there? Dangerous objects everywhere.” He pointed. “And that man’s gun. A Glock—the new favorite of the feds. My wife says they keep investigating me only because it allows them to eat well.”
“Maybe we should talk outside. Before all your customers leave.”
Capel came to his feet easily, a man who kept himself in shape. He plucked a breadstick from the tumbler filled with them. Electrolarynx in one hand, breadstick in the other. “To defend myself.”
They walked outside, where two cars, a gleaming black BMW and a kickass old Buick, were pulling away. The restaurant sat on a dogleg off major streets, so there was little traffic. Up toward Goldwater a restaurant’s outside patio was choked with young people, misters going full-out. From here, it sounded like flocks of birds. And it looked as though the birds were washing down, drink after drink, food that hadn’t happened yet.
“You, this thing with you, that’s business too, you know,” Capel said.
“Look at it a certain way, everything’s business. The simplest conversation becomes an economic exchange.”
“Yes. Both sides want something.” Capel took the cylinder away for a moment, as though on a microphone and clearing his throat. “True, too, that generally the desired ends are not so transparent. You want your life, and me out of it. As of but minutes ago, I would like the same.”
A black Escalade eased along the street and into the lot. A tall, thin man, pale with feathery white hair, climbed out.
“They’ll have called, from inside.” Capel’s hand lifted, made a slight push at the air. The man leaned back against the van, watching.
“It’s no easy thing,” Capel said, “but I can call this off. I have the weight to do that. But it won’t be over.”
“I understand.”
“I’m sure you do. Neither, then, are our negotiations.”
“No.”
“You’re an unpopular man. Memorable—but remarkably unpopular. You have no friends, for instance, in Brooklyn. Around Henry Street, say, where old women sit on the stoops in their aprons and men play dominoes on cardtables by the curb.”
Capel looked past him. “These would be yours.” Driver turned. A gray Chevrolet sedan coming in slow. Two heads. “The PPD, subtle as ever. Completely anonymous in their unmarked car.”
The driver’s door opened and a man got out who looked like an accountant. Room for half of another neck in his shirt collar, bad tie, wayward elbows and knees.
Billie’s father got out on the other side.
— • —
“What you described, how things were getting handled, it had to come back to Bennie. No one else locally has the machinery, the people in place. Figured I’d swing by, talk to him about it. The two of us go back some years.”
“When you were a cop.”
“Before that.”
Bill’s companion was Nate Sanderson, who Bill said had done time in the FBI, then in the DA’s office, before settling in with the department, and had now gone too lazy to move again. Not to mention the excellent pay and job security, of course.
“You found out what you needed?” Sanderson asked.
“Hell if I know.” It was turning into one of those situations, Driver thought, where every answer you get confuses you more. To Bill he said, “Aren’t you missing Andy Griffith back at the home?”
“I’ll catch up next time.”
“What, you escaped?”
“Man walks in, flashes a badge, they’re not likely to ask a lot of questions. One reason I needed Nate here.”
“The other?”
“He works organized crime. Squeezing the rag. Knows where to find Bennie this time of day.”
They were in a cavernous, mostly empty restaurant off Missouri. The handpainted sign out front read only Chicken Ribs , with a primitive cartoon of a fox licking its lips. Those would be some mighty small ribs, Bill had said. He and Sanderson were eating slices of pie that looked to be about 80 percent meringue. Driver had coffee. He watched as a light-skinned man passed on the sidewalk wearing a t-shirt
“Maybe we should talk outside. Before all your customers leave.”
Capel came to his feet easily, a man who kept himself in shape. He plucked a breadstick from the tumbler filled with them. Electrolarynx in one hand, breadstick in the other. “To defend myself.”
They walked outside, where two cars, a gleaming black BMW and a kickass old Buick, were pulling away. The restaurant sat on a dogleg off major streets, so there was little traffic. Up toward Goldwater a restaurant’s outside patio was choked with young people, misters going full-out. From here, it sounded like flocks of birds. And it looked as though the birds were washing down, drink after drink, food that hadn’t happened yet.
“You, this thing with you, that’s business too, you know,” Capel said.
“Look at it a certain way, everything’s business. The simplest conversation becomes an economic exchange.”
“Yes. Both sides want something.” Capel took the cylinder away for a moment, as though on a microphone and clearing his throat. “True, too, that generally the desired ends are not so transparent. You want your life, and me out of it. As of but minutes ago, I would like the same.”
A black Escalade eased along the street and into the lot. A tall, thin man, pale with feathery white hair, climbed out.
“They’ll have called, from inside.” Capel’s hand lifted, made a slight push at the air. The man leaned back against the van, watching.
“It’s no easy thing,” Capel said, “but I can call this off. I have the weight to do that. But it won’t be over.”
“I understand.”
“I’m sure you do. Neither, then, are our negotiations.”
“No.”
“You’re an unpopular man. Memorable—but remarkably unpopular. You have no friends, for instance, in Brooklyn. Around Henry Street, say, where old women sit on the stoops in their aprons and men play dominoes on cardtables by the curb.”
Capel looked past him. “These would be yours.” Driver turned. A gray Chevrolet sedan coming in slow. Two heads. “The PPD, subtle as ever. Completely anonymous in their unmarked car.”
The driver’s door opened and a man got out who looked like an accountant. Room for half of another neck in his shirt collar, bad tie, wayward elbows and knees.
Billie’s father got out on the other side.
— • —
“What you described, how things were getting handled, it had to come back to Bennie. No one else locally has the machinery, the people in place. Figured I’d swing by, talk to him about it. The two of us go back some years.”
“When you were a cop.”
“Before that.”
Bill’s companion was Nate Sanderson, who Bill said had done time in the FBI, then in the DA’s office, before settling in with the department, and had now gone too lazy to move again. Not to mention the excellent pay and job security, of course.
“You found out what you needed?” Sanderson asked.
“Hell if I know.” It was turning into one of those situations, Driver thought, where every answer you get confuses you more. To Bill he said, “Aren’t you missing Andy Griffith back at the home?”
“I’ll catch up next time.”
“What, you escaped?”
“Man walks in, flashes a badge, they’re not likely to ask a lot of questions. One reason I needed Nate here.”
“The other?”
“He works organized crime. Squeezing the rag. Knows where to find Bennie this time of day.”
They were in a cavernous, mostly empty restaurant off Missouri. The handpainted sign out front read only Chicken Ribs , with a primitive cartoon of a fox licking its lips. Those would be some mighty small ribs, Bill had said. He and Sanderson were eating slices of pie that looked to be about 80 percent meringue. Driver had coffee. He watched as a light-skinned man passed on the sidewalk wearing a t-shirt
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