Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [5]
“What I need with you?” Dwarf said. “I ain’t lonely.”
“Twenty-five large,” Boomer said. “That’s a lot to pay out for one eye.”
“Got me a business,” Dwarf said, “and you startin’ to cost me.”
Boomer reached a hand into the side pocket of his leather jacket, his eyes on Dwarf. The hand came out holding a black switchblade. Boomer clicked it open with his thumb and tossed it to Dwarf, who caught it awkwardly with both hands.
“You take it,” Boomer said.
“Take what?”
“My eye,” Boomer said. “You got the knife, so, take it. Right here. Right in front of your crew.”
“You crazy,” Dwarf said, inching two steps back. “Pull a move on me like this, you got to be fuckin’ crazy.”
“Take the eye now,” Boomer said, pulling a cigarette from his shirt pocket, his voice steady and controlled. “’Cause it’s your only chance.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then your business is shut.” Boomer lit his cigarette with his father’s silver clip. “I don’t care where you go or what part of town you move your shit to. But if I see you on this corner ever again, I drop you and leave you dead.”
Dwarf held his ground, not a move, not a sound.
Boomer smiled and nodded, as if they’d just been exchanging pleasantries about the weather, then put both hands in his pockets and turned. He walked to the driver’s side of his jet black Plymouth and took another look at Dwarf.
“Keep the blade,” he said, smiling, cigarette still in his mouth. “And enjoy what’s left of your life.”
Boomer Frontieri got behind the wheel of the Plymouth, kicked over the 426 cubic-inch engine, shifted into first, and pulled out into the Harlem street traffic, radio tuned to Sam Cooke singing “It’s All Right.”
• • •
HE SPENT EIGHTEEN years on the force, rising to the highest rank he sought, gold-shield detective, faster than anyone in the history of the department. In his career, working with a variety of partners, Boomer Frontieri was credited with more felony arrests and convictions than any other New York City cop. The job consumed him; he lived it and loved it. He never married and had no desire for a family. A bullet had killed his father, had left his mother alone at night, crying herself to sleep. He was a cop and he knew his bullet could arrive at any moment. He didn’t want to leave anyone behind.
Boomer kept his pleasures to a minimum. He worked out regularly, running as many as twelve miles each morning, long before it became fashionable. He would allow nothing to get in the way of the run. During all-day stakeouts, Boomer would, at some point, jump into the backseat, change into sweats, bolt from the car, and hit the pavement.
“What do I do if they come out while you’re gone?” a stunned new partner once asked.
“That’s why they gave you a badge and a gun too,” Boomer told him.
“They’re gonna know you’re a cop,” his partner whined. “The minute you step outta the car, they’re gonna know.”
“They already know I’m a cop,” Boomer said. “I’ve been sitting in front of their house all day.”
“I ain’t takin’ ’em down alone.”
“I’ll be back if you need me,” Boomer said, starting his run.
“How you gonna know if I need you?” his partner asked.
“You’ll be miles away.”
“I’ll hear you scream,” Boomer said, turning a corner, eager to break a sweat.
• • •
THE DARK WEIGHT Boomer Frontieri carried into his work grew heavier through the years. He felt surrounded by the face and smell of death. It had touched many of those around him, from partners to family members to street friends, but had merely toyed with him, hanging him from the brink before returning him to the safety net of a dangerous life.
When his mother died from a stroke in a New York Hospital bed, Boomer was asleep on his stomach in a crosstown hospital as a nervous intern sewed thirty-six stitches down his back, closing up a razor slash, courtesy of a pimp riding a cocaine high. His baby sister Maria, a month shy of her thirtieth birthday, was killed crossing a Jackson Heights street; the hit from a drunk driver’s front end sent her through the window of a