NYPD Red

Chapter 33



“MICK, ARE YOU serious?” Gabe said.

Mickey sat motionless. “Serious as a body bag.”

“What the hell is going on? Why would you want to blow me up?”

“I don’t want to blow you up,” Peltz said. “I’d rather talk business.”

“No problem,” Gabe said. “Talk.”

“First, get rid of the gun. Wherever it is, reach for it, and set it down on the floor. If you shoot me, you’re dead a half second after I am.”

“Okay, relax,” Gabe said. “I mean, don’t relax. Just keep pressing hard on that button.”

He reached inside his windbreaker pocket, took out the Walther, and slid it across the floor. Peltz picked it up and put it on top of his workbench.

“We good?” Gabe said.

“So far.”

“Okay, so talk business.”

“I didn’t call you so I could blackmail you, Gabe. That’s what you’re thinking, but that’s not my style.”

The Chameleon just nodded.

“I got a memory like a steel trap,” Peltz said. “Eight years ago we did a bunch of Sopranos episodes together. I remember we were on location in Jersey, just hanging out, and you told me you had an idea for a movie about a guy who starts killing off a bunch of a*sholes in the film business.”

“Half the people who work in this business come up with that idea,” Gabe said.

“I didn’t get much sun in prison, Gabe, but I didn’t get stupid. That day, you and me talked about a bunch of cool ways to kill people off. One of them was swapping blanks for real bullets in a prop gun. Funny that you should be on the set today when Ian Stewart gets killed exactly that way.”

“It doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it.”

Peltz just grunted. “It’s also funny that the Molotov that got tossed at Brad Schuck tonight was a wickless. The same one my father taught me to make. The same one I taught you. Now that I see you again in person, you look about the same size as the guy who tossed it.”

“I’m average height, average weight, along with a million other guys.”

“But I’ll bet you’re the one guy behind those three pricks getting offed today.”

“I’m not, Mick. I swear.”

“Then why were you so quick to come running over here in the middle of the night? And why’d you bring the gun? I told you—I didn’t ask you over here so I could blackmail you.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

“Because I want in,” Peltz said. “Remember the ending I pitched for your movie idea? Get about a hundred of those dickwads all together in one place and blow them up. You loved it. You going to do it?”

“Even if I was the guy behind all these killings, I could never afford to put something like that together. You of all people ought to know, Mickey. Explosives cost an arm and a leg.”

“An arm and a leg. Ba-da-bump. That’s why I like you, Gabe. You got a bomb under your balls, and you’re not afraid to crack wise with the guy who’s got his finger on the button.”

“Jokes aside, Mickey, C4 is cheap if you got a license to buy it legal. But once you’re out there on the black market, it’s hard to find, and even if you can, the prices are through the roof.”

“Not if you know where to shop. Listen to me, Gabe; if you’re looking for the big bang, I’m your powder monkey. I not only know where to get what you need, I know how to rig it, and where to put the charges for the best body count.”

Sweat dripped down Gabe’s face as he stared at the chrome cylinder in Peltz’s hand. Mickey might kill him, but he didn’t seem bent on blackmail.

“Why would you even want to get involved?” Gabe asked. “Why risk going back to jail?”

“Because I could buy shit cheap, mark it up, make a few bucks, and still save you a bundle. And because I’ve spent the past twelve hundred and eighty-three nights laying in a prison cell thinking how I could get even with the system that put me there. So either tell me what’s on your wish list and I’ll make it happen, or just go home. I’m not going to blow the whistle on you. I’ll be glued to the TV rooting for you.”

Gabe reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and put it in Mickey’s free hand.

Mickey scanned it for less than thirty seconds. “I’d make a few adjustments, but not bad for an amateur. I guess I taught you pretty good.”

“How much would I need?”

“Sixty pounds of C4 should do it,” Mickey said. “It’s big enough to do the job and light enough to carry around in a backpack.”

“Can you get it?” Gabe asked.

“Piece of cake.”

“Fast?”

Mickey coughed up a raspy laugh. “You want cheap and fast? Maybe if it was a blow job outside the Lincoln Tunnel, but we’re living in a post-9/11 world, Gabe. Speedy delivery jacks up the price.”

“How much to get it by tomorrow?”

Mickey took a beat. “Twenty-five thousand plus another five for my connections and my expertise.”

“Thirty total,” Gabe said.

“If this were a film production doing it on the up-and-up, the sixty pounds along with my services would be double, maybe triple,” Mickey said. “Thirty thousand is the friends-and-family price.”

“Take another look at that diagram I gave you. Does it make sense? Are the charges in the best places to do the most damage?”

“Like I said, I’d have to finesse it, but that’s why I tacked on the extra five thousand. I get paid for blowing shit up, not for blackmailing. It’s thirty thousand, all in, and if you want the plastic by tomorrow, I need the cash today. Do you have it?”

“No,” The Chameleon said. “But I know where to get it.”

“Then go get it.”

“It’s a two-man job,” The Chameleon said. “You interested?”

“It would have to be me and my parole officer. Son of a bitch is tracking me 24/7. Can’t you find somebody else?”

“Probably.”

“Then do it. I’ll be right here waiting for you.”

“I’m going to need my gun back,” Gabe said.

“You going to shoot me with it?”

“Hell no, but I hate walking along Skillman Ave. without it.”

Mickey picked up the Walther and passed it back to Gabe. “See how much I trust you?” he said.

“It probably doesn’t hurt that you got your finger on the pressure-release trigger,” Gabe said.

“You mean this?” Mickey said.

He lifted his thumb off the cylinder and the silver button popped up.

Gabriel leaped from the chair.

“Boom,” Mickey said.

“You bastard,” Gabe said. “It was all bullshit.”

“You call it bullshit,” Mickey said, letting loose one of his signature croaky laughs. “I call it special effects.”