front. I was dressed in my usual. I wasn’t openly armed.
I knocked on the door of room 11. Footsteps came to the door and it opened, streaming sunlight into the otherwise dim room. Slats held the doorknob and waved me in.
Seated at a round table to the right of the door was a thick man with close-cropped brown hair who wore wraparound sunglasses. He kept a tidy mustache he was obviously very proud of, and a triangular tuft of brown hair was tucked below his lower lip. He had a deep, horizontal worry line on his forehead. He wore a black tank top. His entire upper body—arms and neck included—was covered in tattoos.
I turned to him and stuffed an unlit cigarette in my mouth. He pushed his seat back and stood up. A couple of seconds passed while we sized each other up.
“I’m Bird.”
“Rudy.”
I stuck out my hand and he took it. It was a knuckler of a handshake. He looked at my shoulders and chest, checking out my ink. He didn’t let go of my hand. I didn’t let go of his.
“Where’d you do your time? What’d they get you for?”
I smiled at Slats and turned back to Rudy. “Man, they didn’t get me for shit, and I’ve never been inside.” Neither of our hands buckled, but both must have hurt. Mine sure did.
“Then what the fuck’re you doing with this guy?”
“Hey, dude, I don’t know what Big Boy over here told you about me,” even though I did, “but I’m here because Slats and I have a working relationship.” I paused. “I’m a fed.”
Rudy let go of my hand and drew his head back in a motion of disbelief. Pleasant sensations returned to my knuckles. I wanted to shake it out but didn’t. He said, “Bullshit.”
“Nope. God’s honest truth. They send me a check every two weeks to dress like this and hang out with guys like yourself.”
Rudy laughed, looked at Slats, and pointed at me. “That’s not fair. How are we supposed to win against motherfuckers who look like this?”
Slats shrugged.
“You’re not, dude.” I motioned for us to sit at the table. “That’s why there are guys who look like me—and there are more of us than you can probably imagine.”
He considered this. Maybe he ran through a file of faces and names, picking out candidates. “Fuck it. No point in me worrying about that now.”
I sat down and took off my shades and placed them on the table. I put my cigarette behind my ear and laced my fingers together. My rings joined in a tinny little symphony. I projected calm. I said, as kindly as possible, “Look. We got you, it’s true. I know Slats has told you this already. You’re an old-timer, you know the game as well as we do. This is a good chance for you, dude, a good chance for you to correct past wrongs, if you care to. If not, then you know what’s waiting for you.”
He said, “Look, man, I’m here to work.”
“Good. Then let’s talk.”
I told him all about Bird and nothing about Jay Dobyns. I told him how I’d managed some token intros to a few of the Angels he claimed to know. We talked about Smitty and Bad Bob. I told Rudy he’d be an essential component of the next phase of the case. Slats reiterated that we needed him. It’s always good to talk up an informant, especially one who’s separated from you by a flow of ambivalence. You need to build trust, or at least the illusion of trust, in a case like Rudy’s. He asked what we wanted from him. Slats outlined the plan. Rudy listened carefully, nodding and smiling from time to time. When Slats was through, Rudy said it was risky, especially for him. But he also said it was so crazy it might just work, and that we’d chosen the right guy. I said we couldn’t do it with just anyone, we needed him and only him.
I pulled the cigarette from my ear and lit it. We all lit cigarettes.
He said, “You don’t need to flatter me so much.”
I said, “Maybe not. But you’ll be in charge as far as anyone knows, and you can’t forget that you’re not. If this works, and we start
I knocked on the door of room 11. Footsteps came to the door and it opened, streaming sunlight into the otherwise dim room. Slats held the doorknob and waved me in.
Seated at a round table to the right of the door was a thick man with close-cropped brown hair who wore wraparound sunglasses. He kept a tidy mustache he was obviously very proud of, and a triangular tuft of brown hair was tucked below his lower lip. He had a deep, horizontal worry line on his forehead. He wore a black tank top. His entire upper body—arms and neck included—was covered in tattoos.
I turned to him and stuffed an unlit cigarette in my mouth. He pushed his seat back and stood up. A couple of seconds passed while we sized each other up.
“I’m Bird.”
“Rudy.”
I stuck out my hand and he took it. It was a knuckler of a handshake. He looked at my shoulders and chest, checking out my ink. He didn’t let go of my hand. I didn’t let go of his.
“Where’d you do your time? What’d they get you for?”
I smiled at Slats and turned back to Rudy. “Man, they didn’t get me for shit, and I’ve never been inside.” Neither of our hands buckled, but both must have hurt. Mine sure did.
“Then what the fuck’re you doing with this guy?”
“Hey, dude, I don’t know what Big Boy over here told you about me,” even though I did, “but I’m here because Slats and I have a working relationship.” I paused. “I’m a fed.”
Rudy let go of my hand and drew his head back in a motion of disbelief. Pleasant sensations returned to my knuckles. I wanted to shake it out but didn’t. He said, “Bullshit.”
“Nope. God’s honest truth. They send me a check every two weeks to dress like this and hang out with guys like yourself.”
Rudy laughed, looked at Slats, and pointed at me. “That’s not fair. How are we supposed to win against motherfuckers who look like this?”
Slats shrugged.
“You’re not, dude.” I motioned for us to sit at the table. “That’s why there are guys who look like me—and there are more of us than you can probably imagine.”
He considered this. Maybe he ran through a file of faces and names, picking out candidates. “Fuck it. No point in me worrying about that now.”
I sat down and took off my shades and placed them on the table. I put my cigarette behind my ear and laced my fingers together. My rings joined in a tinny little symphony. I projected calm. I said, as kindly as possible, “Look. We got you, it’s true. I know Slats has told you this already. You’re an old-timer, you know the game as well as we do. This is a good chance for you, dude, a good chance for you to correct past wrongs, if you care to. If not, then you know what’s waiting for you.”
He said, “Look, man, I’m here to work.”
“Good. Then let’s talk.”
I told him all about Bird and nothing about Jay Dobyns. I told him how I’d managed some token intros to a few of the Angels he claimed to know. We talked about Smitty and Bad Bob. I told Rudy he’d be an essential component of the next phase of the case. Slats reiterated that we needed him. It’s always good to talk up an informant, especially one who’s separated from you by a flow of ambivalence. You need to build trust, or at least the illusion of trust, in a case like Rudy’s. He asked what we wanted from him. Slats outlined the plan. Rudy listened carefully, nodding and smiling from time to time. When Slats was through, Rudy said it was risky, especially for him. But he also said it was so crazy it might just work, and that we’d chosen the right guy. I said we couldn’t do it with just anyone, we needed him and only him.
I pulled the cigarette from my ear and lit it. We all lit cigarettes.
He said, “You don’t need to flatter me so much.”
I said, “Maybe not. But you’ll be in charge as far as anyone knows, and you can’t forget that you’re not. If this works, and we start
Similar Books
