NYPD Red

Chapter 80



“KABOOM!” GABRIEL SCREAMED at the top of his lungs.

The semi-comatose man on the engine room floor snapped alert.

“Did you hear that, Charlie?” Gabriel said. “That was the kaboom of justice.”

Connor gave him a quizzical look.

“As of three seconds ago, the bitch cop who killed my girlfriend, and her a*shole husband, who stole my identity, just got blown to hell. I wish I could have watched them go up in smoke, but I have bigger fish to fry. Namely your cronies on the top deck.”

Connor tried to talk through the duct tape, but all that came out was a shrill whine.

“You want a speaking part?” Gabriel said. “Okay, but you raise your voice, and I will stick this stun baton down your pants and fry your junk like a Jimmy Dean sausage. Understood?”

The man nodded, and Gabriel yanked the duct tape from his mouth.

Connor gulped air. “Thank you,” he wheezed.

“Don’t thank me, Charlie. I’m going to kill you in about half an hour.”

“Why me?”

“Don’t take it personally. I’m blowing up an entire boat. You just happen to be on it.”

“I don’t have to be on it,” Connor said. “Cut the tape and let me jump ship. I’ll take my chances in the river. Come on, man, give a brother a break.”

“Bad news, brother. This is just makeup. Underneath, I’m as white as Vanilla Ice.”

“Even so, you said we had a lot in common. You’re right. Those guys upstairs are not my cronies. I’m just a working stiff busting his balls for the man. Don’t let me die down here, too.”

“No can do, but kudos on presenting a noble argument. And thank you for not trotting out the old ‘I got a wife and six kids’ routine. It’s so overdone.”

“I don’t have kids, and my ex won’t even notice I’m gone,” Connor said. “The only ones who are going to miss me are the Alley Cats.”

“I hate to break it to you, but cats don’t have feelings.”

Connor laughed. “These cats do. The Alley Cats is the name of my bowling team. If you won’t do it for me, at least do it for them.”

“You crack me up,” Gabriel said. “I wish I could stick around for the whole show, but I’m done here.” He stepped back to inspect the final charge. “Not bad for an amateur.”

“That’s cell-phone-activated,” Connor said. “I’d say that’s a notch or two above amateur.”

“Credit where credit is due, Charlie. I had a great teacher. Mickey Peltz. I hated to have to kill him. I feel the same way about Adrienne, the catering chick upstairs. You too. It totally sucks that good guys like you have to die.”

“I’m touched. Your compassion means a lot to me in my final moments.”

“If it’s any consolation, it’ll be painless. Mickey was right. Sixty pounds is more than enough to split this hull like a ripe melon. Especially with the charge I put under this fuel tank. How big is it, anyway?”

“Each one is five thousand gallons. One blows, and they’ll all go.”

“Then I have twenty pounds all rigged and ready to go that I don’t need down here. I think maybe I’ll take it upstairs and find a nice little spot for it in the main salon.”

“Or maybe you could just shove it up your ass and give yourself a call,” Connor said.

Gabriel laughed. “Charlie, you have no idea how much you’ve brought to this film,” he said, tucking the remaining C4 into his jacket pockets. “When I came up with this scene, I always pictured it as high drama—me sweating like a pig, molding the plastic, scared shitless that I’d blow myself up. But you added just the right touch of comic relief. You’re like the black Quentin Tarantino.”

“So let me get this straight,” Connor said. “You’re making a movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s the camera?”

Gabriel tapped a finger to his head.

“Oh boy,” Connor said. “And this movie in your head—I die in it?”

“It’s an action movie. Lots of people die in it.”

“Including you?”

“Oh, no. I’m the hero. I escape.”

“How?”

“That’s a spoiler, Charlie. I can’t tip the ending.”

“First of all, the name’s not Charlie. It’s Charles. Second of all, there’s no way in hell you’ll escape. If the explosion doesn’t kill you, Harbor Patrol will fish you out of the drink before you can swim fifty feet.”

“Oh, I escape. It’s in my script. The problem with you, Charles, is that you’ve got no imagination.”

“I got plenty of imagination. You want to hear my script? You’re no hero. You’re just another one of those nut-job suicide bombers who thinks he’s going to wind up with seventy-two virgins.”

“I’m not one of them,” Gabriel yelled, pulling the stun baton from his holster and pointing it at Connor. “I’m the star of this whole show.”

“Oh yeah,” Connor said. “And nothing says ‘action hero’ like a young white guy using a cattle prod on a poor old black man who’s duct-taped to a steam pipe.”

Gabriel holstered the stun baton and knelt down next to Connor. “Charles, trust me. This is a great movie, and I really do have a brilliant way of ending it.”

“But since I’ll be dead, I’ll never get to see it. How convenient.”

“You think I’m lying?” Gabriel said. “I got the escape scene right here in my pocket. It’s mind-blowing.”

“Show it to me,” Connor said.

“Show you? You ever even read a movie script, old man?” Gabriel asked.

“I work for Shelley Trager. He leaves scripts in the bathrooms, and believe me, that’s where a lot of them belong.”

“Well, mine is pure gold.”

“Prove it,” Connor said. “Let me read it. Right here. Right now.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t usually show it around. In fact, except for my girlfriend, I haven’t shown it to anybody.”

“Hey, man, I’m not just anybody. I’m the black Quentin Tarantino.”