Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

61

As soon as Beck got out, Jonas Bolo took Beck’s place in the passenger seat, leaving Olivia to herself in the rear of the van.

Olivia laid her head back and closed her eyes. They were nearing the end. Crane was going to be moving fast now, and she didn’t need to watch his trades. She knew what was left to do. Tonight he would be trading on the twenty-four-hour futures market. Some of his biggest positions were options on the S&P index. He’d be taking them down throughout the night. He also had big hedges in the currency markets which he could also trade overnight. In the morning, he’d start closing out whatever was left on the U.S. exchanges. It would easily be wrapped up by end of trading on Friday, if not before. Alan couldn’t keep going much longer. And Markov wouldn’t wait any longer.

Once she got out of this horrible van, she would call him. They had to make final arrangements. She was sure it would be no problem. Nydia would probably be sleeping or staring at a television screen.

She wondered what Nydia’s apartment would be like. Probably reeking of garlic and diapers, overheated, with a bunch of beat-up toys littering the place. Olivia pursed her lips at the thought. Much like the one she had grown up in. Her mother’s place in the Mott Haven projects felt like eons ago, and she would die before she ever returned to that life.

This was going to work, she told herself for the hundredth time. Alan and I can pull this off. We’ve been through every step of it over and over again.

Beck had come to the right conclusion. He had to go after the money. And she and Crane were going to let him do just that. Crane would leave enough bread crumbs for them to follow. When Markov tried to retrieve his money, it would be gone. Gone with Beck’s fingerprints all over it.

While Markov was blaming Beck, she and Alan would steal the money from Beck, and disappear.

It could work. It had to work. Olivia Sanchez wasn’t going back to the projects.

62

By the time Beck returned to his bar after talking to Walter Pearce, it was 12:35 a.m. He’d finally convinced Walter Pearce to get on board.

Of course, having Walter agree to Beck’s plan didn’t mean he could convince the cops to play it the way Beck wanted. But that was what the extra twenty-thousand was for. To motivate the lumbering ex–NYPD detective.

Pearce would succeed, or he wouldn’t. Beck would know that answer in the next few hours. If he succeeded their odds of survival increased dramatically. Either way, Beck had no choice but to go forward.

When he walked into the second-floor space, Manny, Ciro, Joey B, Demarco, and Alex Liebowitz had all taken seats at the dining table.

Beck pulled out his cell phone, rested it on the table. He looked around. Joey B seemed to have arrived at a strange state of suspended animation, finally settled in his seat, attentive, staring at nothing.

Manny and Ciro as usual displayed little emotion. Demarco, who might have raised an eyebrow or shot a look that spoke volumes, was expressionless. Alex sipped a cup of coffee, for once all his attention on one thing, Beck.

Everyone knew this was it.

Beck looked around at everyone.

He started to speak, stopped, and looked around again. And then he said, “Well, it’s pretty simple. Men are coming to kill us tonight. Why?” He shrugged. “We tried to help one of ours.”

Beck felt his anger swell, ignored it, and continued.

“All right. We didn’t ask for it, but it’s coming. What do we do? We defend ourselves. But we can’t defend ourselves like others can. We can’t kill them before they hurt us because that would mean there’d be a reason for the law to come at us, and that can’t happen.”

Beck paused to look at the men around the table. They were waiting. Waiting for him to give them the answer. The way out.

“So we have to do this a different way. Here. On our turf, our home, we have to do it a different way. A way that can work. So, let me explain.”

He looked around the table one more time. And then Beck started talking. He talked for eighteen uninterrupted minutes. Then he listened to questions. And then he went through everything again. And then one more time.

Even after all that, he knew that maybe only Demarco had grasped the whole thing. But no matter. All Beck needed was for each man to do what was required of him. None of them had to know it all.

Beck finished by saying, “So that’s it. Obviously, I’m guessing at a lot of this. But I think I’m pretty close. So just concentrate on getting done what you have to do.”

Beck looked again at Manny and Ciro. He knew what they were thinking.

“Yes. If you can. If not…” Beck made a face. “If it all goes to shit, do whatever you have to do, and we’ll face the consequences.”

He got a nod from each man.

Beck said, “Okay.”

As if on cue Beck’s cell phone rang. This time Ricky Bolo didn’t wait for Beck to even say hello.

“They’re getting ready to move.”

“How many?”

