Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [77]
“The real cops can’t do it,” Boomer said.
“Why not?” Geronimo asked.
“Because they’re the law and they have to follow it,” Boomer said. “We don’t.”
“Which makes us criminals,” Pins said. “Not cops.”
“This is a major crew you’re talking about,” Rev. Jim chimed in. “They’ve got the money and the muscle. We can’t keep up with that. At least I know I can’t.”
“I can understand some of you being nervous,” Boomer said.
“I’m not nervous, Boomer,” Mrs. Columbo said. “I’m scared. We probably all are. You were right about what you said before. We were the best in the business. But now we’re not. I wake up in pain and go to bed the same way. Just like everybody else in this room. That’s no shape to be in when you’re chasing down a prime-time queen.”
“Six cops, crippled or not, up against a crew of four hundred are pretty steep odds to begin with,” Dead-Eye said, wishing for the first time in his life that he smoked.
“You’re forgetting someone, Dead-Eye,” Nunzio said.
Dead-Eye looked over at him. “Sorry. Six and a half against four hundred.”
“That’s better.” Nunzio nodded, pleased.
“Look, I admit I didn’t always go by the book when I was on the job,” Geronimo now said. “But this is about more than bending the rules. This is about breaking the law. That’s one line I never thought of crossing.”
“I’ll give you the strongest reason I can think of,” Boomer said. “And it’s got nothin’ to do with Lucia.”
“Fuck the suspense, Boomer,” Mrs. Columbo said. “Just tell us.”
“It’ll make us feel alive again.” It was Dead-Eye who gave the answer, with a nod toward Boomer. “Make us feel like we used to feel before they took it all away. That’s a feeling worth getting back. Even if it kills us. Is that what you were going to say, Boomer?”
“Something like that,” Boomer said.
They all sat quietly and digested what they had heard. Each one weighed the task Boomer had laid out before them. It was warm in the room and throats were dry. Pins took off his bowling jacket and tossed it behind his chair. Geronimo leaned back and stretched. Mrs. Columbo kept her eyes on Boomer, both happy and angry that he had called her in. Rev. Jim ran a hand along his scarred neck and kept his head down. Dead-Eye stared into his empty glass.
“Nunzio, do I have to kill somebody to get another drink?” Rev. Jim said, breaking the silence.
“Only on Sundays.” Nunzio stood up, opened the door, and headed for the bar.
“You decided already?” Dead-Eye asked Boomer.
“I don’t have family like some of you,” Boomer said. “I don’t have a job I might grow to care about. I’ve only got the shield. For me, it’s an easier decision.”
“A shield doesn’t cover breaking the law,” Pins said.
“I’m still doing what I swore to do,” Boomer responded. “Bring the fight to the bad. I’m just doing it a different way, that’s all.”
“It’s a way that can get you killed in a heartbeat,” Rev. Jim said.
“Then I exit on my terms. And that’s a contract I can follow and not look backon. Now all I’m looking for are a few other signatures.”
“And you’re recruiting from among the wounded,” Dead-Eye said.
Boomer nodded. “That’s because they’re the most dangerous.”
11
THE BRAND-NEW PINK stucco house was large, well lit, and heavily guarded. Motion spots rested behind the dozens of bushes, trees, and large fruit plants that dotted the half acre of property. Two all-terrain vehicles were parked and locked behind thick garage doors and a black Mercedes sat in the circular driveway, shaded by an overhanging palm tree.
The house had been sculpted in the flatbed manner that was so popular with the thousands of fresh faces migrating each year into the rocky terrain of Sedona, Arizona, and its surrounding regions. It had been designed and built on spec by a local company, then sold to a man named Garrison Cross, who paid in full, in cash, and had never once set foot inside. The furnishings had all been ordered through catalogues and department stores, shipped to a Phoenix warehouse, and paid for COD. The wildflowers that circled the exterior had been ordered from