Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [85]
Una Gente Libre—A Free People—didn’t operate like most so-called underground groups. No letters to the newspapers, no phone calls to the media, no bombs in public places. They had been blamed for a number of outright assassinations over the years—a mixed bag of sweatshop owners, slum landlords, dope dealers, and apparently some honest citizens. But infiltration was impossible—they’d never applied for a government grant. The word would go on the street that UGL wanted someone—and someone would die. UGL was a dead-serious crew.
You can’t hang around Forty-second and Eighth. It’s a trouble-corner, especially after dark. But early in the morning there’s still a few citizens around. And, of course, plenty of whores in case the citizens want their cocktail hour a bit early. But the phone booths were empty, like I expected. I’d rather have used someplace else, but the rule is you can’t ever make calls from Mama’s. This conversation wouldn’t last long anyway. I knew where I had to go—I just had to be sure I could go there safely.
I rolled up on the phone with a minute or so to spare. It rang right on the money.
“It’s me.”
“So?”
“Have to meet you. Important.”
“Hail a green gypsy cab with a foxtail on the antenna in front of the Bronx Criminal Court tonight at eleven-thirty. He’ll ask you if you want to go to the Waldorf.”
And that was the whole conversation. Time was running short—I could put off the business with Dandy, but I’d given the phony gunrunners a deadline. I put the Plymouth in gear and rolled.
32
WHEN YOU’RE RUNNING, you have to pace yourself. I hadn’t had a chance to see the morning papers yet and I wanted to study last night’s charts so I’d be able to give Max a good, solid excuse for the failure of our joint investment. I needed something to eat and a place where I could work out some of the angles in peace and quiet.
Since I had to meet Margot at noon I thought I’d run over to Pop’s basement, shoot a few racks, have a sandwich, and calm myself down. Nothing really to do until this evening. A man of leisure.
I parked, went downstairs, got a box of ivory balls from the guy in charge, carried it over to a back table, and went over to the private racks for my cue. When I took it down I unscrewed it at the joint in the middle, put both halves on the table and rolled them back and forth to see if the balance was still true. I unscrewed the cap at the butt to see if anyone had left a message for me—not this time. By then the old man who’s always there had the balls racked up for me. I gave him a buck, told him I was just going to be practicing, and he moved off. In a game for money the old man racks each round and the players throw him something each time. For a big match he gets paid a flat fee. Some of the cheapskates won’t pay him anything when they’re just going to practice. Stupid—who knows when the old man’s going to give you a bad rack when some money is on the line?
I tried a hard approach shot to the full rack, slamming into it from behind. The object was to bank the head ball off the left long rail into the short rail where I was standing and then into the right side pocket. I can make it sometimes—this wasn’t one of them. But my shot scattered the balls sufficiently and I gently nudged them around the table for a few minutes until my stroke came to me, then started working on sinking them. It was quiet, just the click of the balls and the occasional muttered curse from one of the other tables. The poolroom had a giant No Gambling sign over the entrance which was universally ignored, but the other rules were religiously observed: no loud talking, no fighting, no weapons, no drugs. If you wanted conversational pool, you could shoot down at one of the front tables near the door. The back tables were for money games or for practice, and they were in much, better shape.
Three tables down from me one of