NYPD Red

Chapter 32





ALT. SCENE:


INT. MICKEY PELTZ’S LOFT—LONG ISLAND CITY—NIGHT


The Chameleon enters. He seems genuinely happy to see MICKEY. They talk about the old days, about prison life, and finally Peltz gets to the point. He never says blackmail. He calls it “hush money”—a little something to help him get back on his feet. The Chameleon says he can pay part now and have the rest in a day. He reaches into his pocket for the money, pulls out a gun, and shoots Mickey between the eyes.





EXT. MICKEY PELTZ’S LOFT—LONG ISLAND CITY—NIGHT


The Chameleon is across the street from Mickey’s building. Suddenly the dark, quiet street lights up as the explosion blows out the windows, destroying the loft, and cremating everything in it.



“ARE YOU SURE he’ll have something you can use to blow the place up?” Lexi had asked when they finished.

Gabe shrugged. “He just got out of prison. He may not even have a quart of milk in the fridge.”

“Maybe you should just shoot him the second he opens the door.”

“No,” Gabe said. “I have to make sure he didn’t tell anyone. Mickey’s a nonstop talker. That’s how I met him. We were shooting some piece-of-crap terrorist-on-an-airplane movie. I was a passenger and Mickey had to blow off the cockpit doors. I asked if I could watch him set up, and before you know it, Mick is giving me a short course in special effects. I figured this guy is a gold mine of tech stuff I can use one day, and I struck up a friendship. By the time he went off to prison, I kind of liked the old guy. It’ll be nice to catch up with him.”

“Catch up. Find out what he knows. Then kill him,” Lexi said.

“Looks like you’ve been reading the script.”

Gabe took the number 7 train to Flushing, got off at 33rd Street, and walked to Skillman Avenue. He was glad he had a gun. A guy could get rolled in a neighborhood like this.

Nothing had changed since he had last been here. He wondered how Mickey managed to keep the place the whole time he was in jail. He’d have to ask him during the nice-to-see-you-again part of the conversation.

He rang the bell and identified himself over the intercom. Mickey buzzed him in.

The ground floor reeked of garbage and piss. He waited for Mickey to send the elevator down, then rode it up to the fifth floor, patting the compact Walther PPK tucked into the pocket of his windbreaker.

The door to the elevator opened directly into the loft, and Gabe walked in.

“Hey, I’m over here at my workbench,” Mickey called out from the opposite end of the space, forty feet away.

Gabe crossed the length of the room. Peltz was sitting on a wooden stool. He had aged at least ten years in the past four. His shoulders were stooped, and his hair and skin were both ashy gray.

“One thing’s for sure. You didn’t get too much sun,” Gabe said.

“Grab a seat,” Mickey said. “This is cool. You really got to see this.”

There was only one place to sit—a threadbare old armchair—and Gabe lowered himself into it and sat back. “What’s so cool that I got to see?”

“This,” Mickey said, holding up a chrome cylinder about the size of a penlight. “It’s a pressure-release trigger. Watch what happens when I click it.” He pressed the silver button at the top of the cylinder and held it in place with his thumb.

“Nothing,” Gabe said. “Nothing happened.”

“Exactly. But guess what happens when I lift my thumb off the button?”

Gabe didn’t have to guess. He knew. He started to stand.

“Don’t move,” Mickey said. “The seat cushion is lined with C4. The instant I release this button, your ass will be blown to kingdom come.”