Resurrection Express by Stephen Romano Page B

in front of the parole people for a week before we pulled you out of the halfway house. I got it down to three days after serious negotiations. Everything was arranged. You should have trusted us to take care of you. When did you contact Hartman?”
    “I didn’t. He contacted me. I made a call from the toy store yesterday. Had to get some personal business worked out, get my gear. That’s probably how they knew where I was working. The guy who squealed was an old hacker buddy.”
    The lady rubs her eyes. “They could know anything by now.”
    “I didn’t talk about anything . I don’t know anything.”
    “It could have been enough for Hartman to start digging. We should abort the operation.”
    “I’ve got a better idea,” the Sarge says. “We accelerate the operation. Hit him two weeks sooner. Within three days, max. He won’t have enough time to figure out exactly what we’re after, and by then it’ll be too late. My boys are ready to go.” He throws a mean glance at my father. “Ringo, you think you can get this dumbass little man of yours up to speed in a few days?”
    “Right after you stop calling my son a dumbass.”
    “I’ll think it over.” The crazy guy actually backs off a little. He must know my dad’s reputation. Wonder if he knows about mine?
    The air force redhead’s expression never changes through all this.
    “I’m not convinced acceleration is the right answer,” says the lady in black. “I need to contact my people in the police department again, see how this whole business at the toy store shakes out. Need to put some feelers on the street. This compound is secure. What I need to know now, Elroy, is exactly what you said to this hacker friend of yours, when it was said, and what Hartman said to you .”
    Gotta tell her everything.
    Don’t have anything to lose now.
    My life is in the hands of these people, one way or another.
    •  •  •
    W hen I finish my story, the Sarge looks impressed, but he doesn’t say anything. Must’ve been the part about dancing over a moving car doing fifty down a narrow alley.
    The redhead in olive drab takes a deep breath, folds her arms. Keeps quiet.
    “Hartman told you that people would die, ” says the lady in black. “That means we may have even less time than I thought. If he killed all those people just to send a message . . . then we’re dealing with a psychopath.”
    Wow. So you figured that out all by yourself, huh?
    “He was always a psychopath,” I say. “I told you that before. He’s an ape who thinks he’s a gangster.”
    “That much is obvious now.”
    “It should have been obvious to you from the very start.”
    “So this is our fault somehow?”
    “I didn’t say that. But Hartman is a redneck. Not some master scoundrel with a grand design. He’s got one philosophy that sits on top of everything and that’s do unto others and make it permanent.”
    The lady sighs, leaning back. “Hartman is also a businessman . He stands to lose too much if he starts shooting random people on a crowded corner in broad daylight. It doesn’t make any sense.”
    “He’s insulated himself,” I tell her. “That kind of power makes a crude man less than humble.”
    “We both know that’s true.”
    “If you wanna know about gangsters, I can tell you plenty. Me and my dad, we’ve worked for all shapes and sizes, and most of them have the same problem. They all eventually go crazy listening to their own voices.”
    She narrows her eyes at me. “And what does that mean exactly?”
    “It means I’ve never been in the living room of a gangbanger that didn’t have the poster for Scarface hanging on the wall.”
    “I see.”
    “You know what poster David Hartman had tacked up in his office?”
    “I can’t imagine.”
    “Anna Nicole Smith.”
    She almost laughs. Catches herself, putting a hand casually over her mouth.
    “This is turning into a clusterfuck,” the Sarge says suddenly, starting to pace around. “I still