“It’s hard to tell. There’s a lot of bodies moving around in front of that building. Two SUVs. They’re packing men and guns into both vehicles. Figure about fifteen of ’em. About half of them with semiautomatic rifles.”

Beck grimaced at the number. “Okay. Thanks.”

“What next?” asked Ricky.

“Call me when those SUVs leave that location, and then stay right where you are. Don’t be seen. They spot you, you won’t survive. If I don’t call you by daybreak, disappear.”

“James.”

“What?”

“Jeezus, James, all these fuckers coming for you? Clear out, man. Just get the fuck away, now.”

“Call me when they move.”

63

Jeffrey Esposito had spent six hours pulling together the men he wanted to serve the warrants on James Beck and Ciro Baldassare.

He’d managed to get three from his detective squad who were on the four-to-midnight shift, and had agreed to stay on. They were reliable men, but not the bust-doors-down-shooters he would have preferred.

David Rutledge was a veteran detective. He played everything straight, went by the book. In fact, he carried a battered detective’s notebook in his baggy back pocket and wrote everything down in a careful print. Everything. He referred to his notes constantly. Rutledge was overweight and wore glasses, but of all the men Esposito knew, Rutledge was the most fearless. He’d been in a shoot-out with Rutledge and saw him do something few could: stand and shoot back, without panic overwhelming him.

The other two detectives were Tony Ball and Michael Grandon. Both were young. Early thirties. Fit. They usually worked as a team. They gave the impression they were tough. Esposito didn’t know if they were or weren’t, but he figured at least they would be willing to act tough, and that might be good enough.

His best shot at success was Augustus Mosebee. He’d reached out to Augustus as soon as McManus had given him the assignment. They were old friends from working Missing Persons years ago. Augustus had landed on a Warrants Squad that specialized in going after serious felons. He was a six-foot-six black man who weighed somewhere around two-fifty. Maybe two-seventy. Augustus was one of those men who was so big that twenty pounds one way or the other didn’t show much.

When he arrived at the precinct, Esposito was very glad to see him. There was nobody better than Augustus Mosebee when it came to knocking down people and getting handcuffs on them quickly. Especially people who didn’t want to be knocked down and handcuffed.

Finally, Esposito had rounded up two patrol officers. That’s all the precinct sergeant would spare him. They seemed completely ordinary. Just another pair of bodies that might either get in the way or actually help. Eight men including himself. They would have to do.

Esposito was studying a street map of the area when the call came through from the desk sergeant downstairs.

64

The back of Beck’s building opened onto a small yard about eight-feet deep that ran the width of his property. The yard was overgrown and untended. There was an ailanthus tree that had grown tall enough to cover most of the back windows. An old slat-board fence ran across the back of the yard. The fence was only five-feet high. It wasn’t much of a barrier, but wasn’t meant to be. The fence was wired with a motion detector to warn Beck if someone tried to scale it.

On the other side of Beck’s fence was an abandoned plot of land about fifty-feet deep that ran the entire width of the block. It was fairly clear of rubble, except along the back walls and fences of the buildings that faced Conover. The junk back there was completely random, everything from stacks of old shipping flats, to an abandoned Dodge Dart, to piles of old tires.

The west side of the empty lot was blocked by the two-story back wall of a warehouse. The chain-link fences at each end of the lot were topped with a single strand of razor wire.

The only entrance to the lot was through a rolling chain-link-fence gate on Reed Street, secured with a chain and a large old Master lock.

Beck figured the three scouts who had walked the area knew a killing field when they saw it. That, combined with the information Ahmet Sukol provided, guided Beck’s plan of defense.

He calculated they would divide the attack into two groups: Kolenka’s men and Markov’s men. One attacking in the front of the building on Conover, the other group stationed in the back to shoot down anyone trying to escape the attack out front.

To cover the back, the second group would have to come in on the Reed Street side where the gate was located. The old lock and chain wouldn’t stop anybody from getting into the empty lot. In the middle of a dark night, in the middle of winter, it would be easy to shoot down men stumbling over ice, junk, and snow.

Beck was betting that Kolenka’s men would attack the front while Stepanovich and his men would cover the rear.

Beck knew getting into a gunfight with the attackers would cause too much damage and chaos. There was no chance that all of them would survive, and a hundred percent chance some of them would end up back in jail.

That’s where his deal with Walter Pearce came in. That was the part of his plan that made him grind his teeth and wish he had never heard of Olivia Sanchez.

