Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [75]
There was little in the way of small talk. Everyone waited for Boomer to open the conversation. But Boomer just sat there, sizing up each cop. The glasses were close to empty and the chunky guy in the bowling jacket was already on his third cigarette, when Nunzio came in with a fresh tray. He rested it in the center of the table, closed the door behind him, and sat on a corner stool.
“The place is closed, Boom,” Nunzio said. “I just checked the last couple out.”
“You got any pretzels to go with this?” the guy in the bowling jacket, Jimmy “Pins” Ryan, asked, lifting a long-neck Bud from the tray and taking a swig.
“We’ll eat later,” Boomer said. “After we talk.”
“Talk about what?” Delgaldo “Geronimo” Lopez, the man nursing the glass of milk, said.
“A lot of things, Geronimo. We’re going to start it off with a story about a lady. After that, if you’re still interested, I’ll tell you one about us.”
“Did Boomer just call you Geronimo?” the guy in the scruffy sweatshirt, Bobby “Rev. Jim” Scarponi, asked. “I mean, like the Indian?”
“You bothered by it or just curious?” Geronimo looked at Rev. Jim with a hard set of eyes.
“Neither one, Chief,” the Rev. said. “And I mean that with respect.”
“Just so we’re all on the same page and nobody steps on the wrong foot,” Boomer began, “know this. Everybody in this room was once a cop. Each top of the line, best in the department. I’m including myself in there. And now we’re all disabled, all of us collecting tax-free checks every two weeks. Everybody except for Nunzio over in the corner.”
“And he is what?” the woman, Mary “Mrs. Columbo” Silvestri, asked.
“A friend,” Boomer said. “And we’re gonna need us one of those.”
“Does that mean the drinks are on the house?” Rev. Jim asked.
“He said I was a friend,” Nunzio told him. “Not an idiot.”
“You really know how to warm up a room,” Mrs. Columbo said to Rev. Jim.
“I give it my best.” The Rev. winked. “That’s all you can ask.”
“You need us for something, Boomer,” Geronimo said. “And it’s not to sit here and drink with you. So, let’s hear it.”
“I just finished something with Dead-Eye,” Boomer said. “It started out as a favor for a friend. It ended up taking us to a whole other place.”
“I heard about it,” Mrs. Columbo said. “A kid got grabbed off the streets. You caught the lifter and somehow his partner managed to walk into your gun.”
“The lifter had a business card in his pocket,” Boomer went on. “With a woman’s name on it. Lucia Carney is what it says on the card, and that’s what she likes to be called. At least this week.”
“What’s her angle?” Rev. Jim asked.
“I told you guys on the phone about her day care center,” Boomer said. “That covers her, money-wise, with the IRS.”
“So what’s her second job?” Geronimo said.
“She moves cocaine into the country,” Boomer said. “Cocaine and crack. And then she moves the cash payments out. Guy I know in D.C. tells me she’s got herself a crew of at least four hundred spread out across the country. Half of them are smurfs, all of them women. The other half work as muscle.”
“What the hell’s a smurf?” Nunzio asked.
“Drug and cash couriers,” Rev. Jim muttered.
“She calls her smurfs the Babysitter’s Club,” Boomer said.
“Like the children’s books,” Mrs. Columbo said. “I just bought a couple of them for my niece.”
“Right,” Boomer said. “The ladies she uses are all neat and clean. No record, no arrests, no history of drug usage. Half of them don’t even know they’re movin’ shit.”
“How do they work the transport?” Dead-Eye asked. “If they don’t know they’re transporting?”
Boomer took a deep breath before he answered, scanning the faces in the room one more time.
He knew he was going to go after Lucia Carney. That decision was made the minute he ran