Dead Street

“After nightfall, why don’t we move Bettie out of her place, and into yours? If we manage to do that without anybody unfriendly spotting it, that puts any home invaders invading the wrong home.”

“Not a bad idea. And the layout of both houses is pretty much identical, so she won’t have too much trouble getting her bearings.”

“Jack, you better call her and suggest this. Kinder and me, we haven’t clued her in that we’re watching her. That, you know, we think trouble’s brewing.”

I laughed. “Joe, she’s way ahead of all of us. But I’ll call her.”

Through that morning and afternoon, I went through a single sandwich and two bags of chips and three Millers. The water in the building was off, but the toilet in Bessie’s apartment didn’t protest when I took the occasional piss. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t catch myself starting to doze off a couple of times, and one of those times was at dusk.

And just as my body did that little startled dance after you fall asleep for a second, I came fully awake to see a late-model Buick, light blue, nothing special, pull in at the Padrone tenement.

And by pull in, I mean literally. The driver came up and on over the sidewalk and across the ground and around behind the building, snugging the vehicle back there. When he emerged, the driver was wearing a zippered navy blue jacket and tan pants and running shoes.

Funny thing was, though he was trying to stay careful, surreptitious even, he couldn’t get the swagger out of his stride. That same cock-of-the-block walk that old Bessie had recognized.

Bucky Mohler.

Changed but not changed — still a medium-sized, smirky round-faced guy with squinty eyes and brown hair, only thinning now, like lines drawn on a cue ball with a felt-tip pen.

He entered the building the same way I had, the time I’d gone in to poke around. And when that side door closed, I was off my lounger and heading out of the empty apartment to run down those old stairs.

Only I was halfway out the front door of the building, onto its stoop, when I had to duck right back. Then I settled into a position where I could peek around and not be seen even as I saw another vehicle pulling in at the Padrone building.

The van was black and unmarked — shiny and new, and when it backed in as near as possible to Big Zappo’s side door, the vehicle shuddered to a stop and somehow conveyed heaviness. The tires were oversize, too.

Was I reading in, or was that van designed to carry a large load for its size?

I felt a spike of excitement shoot up my spine. The kind of tingles I hadn’t felt since I’d been officially on the Job were like little needles jabbing my neck....

Four guys got out of the van — two from the front, two from doors opening at the rear. The two from in front wore black leather jackets, not the motorcycle variety, more like something out of a men’s fashion magazine. They looked much alike, dark-complected with devil’s mustaches and goatees, only one was much taller — a Middle Eastern Mutt and Jeff. Their pants were black, too — also leather? Shoes had a gleam.

The two from in back were brutes — one bald, one with a ponytail, both with well-trimmed full-face beards, also copper-complected. They wore black jumpsuits and heavy work boots. And heavy gloves.

The fashion plates in black leather went in first, the muscle following — management trailed by labor. No sign of Bucky. No way to know if he was expecting this company, or getting ambushed.

Either way, I was interested.

I stayed away from the sidewalk and the yellow pools of lamplight, and ran in back of the buildings that were the last two teeth in the street’s horrible smile. Keeping low, like I once did in a far eastern jungle, I felt ridiculous; no ferns or brush to aid me, just open devastation where the life along this street had been.

I was careful slipping into the building. It seemed possible, even probable, that one of the bruisers would be left to guard the door. Since nobody had been posted outside, that meant just inside the door was more likely.

Since I still had a key to the front, I went in that way, quietly, but with t... .45 in my fist. The building was already dark. With the electricity off, and the blue of dusk outside darkening every second, the going had to be slow and careful. When I made it down to the side door, however, where a burly sentry might have waited, nobody was on guard.

For a few moments I just stood there, wondering if they’d all slipped out while I was making my careful way here.

Then I heard the voices below.

The voices didn’t echo, but they rattled and shook the old rafters and planks and sound seeped up through a thousand nooks and crannies. The voices were not raised, and Bucky seemed to be dealing with expected guests, not a surprise party.

By the time I reached the landing onto those heavy, timber-backed stairs to the basement, I could see that an orange-tinged glow of light came from down there. And I could hear the conversation clearly.

“You have the combination, Mr. Mohler?”