65

Ricky Bolo called Beck at 1:35 a.m. All he’d said was, “They’re pulling out now.”

Beck thanked him, hung up, and announced, “Let’s go.”

Within ten minutes, everyone was in place.

Ciro Baldassare and Joey B stood across the street from the empty lot, opposite the chained fence gate. Beck had positioned them behind Olivia’s Porsche Cayenne, which was parked in the lot of a wholesale food store.

Ciro had his semiautomatic M-16 assault rifle set to fire in bursts of three. The 5.56-mm bullets could penetrate just about anything at the range he’d be firing from. Joey B had a pump-action Mossberg 500 shotgun loaded with Federal Flight Control LE132 12-gauge shot, a weapon with a capability pretty much the opposite of Ciro’s. Each shell had fifteen pellets rather than a standard twelve. He’d be able to blast larger areas, with enough force to take someone down, but not enough penetrating power to kill.

It was nearly two in the morning. The moon had already set. The temperature had dropped to eighteen degrees with intermittent gusts of cold air coming in off the bay.

Ciro held the M-16 down low, standing motionless, wearing a dark wool overcoat that made him nearly invisible except for the wisps of condensing exhalations floating up and disappearing in the cold night air. Joey B stood next to Ciro, his broad back leaning against the rear of the small Porsche SUV. He held the Mossberg by the barrel, the butt resting on the ground in front of him. He wore a black wool coat much like Ciro’s, and a black knit watch cap. He looked up at the dark night sky, trying to see stars between the scudding clouds, finally relaxed, free of any need to pace. A sense of calm came over Joey B, like a hunter waiting in the blind. He kept picturing it. Practicing in his mind what Beck had told him to do.

He would wait for Ciro. Move when he moved. Stand and shoot until he emptied the shotgun, or Ciro told him to stop.

*   *   *

Beck had concealed himself about a half block west of the empty lot, between a car and a wall near the corner of Reed and Van Brunt.

From there, he could spot any vehicle turning toward Conover, heading for the entrance to the empty lot. He had a Benelli M3 shotgun resting on the roof of a station wagon parked next to him, plus all the weapons he’d started the night with: his Browning, knife, sap, and extra ammunition.

*   *   *

Out on Conover Street, Manny Guzman stood alone, deep in the shadows of a warehouse doorway about twenty-five-feet north of the bar’s entrance. An overhead high-pressure sodium light mounted above the doorway shone down brightly, illuminating the area, but creating deep shadows where Manny stood.

Manny had only one weapon. He’d substituted his Charter Arms Bulldog for a long-barrel .38 revolver. He had one shot to make. The target would be about twenty-five, thirty feet away, which was why he needed the range of the long-barrel revolver.

Once he made the shot, he could do the real damage he intended, with an item sitting ten feet from where he stood, carefully placed on the sidewalk.

*   *   *

Demarco Jones was also out front on Conover, but nobody quite knew where. Beck had left it up to him to pick his spot.

*   *   *

Beck stood motionless, hunched against the cold, waiting. Waiting for the call from Walter Pearce. If Walter failed to come through with the NYPD, Beck didn’t see much chance of avoiding a bloodbath. He hated depending on a disgruntled retired cop. He hated even more depending on cops intent on arresting him. But he had little choice. They were five against how many? Fifteen? Twenty? Maybe more. He checked his watch in the dim ambient light of the dead winter night.

One way or another, it would be over soon.

66

Two things convinced Walter Pearce to follow Beck’s plan.

The additional twenty-thousand dollars Beck promised him. And the absolute certainty that Frederick Milstein was going to screw him.

He figured the fastest way to make things work would be to go directly to the 76th Precinct in Brooklyn. He was certain that any police action against Beck would launch from there. It was a little after one in the morning when he walked through the double doors that led into the familiar sights and sounds of an NYPD neighborhood precinct. He presented his credentials to the desk sergeant, and did his best to convince him that he needed to see whoever was in charge of the detail heading out to serve warrants in Red Hook.

Naturally, the sergeant wanted to know more about it. Pearce told him, “Sarge, I’ll be happy for you to hear the details, but I’ve only got time to tell it once. So please get whoever is in charge of this thing down here as soon as you can. Bottom line, I’ve got information that could prevent some good cops from getting hurt tonight.”

Walter watched the sergeant think it over. He seemed a bit young to have the job. Pearce watched him check his credentials one more time, thinking over what Pearce had said. Walter knew better than to say anything more to convince him. After about thirty seconds, the young sergeant picked up the phone.

