Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [66]
“Girls,” the man said, lifting the crack pipe back to Malcolm’s lips and lighting it with a flick of a gold butane. “The younger the better.”
“Only kind I know to deal in,” Malcolm said, drawing in a deep breath. The smoke turned the soft skin behind his eyes a cloudy shade of gray.
“And there’s one other thing,” the man said, smiling for the first time.
“What’s that gonna be?” Malcolm asked.
“Babies,” the man said.
“Babies?” Malcolm held the pipe inches away from his mouth. “What kind of babies?”
“The kind that cry till you rock them,” the man said, turning his attention back to the street. “The ones that make men smile and women want to hold.”
“These babies for you?” Malcolm asked, still confused by the request.
The man turned back and looked at Malcolm. He removed the shades, dark eyes cutting a sharp path past the crack smoke and Malcolm’s dulled senses. He reached a hand into his shirt pocket and slid out a black business card.
“For my boss,” the man said. He handed the card to Malcolm, who stared down at it, glassy eyes unable to read the name and Arizona address stenciled across the front in white letters.
“Keep it,” the man told Malcolm. “And remember the name. When you have something, you call that number and someone will find you.”
“How much?” Malcolm asked, slipping the card into his jeans.
“Ten thousand for a baby,” the man said, putting the shades back on. “Five thousand for a girl who can give us one. Twenty for both.”
“I always liked babies,” Malcolm said, nodding, a wide smile on his face. “Now I like ’em even more.”
“They can help make you rich,” the man said. “If you’re smart.”
“I’m a doper,” Malcolm said, “not a dummy.”
“The card in your pocket will decide that.” The man now leaned over and placed a Polaroid snapshot between the fingers of Malcolm’s right hand. Malcolm brought the picture to eye level, squinting, trying to focus.
The photo was of a male body, charred beyond recognition, washed ashore on a desolate strand of beach.
“What’s this?” Malcolm asked.
“It’s not a what,” the man said. “It’s a who. He lost the card and let someone else see the name. That forced me to come get him. It took a long time to find him and it took him a long time to die.”
“What’s on that card stays with me,” Malcolm said, seeing the photo in his hand with a clear eye. “Bet your life on it.”
“I’ll do one better, Malcolm,” the man said. “I’m going to bet yours.”
• • •
JUNIOR MOVED SLOWLY down the street, sandwiched between Boomer and Dead-Eye, two blocks away from where they had parked the car. Cold blasts of air hit against his sweat-stained clothes, causing him to shiver and bury his hands deeper into his pockets.
“I told you the address,” Junior said, turning his head from the wind. “Why do you still need me?”
“In case you lied to me,” Boomer said. “I don’t wanna have to go all the way back uptown just to kill you.”
“You aren’t fooling anybody,” Junior said. “You’re gonna kill me no matter what.”
“Don’t know about him,” Dead-Eye said. “But I’m sure leaning that way.”
“Work with me on this one,” Boomer said. “You come up with us and finger old pal Malcolm. He takes a ride in a patrol car and kills a few months down at Rikers. He’s got nothing but time to tell all the brothers that you were the one stooled him out.”
“That’s not right,” Junior said, shifting his head from Boomer to Dead-Eye. “You said all I had to do was point out the building and give you the apartment number. You didn’t say anything about me going up. You promised.” His voice degenerated into a whine.
“Here’s a lesson for you, Junior,” Boomer said, gripping his arm to prevent a bolt. “Never believe what a cop tells you.”
“Your daddy’s got enough money to buy himself a judge or maybe pay off a family too scared to know better,” Dead-Eye said. “But not enough money’s been made can keep a street stool alive.”
“Like walking around with a loaded gun to your head,” Boomer agreed. “Sooner or later, the trigger’s gonna click.”
“You don’t have to do this.” Junior’s voice