A Bomb Built in Hell by Andrew Vachss Page B

wasn’t a professional.
    Every night, just before eleven, he went to Sadie’s Sexational Spa (“THE BEST IN THE WESTside”), on Eighth between 44th and 45th. He stayed about a half-hour each time.
    He went in different directions after that—never the same way. Wesley followed him three times, and each time he met The Prince, always on the street or at the entrance to one of the bars.
    Wesley returned to the garage a little after midnight on Wednesday. Pet came out of the shadows and walked over to the cab.
    â€œCan we do it?” the old man wanted to know.
    â€œYeah, but it’s gonna be sticky. You’re going to have to go in there with a car. Go in
fast
, and get out before he can move. We need him to know you’re on the case, like you’re going to drive-by him and the cruise is about setting it up.”
    â€œWhy you want him like that?”
    â€œMisdirection. Like with the backfiring car you told me about.”
    â€œOkay. Then what?”
    â€œThe rest is mine. You just wait with the car. No, bump that—how many cars can you plant in different spots around the cesspool?”
    â€œIf I started now, I could probably get about six, ’specially if the kid helps.”
    â€œOkay, we’ll use under the West Side Highway Bridge by the river. On Fortieth, and Thirty-third, and Twenty-third. And Forty-second and Fifth, and anyplace else you think is good. Get the list where you got them stashed, and get ready to go out in the cab by eight-thirty tomorrow night. I’m going to sleep.”
    â€œWesley …”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWe give the kid a key, then he could take care of the dog if—”
    â€œThe dog would kill him.”
    T he yellow cab rolled up Eighth Avenue, Pet driving, Wesley the back-seat passenger, dressed in a khaki fatigue jacket and heavy twill cargo pants, tucked into soft-soled field boots. Under the jacket, he wore a black Ban-Lon pullover with long raglan sleeves.
    In the side pocket of the pants he carried two identical knives; the blades extended back through the handles and were anchored by a tiny metal bead. Zipped into the inside pocket of the field jacket was a .25 Beretta. One outside pocket held a screw-on silencer. Another held two full clips of custom rounds: hardballs with sealed iodine tips.
    Swinging from the thin webbing belt was a pair of baseball-sized fragmentation grenades. The front pocket of the pants held a Colt Cobra .38 with a two-inch barrel.
    Wesley was additionally equipped with a small plastic bottle of talcum powder, four pairs of rubber surgeon’s gloves, and a black silk handkerchief. Clipped to the back of the webbing belt was a pair of regulation police handcuffs. Also on board was a thousand dollars in bills, from singles to centuries, a soft pack of Marlboros, a disposable butane lighter, and a miniature propane torch.
    Sewn into Wesley’s left sleeve were registrations for the six cars, as well as a valid FS-1 for each. He carried only a single key, which would start any of the vehicles. He also carried a driver’s license, a Social Security card, an Army DD 214 form, a membership card in Local 1199 of the Hospital Workers Union, and a clinic card showing that his next appointment was for Monday at the VA Hospital on 24th and First.
    He had spent twenty-four hours a day for three weeks dressed exactly the same way, and knew he could move without giving the slightest hint of all the extra weight.
    The cab stopped on 44th, and Wesley got out. It was ten-fifteen.
    Wesley entered Sadie’s. A red light glowed against the far wall. Beneath it, a fat man with a menacing face sat behind a scarred wooden desk. The fat man’s face lit up with what was supposed to be both a smile of welcome and a warning.
    â€œCan I help you, buddy?”
    â€œI want a massage.”
    â€œTwenty-five bucks in front. You pay
me
for the massage—that buys you twenty minutes.