Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [46]
For the cop they called Rev. Jim, it was just another way to get high.
In no time, he mastered the disguises of the job—from the drunken Wall Street executive asleep at a subway stop to the tattered rummy sleeping one off on a heat grate to the unruly drug addict hustling street corners for throwaway change. He was the best performer on the street, pushing his talents to dangerous limits as he lulled his suspects into action.
It was as a member of the Decoy Unit that Bobby Scarponi found himself leaning against a railing in Brooklyn Heights, looking out across the still river at the diamond glimmer of the Manhattan night. His hair was caked, clothes torn and soiled, black plastic garbage bags wrapped around his feet. He took a fast swig from an iced-tea-filled pint of Four Roses and turned to look at the two young girls on the park bench behind him, both drinking from cups of hot chocolate. The elder of the two, running about sixteen, held a cigarette between the fingers of a gloved hand. They giggled as they talked.
He moved a few steps down, dragging his feet, one hand on the rail, eyes catching a glimpse of his target, hidden behind a tree, a quick jump from the girls on the bench.
“We got company,” Bobby Scarponi said into the top button of his torn coat. A wire transmitter was attached to a band clipped to his waist. “About five feet from the marks.”
The two backups were in a black Plymouth hidden behind a Parks Department shack a quarter of a mile away, guns on their laps, empty coffee containers strewn about their feet.
“You sure it’s him?” the one behind the wheel, T. J. Turner, asked. “Might just be a bum takin’ a piss.”
“Bums piss in their pants,” Bobby whispered into his coat. “It’s part of what makes them bums.”
“You would know, Rev. Jim,” Tommy Mackens said from the passenger seat. “Never met a decoy liked to wear pissed-in clothes as much as you.”
“It’s not what you wear,” Rev. Jim said, “but how you wear it.”
“Be careful with this guy,” T.J. told him. “He’s into the pain more than the takeoff.”
“He found two soft ones tonight,” Rev. Jim said. “Not gonna get much of a fight out of these kids.”
“Hates bums too,” Tommy said, laughing. “Might come beat the shit out of you.”
“I’ll be ready,” Bobby Scarponi said.
He moved away from the railing, staggering his walk, singing “Bye Bye Blackbird” in a soft voice marked by a drunken lilt. He kept his eyes away from the girls, ignoring their chatter, his ears tuned only to the rustle of leaves and the rush of feet.
He was twenty yards from the two girls when the man behind the tree made his move, rushing out to stand in front of the girls, their voices silenced by the sight of a gun. He was tall and solid, a wall of muscle packed under a black set of sweats. He had a ski mask over his face and gloves to hide his fingerprints.
“Don’t hurt us,” one of the girls begged. Her thin face was hidden by thick curls of brown hair.
“Kind of hurt I got, you might like,” the man answered, his voice hard and low. “You both stand up slow and get behind that tree.”
The girls were shaking too hard to move, tears running down their faces, gloved hands gripping the sides of the bench. The man stepped closer and stroked the barrel of the gun against the side of one girl’s temple, nudging the blond hair tucked beneath the flap of her pink wool hat. She didn’t turn her face.
“I can put it inside any kind of trim,” the man said with a small boy’s giggle. “Dead or alive, don’t mean shit. Now, you two gonna walk or be dragged?”
“‘Here I go singing low, Bye bye blackbird.’ Everybody!” Bobby was up behind them now, his voice loud, the pint of Four Roses held high, a big smile on his face. “C’mon, girls, let’s hear it. You, with the mask, I know you can do