Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [25]
And then the wheels came off. "This is the police!" came a voice on a bullhorn. "You men are surrounded. Drop your weapons and walk toward the sound of my voice with your hands in the air!"
The miserable fucking maggots! Why take a chance of dealing with renegades when they could get their dope back and hand their cop pals some major felony arrests at the same time?
I had to stall them, get time to think.
"How do I know you're the cops?" I shouted back down into the tunnel.
"This is Captain Johnson, N.Y.P.D., pal. Precinct Number One. You are under arrest, you got it? You got two minutes—I don't see hands in the air, I'm going to see blood on the ground."
It was the cops all right, and not the Transit Police either—only the bluecoats talk like that—and only when they've got an audience. I turned to face my brothers. There was nothing to discuss—the Mole wouldn't last an hour locked up. If the Prof took another fall, they'd hold him for life. And without someone to watch out for him, Max would kill a guard sooner or later. "Prof," I snapped at him, "hit the little tunnel, okay? Take the bags with the real dope with you, leave me the rest. You go first—make sure it's clear on Spring Street before you step out. The Mole follows you. Max brings up the rear in case anyone gets past me. You know where the car is. Got it?"
"Burke," the little man said, "I'm down for the next round. Fuck these blue–coated thieves!"
"Get in the tunnel, Prof. The Mole can't make it without you. Don't let Max do anything crazy."
"Come with us," the Mole told me, hefting his satchel.
"Not a chance, Mole. It won't give us enough time. It's the Man, brother, not the mob. We can't outrun a fucking radio. Go!"
"What're you going to do?" asked the Prof.
"Time," I told him.
The Prof looked back for a second, squeezed my arm hard, and hit the tunnel, the Mole right behind. That left Max. I pointed into the tunnel, patted my back to show he had to protect the others, and Max touched his chest, made a motion like he was tearing out his heart, and put his fist in my open palm. He didn't have to tell me—I knew.
I turned in the direction of the bullhorn. "I'm not going back to jail!" I screamed at them. "I'll hold court right here, you understand!" I'd been waiting to use that line since I got out of reform school the first time.
"Give it up, buddy!" came back the cop's voice. "You got no place to go."
"Any of you guys ever been in 'Nam?" I yelled down the tunnel shaft, buying time with every word.
Silence. I could hear mutters, but no words. They'd move in soon.
Finally a hard voice came back down the tunnel to me. "I have, friend. Eighty–seventh Infantry, Charlie Company. Want me to come back there alone?"
"Yeah!" I shouted back. "I want you to tell your cop friends what this is!" I pulled the metal baseball out of my pocket—a fragmentation grenade with the pin still in—and lobbed it down the tunnel in their direction. I listened to it bounce around the walls and then everything went quiet. It must have fallen onto the tracks.
"What was that, friend?" my Vietnam buddy wanted to know.
"Shine your light and see for yourself," I told him. "But don't worry—the pin's still in!"
The place went as quiet as a tomb—because that's what they all thought it had turned into. I saw flashlights bounce off the dripping walls of the tunnel, but none of them came closer to me from either side. Then I heard "Holy shit!" and I knew they'd found it.
"You know what that is?" I called out to them.
"Yeah," came back the infantryman's weary voice, "I seen enough of the fucking things."
"You want to see more, just come on back," I invited him. "I got a whole crate of them just sitting here."
More silence.
"What do you want?" he called down to me.
"I want you guys to clear out of this tunnel, okay? And I want a car full of gas at the curb on Canal Street. And a ride to J.F.K. And I want a plane to Cuba. You got it? Otherwise,