Hardbingers

4

Instead of a cab, Jack took his own wheels to Brooklyn this time. And instead of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, he decided to cross the East River on the Williamsburg Bridge.

Mistake… at least in a car as big as Jack's.

Checkpoints had tightened on bridges and tunnels since what had come to be known as the LaGuardia Massacre. Before that, the heavy scrutiny had been directed at vehicles entering the city. Appeared they'd expanded that to those leaving.

His big black Crown Vic's trunk—fittingly enough for a car that got negative miles per gallon—was huge, big enough to house a whole Al Qaeda cell and their favorite caprine squeezes. Apparently that made it something to look out for.

Jack's stomach turned sour as a cop at the entrance to the span signaled him to pull over.

The big, bored-looking white guy with five-o'clock shadow before noon strolled up to Jack's window. No hurrying for this guy.

"Good morning, sir. May I see your license and registration?"

This was bad. Very bad. Jack's IDs, though the best money could buy, were bogus. The registration would pass muster, but he didn't know if the John Tyleski license he'd been using would withstand a computer check. Ernie the ID guy was good, but no one was perfect.

With moist fingers, Jack dug the license out of his wallet, the registration out of the glove compartment, and handed them over.

The cop thanked him and turned away, studying them as he headed toward a kiosk by the curb. Halfway there he stopped and returned to Jack's window.

"These don't match."

Here we go.

"Yessir. I drive and run errands for Mr. Donato."

"We're talking Vinny Donuts here?"

"Yessir."

The cop looked around, then handed the cards back.

"Okay. You got anything in that trunk I shouldn't see?"

Nothing but some of Jack's burglary tools, and they were hidden in a canvas bag in the spare well.

"Not a thing, sir. Mr. Donato is a loyal American citizen."

"Yeah. Okay, pop it so I can take a look."

Jack did. The cop made a cursory examination—going through the motions—then slammed it shut.

He slapped the roof and said, "Have a nice day, sir."

"I will now," Jack muttered once his window had rolled up.

He crossed the bridge slowly, letting the adrenaline work its way out of his system as he blessed the day he'd come up with the idea of cloning Vincent Donato's car. Mr. Donato, sometimes called "Vinny Donuts" and sometimes called "Vinny the Donut," was built like Abe and ran certain ventures of dubious legality out of Brooklyn. Jack had bought a black Crown Vic identical to Vinny's and had Ernie make up an identical registration card and plate.

The inspiration had been mothered by necessity: Someone with no love for Jack had traced the plates on his previous car to Gia, putting her and Vicky in jeopardy. Now should anyone trace his plates they'll find themselves dealing with a hard guy notorious for a bad attitude.

He'd returned to his normal steady state by the time he reached the BQE and took it down to Red Hook. The big Vic sailed along the pocked pavement as if it were velvet.

Across the river, Lower Manhattan gleamed in the winter sunshine. The city looked so clean from over here. Almost pristine. He wondered when someone would discover the three anything-but-pristine corpses in that cellar.

He rolled into Red Hook, found Zeklos's apartment, and parked out front. Then he leaned back, watched the pedestrians, and waited.

After twenty-five minutes a middle-aged man carrying a grocery bag stepped up to the building door. As he fumbled for his key, Jack hopped out and came up behind him. When he unlocked the door, Jack reached past him and held it open.

"I got it," he said.

The guy looked at him, suspicion in his eyes.

AAAAAA A"You live here, bud?"

Jack held up his own shopping bag and loosed his most charming smile.

"Staying with Zeklos. Y'know, Two-B?"

"You mean the ghost?"

They stepped into a tiny vestibule, and then Jack followed the guy up the stairs.

"Why you call him that? He's a good guy."

"Maybe so. But nobody hardly ever sees him. You hear him go in and out, but it's like he's invisible. Like a ghost, y'know?"

Jack knew. He'd been living that way for the past decade and a half: slipping in and out unseen. A ghost in the machine.

A ghost soon to be exorcised.

Jack laughed. "Well, trust me, he looked pretty solid last night."

He held his breath as they reached the second-floor landing. A three-story building… he prayed this guy lived on the third.

As Jack turned right into the hallway he waved and said, "See ya."

The guy said, "Yeah. And say hello to the ghost for me."

Then he started up the next flight.

Perfect.

Jack took his time ambling down to 2-B. When he reached it he glanced back to check that he had the hallway to himself. He did. He knocked.

"Mr. Zeklos… delivery." No answer, no sound from within. "Mr. Zeklos… Candygram." Still no response.

He'd been checking the door as he knocked. A tight jamb. That made a plastic shim approach a little tougher. The no-name knob lock would be a snap to pick; the Schlage deadbolt above it would be tougher, but no match for his pick gun.

Another check of the hallway and Jack went to work. The knob lock wasn't even set—Zeklos depended entirely on the heavier Schlage. Sensible choice. Three minutes of raking with the gun, a twist of the tension bar, and he retracted the bolt.

He put his hand on the knob and pulled his Glock. Three possibilities on the other side of that door: an armed and angry Zeklos, a dead Zeklos, or no Zeklos.

Jack wasn't looking for a fight. Plan A was to talk to Zeklos if he was home and unarmed, try to pump him a little. If he was home and alive and locked and loaded, that would trigger Plan B, which was to get out of here with as little fuss as possible. If not home, shift to Plan C.

He moved to the side, crouched, took a breath, and pushed open the door.

"Zeklos? You there?"

From what he could see from his angle, the place looked empty, sounded empty, felt empty.