Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [53]
I nodded my head in agreement. Jacques held up his hand, palm out, fingers spread. I raised my eyebrows. He just shrugged.
It's good to deal with professionals—even if I was wired like a Christmas tree, nothing would go on the tape. Five hundred bucks of Julio's money changed hands. I slipped the pistol into my coat pocket, put the box it came in back into the shopping bag, and waited. The West Indian took out a box of shells, holding them in his palm. I shook my head— I had all the bullets I needed. Jacques touched a forefinger to his brow. I turned to face Leather Apron again. I heard the car open and close, but I didn't move until I saw the bodyguard start to back away toward the restaurant door. Then I got out of there.
I drove down Atlantic, one hand on the wheel, the other pulling up the rubber floor mat and groping around until I found the panel next to the hump for the transmission. I had loosened the ratchets before I drove to the restaurant. The magnum slipped inside and the rubber mat went back in place. There was nothing in plain view. I couldn't do anything about a cop stopping me, but if he found the piece it wouldn't stand up in court.
The magnum was a heavy–duty piece. Just looking at the business end would scare most people. But guns aren't for scaring people, they're for people who are scared. I was—I just didn't know of what.
34
I DROVE back carefully, speeding up so I blended in with the late–night traffic. The streets were quiet, but if you looked close, you could see things. Two guys standing against the wall of a darkened gas station—the wool caps on their heads would turn into ski masks when they pulled them down, hands in their pockets. A lonely whore in a fake–fur coat with a white mini–skirt underneath, looking to turn one last trick before she called it a night. A van with blacked–out windows driving by slowly, watching the whore while the two men in the shadows watched the van. In New York, the vultures work close to the ground.
Back in the garage, I unscrewed the plate and took out the magnum. I needed to test the piece and I didn't have time to run over to the Bronx and ask the Mole. I broke the gun and loaded it with some .38 Specials I keep in a jar full of nuts and bolts. The door to the basement is set into the garage floor, like a manhole cover. I pried it loose and backed down the stairs, reaching for the light switch with my hand. I heard the rats running across the floor even before the light went on. Some of the bolder bastards just looked at me—it was their place, not mine.
The walls are lined with sandbags donated from a construction site—about four bags deep all around the wall and up to the ceiling. I don't keep anything else down in the basement; there's no other way out except for the tunnels the rats use. It's good for nothing but testing things that make a big bang—you couldn't hear a cannon from the street.
There's a little workbench on the floor down there with a heavy–duty vise attached and a reel of two–hundred–pound–test fishing line. I wrapped the butt of the magnum in the vise, wedged it tight, and tied some of the fishing line around the trigger. I aimed it at the far wall, cocked the hammer, and ran the line back to the stairs. I climbed halfway up and gave it a hard pull. There was a sharp crack! sound and a puff of dust from one of the sandbags. I went over to look—just a nice round entrance hole—the other side would be wide open, but I wasn't going to pull the whole thing apart just to take a look.
I pulled the magnum out of the vise, held it two–handed, and emptied it into the wall. It kicked a bit, but not as much as I expected from the short barrel. I broke the gun and dropped the empties into my hand. Jacques was still selling quality merchandise.
The rats were back doing business before I had the trapdoor closed.
35
I WOKE up the next morning and