It took a full fifteen minutes for Jeffrey Esposito to appear. His opening comment was, “Who are you, and how do you know about my warrants for these guys in Red Hook?”

Walter began by apologizing for the intrusion.

“Sorry to get into the middle of this thing, but I think I can help you. I know what’s going on because I’m the one who went to the brass at One PP and got this whole thing going.”

“What thing?”

“Serving arrest warrants on James Beck and Ciro Baldassare.”

The fact that Walter knew their names told Esposito he should listen to what this man had to say.

“Go ahead.”

“It was my boss that those two assaulted. Fellow named Milstein. His law firm has connections with somebody who had enough juice to put pressure on One PP.”

“I’m listening.”

“You should know that Beck and Baldassare are not going to go quietly. They are part of a bigger crew. I’ve been looking into them. It’s almost certain a good number of that crew will be at that location tonight.”

“Why didn’t you tell that to the brass?”

“I did. Spoke to a chief called Waldron, but he wasn’t in the mood to take advice from me, if you know what I mean. I started worrying that information might not filter down to you. All I’m sayin’ is, if you have to serve those warrants tonight, and it seems like you do, go out there with your heads up and ready.”

“For what, exactly?”

“I don’t know exactly. I just know you could be facing more than two men and a lot of them armed. Go with as many men as you can get.”

“Great, and how the fuck am I going to get that kind of backup at one o’clock in the morning?”

Walter knew this was the crucial part. He couldn’t tell Esposito what to do. But he had to give him enough direction to cover what Beck had asked.

“Well, I was you, I’d grab what you can. Don’t go charging into anything. Call a ten-thirteen as soon as you get there. Call it hard and loud. Wait until every cop in the area shows up before you go in.”

“Christ.”

“If you go in with enough manpower, it’ll be worth it. You’ll get more than just the two assholes on your warrants. If you go in aware, this could be very good for you.”

“Good for me? How?”

“You’ll take down more than just those two. A lot more. And the brass will be glad you did. These are bad people.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Trust me, I know,” said Walter. “I don’t have time to explain everything, but I’m trying to help you.”

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Because I don’t want to be the reason a bunch of cops get hurt out there tonight. I’m off the force, but I’m working in private security. I brought this thing to that bureau chief, so my name’s all over this. Somebody gets hurt out there tonight, it won’t go good for me. You can see that.”

“So who are you trying to help here? You, or me?”

“Both.”

Esposito nodded. It made sense, but it didn’t make him happy,

“And I’m supposed to trust you, some guy I don’t know from Adam.”

“If you had more time, you could check me out. I’d come up good.”

Walter watched Esposito struggling with what he had been told. Walter made his final pitch. “It’s too late to call it off. The brass will murder you. All I’m saying is, call for backup before you go in. What’s the downside?”

“Me looking like an asshole.”

Walter was about to tell Esposito how bad he’d look if he didn’t listen to him, but he held back. Instead, he said, “Do what you think is best.”

It would have to do. He turned and walked out of the precinct. The last thing he had to do was give Beck the word when the cops headed out, but he knew he couldn’t do much more than that. He had no idea if the precinct detective was going to take his advice.

67

Beck checked his watch. Five minutes to two. He’d received Ricky’s last call twenty minutes ago. He figured with no traffic it would take about a half hour to drive from Brighton Beach to Red Hook. He called Willie Reese and told him to be on the lookout for two SUVs, as well as cops coming into the neighborhood. He’d told Willie all he needed was a heads-up, nothing more.

Beck told him again, “Let me know what you see, but stay out of sight, man. Seriously. Don’t put yourself anywhere around this.”

“I’m up in the fuckin’ projects, dude. Nobody gonna see me, but I’ll tell you right now, I see them.”

“Who? What?”

“Two black SUVs comin’ down Lorraine, heading your way.”

“Can you spot any cops anywhere?”

“Nah. No five-oh anywhere I can see. Got some boys over by all the Hamilton Street crossings and ain’t heard any word from them about cops.”

“Okay, thanks. Stay where you are.”

“I hear you, boss, but I got one request.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t let any dumb-ass motherfuckers bust up my window.”

Beck smiled. “I’ll do what I can.”

And then Beck heard the far-off sound of a car engine breaking the silence of the dead winter night. The sound seemed to be coming his way, slowly.

“I think I hear ’em.”

