still cool. “I trust him. So can you.”
“I trust no one,” he said. “It is what’s kept me alive.”
“Sad way to live,” the woman said.
“In my business, it’s the only way to live,” the man said. “Trust ends with a bullet.”
• • •
“HE’S ON TO her, Pins,” Calise said. “You can hear it in his voice.”
“It’s too early to move,” Fitz said. “We don’t know if he’s got the shit with him. We bust in and he don’t have the drugs, he walks away clean. And we can’t touch that fucker ever again.”
“You can send Steve in earlier,” Jimmy said. “Once he sees the cash, he’ll be calm.”
“I don’t wanna spook the narcs,” Calise said. “They always look to end these things with guns.”
“Then, I’ll go in,” Jimmy said.
“You?” Fitz scoffed. “Since when do you go in?”
“You guys handle the equipment and I’ll go up.”
“As what!” Calise said, turning to face Jimmy.
“Hotel’s got computerized phone lines,” Jimmy said. “It’ll take me about two minutes to find the basement and short-circuit the phones in the suite. Then I go up, knock on the door, and ask to check the phones.”
“Dressed in a bowling jacket with your name on the chest and jeans,” Fitz said. “What’d you do last night, take a bowling ball to the head?”
“We need the kilos and we need