problem. I just wish you’d come to me sooner. It’s good to do a little preliminary scouting, you know, check out the territory.”
“I just got the address a half hour ago,” Reynolds said, “while I was on my way here.”
“Oh.” Shanker thought about this. “You were already coming? What would you have done if you didn’t have the address when you got here?”
“I would have waited. I put my best man on it, and I have confidence in him. I always have confidence in the people I work with. They never let me down.”
He said it with a emphasis that let Shanker know how important it was not to let Jack Reynolds down.
“So where do we find this individual?” Shanker asked.
“Address in the Valley.”
“Who are we dealing with here? I mean, is this a hardened target—security protection, shit like that?”
“It’s a middle-aged woman. She lives alone at this address.”
Reynolds took out an index card, handling it by the edges between thumb and forefinger, and pushed it across the desk. On it was written 903 KEYSTONE DRIVE, the address printed in capitals to make a handwriting comparison impossible. Shanker guessed that Reynolds had never touched the surface of the card. He’d left no prints.
“I can get it done,” Shanker said. He didn’t touch the card either.
“What’ll it cost?”
“Forget it. Gratis.”
“I’ll pay. What’s the going rate?”
“It’s just her? Just this one woman?”
“For now.”
Shanker hesitated, wondering how much he should ask for. Too much, and he might make the Man angry. Too little, and he would only be cheating himself.
“Five grand,” he said.
Reynolds nodded. “I’ll pay in cash when the job is done. Unless you need a deposit?”
This had to be a joke. Even if it wasn’t, Shanker found himself laughing. “Deposit? What, are you shitting me? No way.”
He kept laughing, though there was nothing really funny about it. Except that it
was
funny—the whole routine they were going through, the scene they had acted out. They both knew Shanker would do whatever he was told, whether or not he was paid. They both knew Shanker was in no position to disappoint Jack Reynolds. And they both knew what happened to people who did disappoint him. Joe Ferris, for instance.
Joe had made the mistake of trying to blackmail the Man back when Reynolds was just getting started in the DA’s office. Ferris had dirt on him—some small-time illegal shit Reynolds had done as a teenager—and he threatened Reynolds with career-killing exposure unless he received a monthly stipend, a lien on Reynolds’ income. Reynolds played along, paying him off for five or six months, until Joe got careless and allowed himself to be drawn into a private rendezvous with the Man. By then he thought he’d broken Reynolds down, made him his bitch.
Jack Reynolds was no one’s bitch. The next day Joe Ferris was found dead in a vacant lot, his body mutilated in awful ways, all of which predated his expiration. The police never caught the killer and, given Ferris’s rap sheet, didn’t make much of an effort. But Shanker knew who had done it. And he knew that before he died, Joe Ferris had given up every piece of evidence that could have been used against Reynolds. No one could have held out against the methods that had been used, the terrible ingenuity employed.
The Man was older now, but he hadn’t mellowed. He’d filled out his suits a little, polished his act, but if you stripped all that away, he was still a fighter who knew only the law of the barrio—to defend your turf, accept no disrespect, and show no leniency to your enemies, ever.
“No deposit then,” Reynolds said when Shanker had gotten his laughter under control.
“I’ll put my best crew on it,” Shanker promised.
“Good. Let me know when it’s done.”
Reynolds started to rise. Shanker risked a question. “You said there was only one person—for now. Does that mean there’s another one, for
“I just got the address a half hour ago,” Reynolds said, “while I was on my way here.”
“Oh.” Shanker thought about this. “You were already coming? What would you have done if you didn’t have the address when you got here?”
“I would have waited. I put my best man on it, and I have confidence in him. I always have confidence in the people I work with. They never let me down.”
He said it with a emphasis that let Shanker know how important it was not to let Jack Reynolds down.
“So where do we find this individual?” Shanker asked.
“Address in the Valley.”
“Who are we dealing with here? I mean, is this a hardened target—security protection, shit like that?”
“It’s a middle-aged woman. She lives alone at this address.”
Reynolds took out an index card, handling it by the edges between thumb and forefinger, and pushed it across the desk. On it was written 903 KEYSTONE DRIVE, the address printed in capitals to make a handwriting comparison impossible. Shanker guessed that Reynolds had never touched the surface of the card. He’d left no prints.
“I can get it done,” Shanker said. He didn’t touch the card either.
“What’ll it cost?”
“Forget it. Gratis.”
“I’ll pay. What’s the going rate?”
“It’s just her? Just this one woman?”
“For now.”
Shanker hesitated, wondering how much he should ask for. Too much, and he might make the Man angry. Too little, and he would only be cheating himself.
“Five grand,” he said.
Reynolds nodded. “I’ll pay in cash when the job is done. Unless you need a deposit?”
This had to be a joke. Even if it wasn’t, Shanker found himself laughing. “Deposit? What, are you shitting me? No way.”
He kept laughing, though there was nothing really funny about it. Except that it
was
funny—the whole routine they were going through, the scene they had acted out. They both knew Shanker would do whatever he was told, whether or not he was paid. They both knew Shanker was in no position to disappoint Jack Reynolds. And they both knew what happened to people who did disappoint him. Joe Ferris, for instance.
Joe had made the mistake of trying to blackmail the Man back when Reynolds was just getting started in the DA’s office. Ferris had dirt on him—some small-time illegal shit Reynolds had done as a teenager—and he threatened Reynolds with career-killing exposure unless he received a monthly stipend, a lien on Reynolds’ income. Reynolds played along, paying him off for five or six months, until Joe got careless and allowed himself to be drawn into a private rendezvous with the Man. By then he thought he’d broken Reynolds down, made him his bitch.
Jack Reynolds was no one’s bitch. The next day Joe Ferris was found dead in a vacant lot, his body mutilated in awful ways, all of which predated his expiration. The police never caught the killer and, given Ferris’s rap sheet, didn’t make much of an effort. But Shanker knew who had done it. And he knew that before he died, Joe Ferris had given up every piece of evidence that could have been used against Reynolds. No one could have held out against the methods that had been used, the terrible ingenuity employed.
The Man was older now, but he hadn’t mellowed. He’d filled out his suits a little, polished his act, but if you stripped all that away, he was still a fighter who knew only the law of the barrio—to defend your turf, accept no disrespect, and show no leniency to your enemies, ever.
“No deposit then,” Reynolds said when Shanker had gotten his laughter under control.
“I’ll put my best crew on it,” Shanker promised.
“Good. Let me know when it’s done.”
Reynolds started to rise. Shanker risked a question. “You said there was only one person—for now. Does that mean there’s another one, for
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