Beck’s phone signaled another incoming call. Shit.

“Take care, Willie.”

He tried to drop the call to Reese and catch the second one. He ended up with only a dial tone. “Goddammit.”

Had to be Pearce. But what was the message? He’d made the pitch? They bought it? Didn’t buy it? Were coming? Weren’t coming? Fucking cell phones.

Suddenly, Beck saw the glare of headlights behind him on Van Brunt.

It was going down. A black SUV turned onto Reed.

Too late to try to call Pearce. Had to go with the assumption that even if the cops were coming, they’d be too late. Useless pieces of shit. I must have been crazy to count on them.

The SUV rolled past Beck, headed in the direction of Conover.

Beck let the SUV get about twenty feet ahead of him, then edged out into the street. He crouched down low near the front of the car he had been hiding next to so that he could have a better view in front of him.

He glanced across the street at Olivia’s Porsche. No sign of Ciro and Joey B. Good, stay out of sight, boys.

Now they all had to wait. Stick with the plan until they couldn’t. If the cops came in time, it might work. If not … Beck didn’t want to think about “if not.”

Beck watched the SUV slow to a halt a few feet before the gate. Shit. It would be better if they had stopped parallel to the gate. Fuck it. Beck eased a few feet forward, still keeping low. In the dim light Beck could make out the Chevy emblem on the back of the SUV. It was a Suburban. Big enough for a lot of men.

The passenger door of the SUV opened. One man stepped out of the vehicle. He had a two-foot-long bolt cutter. So far so good. The interior lights dimmed as he shut the door behind him, but it was on long enough to light up the inside of the Suburban. Time enough for Beck to catch sight of Stepanovich’s bald head rising above the others, but not enough time to get a body count. Didn’t matter. At least he knew where Stepanovich was.

The man with the bolt cutter went straight to the chain on the gate and set to work. Beck hoped he’d be smart enough to cut the hasp of the lock. The chain would be too hard for a bolt cutter. Even one that big.

The guy kept working it, grinding away, opening and closing the long handles. Finally the chain fell. He grabbed the end of the gate and tried to pull it open. Nothing. He pushed on it, leaning his weight against it. It went nowhere.

Jeezus Christ, thought Beck, you dumb son of a bitch. Slide it. Slide the damn thing. It’s on wheels.

Finally, the man with the bolt cutter figured it out and started to push the gate to his right. The wheels were frozen or rusted. They wouldn’t turn. Another of Stepanovich’s men stepped out of the Suburban and helped him. They kept lifting and shoving the long gate over the patches of frozen snow, opening it wider and wider.

What are they doing? Beck wondered.

And then he saw what they were up to. They intended to drive the SUV into the lot. Why? What were they thinking?

Beck began worrying that Ciro and Joey B might start shooting as soon as they saw the SUV pull in, but there was nothing he could do about it. They were across the street in the parking lot behind a tall wrought-iron fence. Too far away to signal them.

*   *   *

Out in front of the bar, Manny Guzman watched a second SUV, a black Chevy Tahoe, turn onto Conover. He remained back in the doorway, hidden by a small slice of shadow. Waiting. Watching.

He agreed with Beck that killing any of these men would bring way too much heat down on them. But if it came down to it, he would kill as many of these bastards as he could, and die doing it before he let anybody hurt Beck, or the bar, or any of his brothers.

The Tahoe stopped on the other side of the street, right across from the bar. Manny nodded. So far so good. If Demarco could do what he had to.

Well, thought Manny, if anybody can, it’s Demarco Jones. If not, fuck it. What happens, happens.

*   *   *

Back by the empty lot, Beck realized it wasn’t quite as bad as he first thought. He saw what they were doing. It was actually pretty smart. Once they got the gate open wide enough for the SUV, the driver made a slow Y-turn and backed it into the lot so it ended up facing out toward Reed Street.

The driver rolled the big Chevy into the open space where the gate had been, halfway in the lot, halfway out on the sidewalk, effectively blocking most of the only way in or out of the empty lot.

*   *   *

Out on Conover, Manny watched the passenger door behind the driver ease open. One of the men in the SUV stepped out onto the street, leaned back in the SUV, and brought out a five-gallon polyethylene gas can which he placed on the cobblestone street. Then he leaned in and brought out another five-gallon poly can.

Once the gasoline cans were on the street, the man crouched down next to them. He was short, stocky, wearing dark clothes.

