Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [57]
Malcolm was straight enough to know not to outfight them, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with their shakedown shit, and he sure as sin wasn’t going to be dragged to the house to be fingered on something he didn’t do. It left him only one viable option, and he took it as soon as he crossed Forty-first and turned left, heading down toward Ninth Avenue and less congested streets.
Malcolm tossed the bag filled with the Colts over his shoulder and started to run, heading for the rummy shacks down by the West Side Highway.
“Rabbit’s on the go, Boom,” Dead-Eye shouted, starting to take chase.
“Let’s try and keep him alive,” Boomer said, running alongside. “For a change.”
“You’re talking like a civilian now,” Dead-Eye said, ignoring the pain in his chest as he ran.
“He’s makin’ for the highway,” Boomer said, wincing from the pressure the hard concrete was putting on his bad leg. “We gotta cut him off by the time he gets to Tenth.”
“If we make it to Tenth,” Dead-Eye said, starting to slow his pace, the burn in his chest growing with every deep breath.
“We’re makin’ him look like Jesse Owens,” Boomer said, the frustration in his voice spiking as high as the pain.
“With us chasin’, everybody’s Jesse Owens,” Dead-Eye said, wiping a hand across his forehead, brushing away cold drops of sweat.
They stopped next to a cab stand, both gasping for air, bent over, hands to knees, faces twisted in pain, Malcolm Juniper long gone from their sights.
Dead-Eye took a step back and leaned his aching body against a taxi. “What are we doin’?” he said angrily. “We’re finished, man. This shit ain’t for us anymore. We’re done, you and me, and we got the papers to prove it.”
“It’s just a little rust,” Boomer wheezed, walking in small circles, willing the pain in his chest and leg to flee from him as fast as Malcolm had. “We’ve just gotta get our timing back.”
“We got all the timing we need,” Dead-Eye said, his voice wistful. “Me for being a doorman and you for lifting a pasta fork.”
“You can’t walk away from this,” Boomer said, grabbing Dead-Eye’s jacket. “It’s all you know. And it’s all I got.”
“I’m sorry about your friend’s kid,” Dead-Eye said, slowly easing Boomer’s hand away. “And I wanted to help. But she don’t need me. She needs a cop to help her. A real cop. Not some guy trying to remember what it was to be one.”
Dead-Eye patted Boomer’s arm, braced his jacket against the cold, and headed toward Eighth Avenue. Boomer stood and watched him, his breath still coming hard, the pain fading, tears rolling down the side of his nose. He walked over toward the front steps of a tenement, ignoring the stares of the cabdrivers on break. There were three garbage cans lined in front of the basement apartment. He flipped the lid off the nearest packed can, picked it up, lifted it to chest level, and heaved it into the street. He stared at the bags of waste as they weaved into the wind, loose strips of greasy foil and paper towels slapping against the sides of parked cars. He saw the dented can rumble down the sharp incline and come banging to a stop next to a no parking sign.
Boomer Frontieri looked over at the drivers, who stared back at him in silence. He took a deep breath and walked away, hands inside his pockets, leg still burning from the run, moving slowly down the quiet street, nothing ahead of him but time.
8
MALCOLM JUNIPER STOOD in a dark corner of the one-room apartment and stared over at Jennifer Santori. The girl’s face was tear-lined and bruised; her bare arms were extended, wrists locked in a set of cuffs attached to the top of a radiator pipe. She was naked from the waist up, thin legs bunched against the sides of her hips, her frail