are—guesses.”
“Bunch of psychos,” Percy dismissed the “info” with his usual gift for analysis.
“Could be,” the blond agreed. “But our Mr. Cross has got one thing going for him that has always worked as a convincer.”
“Which is …?”
“He doesn’t care if he lives or dies. And it seems as though everybody in this city’s underground knows it.”
THE MAN called Cross got up and walked through a beaded curtain made up of ball bearings. He entered a back room, three other men behind him. His handprint unlocked a thick door. A blinking orange light alerted him that calls had been made from the pay phones in the poolroom since the system had last been checked.
Buddha tapped the “playback” key. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the tape.
Less than a minute later, he said: “It’s what we thought, boss. Reporting to Chang. Only surprise was the guy speaking Mandarin. You’d think Cantonese, coming from those boys. Must be Hong Kong, not mainland.”
“You know what to do,” Cross said.
Buddha pulled a throw-away cell phone from his field jacket, punched in a number, and had a brief conversation in a language none of the others understood.
“I just told the gray-tooth headman that Chang was working for the
federales
, boss. He said to tell you his ‘gratitude’ was on its way.”
“Chang was going, anyway. Bringing in those MS-13 boys was a mistake. Thinking he could control them, that made it a fatal one.”
“You got that right,” Buddha agreed. “That MS-13 crew’s crazy enough to do any damn thing, but crazy don’t beat crafty, and those Cambos are some
seriously
evil plotters.”
“They had to be.”
“To stay alive when Pol Pot was running that slaughterhouse? Amen to that.”
“Yeah,” Cross said, without much interest. “Time for me to move out, get this rolling.”
AS THE others were re-entering the poolroom, Cross climbed a flight of stairs taking him out of the basement, opened a back door, and exited into the street.
Twenty steps later, he slid into an alley, walking behind an overflowing Dumpster which concealed a metal door. Then he began to climb a long flight of pebble-pocked steel steps.
At the first landing, he pulled out a pocket flash, illuminating a shelf. He took a small bottle off the shelf and sprayed a mist over his right hand. He then took a clean handkerchief and wiped the back of that hand, using only moderate force. The lightning-bolt scar disappeared.
Cross then removed a pre-moistened sheet of fibrous cloth from a slotted box and carefully draped it over his right hand. With his left, he ran a small hair dryer over the sheet for a few seconds. When the sheet was pulled away, the familiar bull’s-eye tattoo was back in place.
He then exchanged his leather jacket and T-shirt for an expensively cut charcoal alpaca suit, complete with a stylishly retro fedora. The same alligator boots he had worn when speaking with the woman in the poolroom remainedin place. Almost as an afterthought, he spit out the wads of spirit gum that had deformed his facial features while he had been inside the poolroom.
A quick glance in the polished-metal mirror satisfied him. He then resumed his climb.
CROSS STEPPED out onto the rooftop, stopped to check a connected series of wooden boxes with an exit trap and air holes cut for entry-exit, noting it was empty. He didn’t bother to add seed to the empty bins—if the mated pair of kestrels were both out, they weren’t on a pleasure cruise. But he did refill the water trough, using bottled spring water.
By the time he returned to the alley, a big sedan was waiting.
“You know” was all Cross said to Buddha.
THE CITY-CAMO car moved slowly through an alley. When it came to a full stop, Cross jumped out.
The back staircase of an anonymous building took Cross all the way to the roof. There, he draped a wood plank across the gap to move to the next building. When he reached the other side, he elevated
“Bunch of psychos,” Percy dismissed the “info” with his usual gift for analysis.
“Could be,” the blond agreed. “But our Mr. Cross has got one thing going for him that has always worked as a convincer.”
“Which is …?”
“He doesn’t care if he lives or dies. And it seems as though everybody in this city’s underground knows it.”
THE MAN called Cross got up and walked through a beaded curtain made up of ball bearings. He entered a back room, three other men behind him. His handprint unlocked a thick door. A blinking orange light alerted him that calls had been made from the pay phones in the poolroom since the system had last been checked.
Buddha tapped the “playback” key. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the tape.
Less than a minute later, he said: “It’s what we thought, boss. Reporting to Chang. Only surprise was the guy speaking Mandarin. You’d think Cantonese, coming from those boys. Must be Hong Kong, not mainland.”
“You know what to do,” Cross said.
Buddha pulled a throw-away cell phone from his field jacket, punched in a number, and had a brief conversation in a language none of the others understood.
“I just told the gray-tooth headman that Chang was working for the
federales
, boss. He said to tell you his ‘gratitude’ was on its way.”
“Chang was going, anyway. Bringing in those MS-13 boys was a mistake. Thinking he could control them, that made it a fatal one.”
“You got that right,” Buddha agreed. “That MS-13 crew’s crazy enough to do any damn thing, but crazy don’t beat crafty, and those Cambos are some
seriously
evil plotters.”
“They had to be.”
“To stay alive when Pol Pot was running that slaughterhouse? Amen to that.”
“Yeah,” Cross said, without much interest. “Time for me to move out, get this rolling.”
AS THE others were re-entering the poolroom, Cross climbed a flight of stairs taking him out of the basement, opened a back door, and exited into the street.
Twenty steps later, he slid into an alley, walking behind an overflowing Dumpster which concealed a metal door. Then he began to climb a long flight of pebble-pocked steel steps.
At the first landing, he pulled out a pocket flash, illuminating a shelf. He took a small bottle off the shelf and sprayed a mist over his right hand. He then took a clean handkerchief and wiped the back of that hand, using only moderate force. The lightning-bolt scar disappeared.
Cross then removed a pre-moistened sheet of fibrous cloth from a slotted box and carefully draped it over his right hand. With his left, he ran a small hair dryer over the sheet for a few seconds. When the sheet was pulled away, the familiar bull’s-eye tattoo was back in place.
He then exchanged his leather jacket and T-shirt for an expensively cut charcoal alpaca suit, complete with a stylishly retro fedora. The same alligator boots he had worn when speaking with the woman in the poolroom remainedin place. Almost as an afterthought, he spit out the wads of spirit gum that had deformed his facial features while he had been inside the poolroom.
A quick glance in the polished-metal mirror satisfied him. He then resumed his climb.
CROSS STEPPED out onto the rooftop, stopped to check a connected series of wooden boxes with an exit trap and air holes cut for entry-exit, noting it was empty. He didn’t bother to add seed to the empty bins—if the mated pair of kestrels were both out, they weren’t on a pleasure cruise. But he did refill the water trough, using bottled spring water.
By the time he returned to the alley, a big sedan was waiting.
“You know” was all Cross said to Buddha.
THE CITY-CAMO car moved slowly through an alley. When it came to a full stop, Cross jumped out.
The back staircase of an anonymous building took Cross all the way to the roof. There, he draped a wood plank across the gap to move to the next building. When he reached the other side, he elevated
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