Manny watched as he looked at the bar for a moment, and then unscrewed the lids on both cans. He turned the lids over, revealing the spigots, and screwed them back on the cans. The rest of the crew got out of the Chevy and took cover behind the length of the big SUV.

They moved quietly. No slamming doors. No talking. Two positioned themselves behind the hood. Two behind the roof. One crouched at the back end of the SUV. The driver stayed in the vehicle.

So far, Beck had called it right.

They all looked at Beck’s building. It was dark and quiet. Either it was empty, or everyone inside was asleep with the lights off.

There was no movement anywhere on the desolate street. No sounds except a distant foghorn way out in New York Bay.

The arsonist stayed crouched down low, waiting, listening. And then he was ready. He slid one of the five-gallon containers around and grabbed it with his right hand, leaving the other for his left. He turned to say something to the men on the other side of the SUV.

Just before the attacker with the gasoline turned back to face the bar, Manny slipped out of his doorway and moved quickly for the cover of an old wooden utility pole. He reached the pole and stayed behind it, leaning his back against the rough wood. He took a deep breath, leaned out, and aimed his long-barrel thirty-eight at the red can on the arsonist’s left side.

His first shot missed the poly can by a quarter of an inch, and plowed into the side of the arsonist’s leg, just above the ankle. He went down. Manny fired again. This time his shot hit the polyethylene can on the left. The hot bullet didn’t ignite the gasoline, but the container exploded, and five gallons of gas, probably mixed with some sort of accelerant, splattered everywhere.

By the second shot, the men behind the SUV had seen Manny and began firing back.

They were Kolenka’s men. Seasoned. Calm. Shooting rapidly, but without panicking. Two were leaning flat on the hood of the Chevy, bracing their shooting arms, firing semiautomatic handguns slowly. A third held fire and watched, while the fourth fired a rifle somewhat blindly over the roof of the tall SUV. The fifth man crouched behind the back of the vehicle, fired two-shot bursts in Manny’s direction from another handgun.

Manny had twisted back behind the telephone pole, standing sideways. The pole just about covered him completely, but bullets zinged past him, wood chips from the pole flying around him. He couldn’t move. He was trapped. But he had just one more thing to do, and with the hail of bullets, it would be impossible not to get hit.

Shit, thought Manny. Come on, D. Get to work, man.

*   *   *

The gunfire over on Conover Street couldn’t have been timed better. The sound forced Stepanovich and his men to get moving.

Now Beck saw how many attackers had come. Six more men, including Stepanovich, piled out of the SUV, joining the two already outside the vehicle. They all started running into the empty lot, fanning out to get in position behind Beck’s building. Beck saw three with some sort of rifles. The rest seemed to be holding handguns.

Across the street Ciro had maintained iron discipline, following Beck’s orders even though the SUV had ended up in a place different from what they’d planned. Exactly one minute after the last man had exited the Suburban, Ciro stepped out from behind Olivia’s Porsche, walked to the wrought iron fence bordering the parking lot, and started methodically shooting rounds from his M-16 into the SUV. Joey B followed next to him and began pumping blasts of 12 gauge into the vehicle, aiming for the tires first, and then the windshield.

Ciro stood as if he were on a firing range with zero regard for the possibility of anybody shooting back. He had the barrel of the assault rifle between the iron bars of the fence, his aim rock steady. He fired shot after shot into the engine block, placing twelve bullets into an area no larger than a square foot.

Joey B obliterated the front tires and the windshield.

Within five seconds, the Chevy had become a useless wreck.

*   *   *

Bullets continued to zing around Manny and into the old utility pole. The pole was slowly disintegrating. One way or another, he’d have to do what he was supposed to.

Before he had taken his position in the doorway, Manny had placed a Mason jar filled with gasoline and melting mothballs next to the telephone pole. He’d punched a hole in the screw-on top and stuffed a thin piece of a dish towel down into the flammable mix.

Manny bent his knees, trying to stay covered by the pole, and grabbed the Mason jar. He managed to get hold of it and stand up without getting hit. He pulled out a cigar lighter that produced a torchlike flame.

Once, twice, three times, and the lighter ignited with a hiss. Manny hesitated, knowing that once he touched the flame to the piece of towel, he would have to step out and throw it, gunfire or not. Which meant he’d probably die throwing the goddamn gasoline. Where the fuck was Demarco? Had they spotted him? Did he go down with the first shots? Fuck it. So be it.

And then Manny heard the first scream.