“How about just one?” I said. “Surely you can just sell me one red rose?”
“I said, get the fuck outta here,” the white guy said. “You can’t just drive on in a private business like that. Christ, you’re gonna get yourself fucking shot.”
The black man walked up behind him. He held the gun in both hands now. It was a sawed-off Mossberg with lots of electrical tape on the grip.
“Ma’s going to be so disappointed,” Z said. His Boston accent was nearly passable.
I smiled, caught Z’s eye, and nodded.
Z hit the black man very fast and very hard in the face. He fell backward off the platform and onto the asphalt. The white man tried to raise the shotgun before I punched him in the stomach and took away the gun. It was also a shotgun, a 12-gauge Browning with a walnut stock. Perfect to shoot doves.
The man looked up at me as he tried to catch his breath. I raised his shotgun at him and told him if he moved I’d blow his fucking head off.
Z had the black man by the arm, his pistol at the base of the man’s neck. Z held on to the man’s shotgun in his right hand.
“Now, about those flowers,” I said.
We marched them up to the landing. There was a white metal door with another security camera over it. “Who’s inside?”
“Binky.”
“Binky?” I said. “Really?”
He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s his fucking name.”
“Call him what you want. But if there’s someone else inside, we’ll shoot you both.”
He unlocked the door and we walked inside to an open first floor. Several luxury cars and SUVs were parked inside the cavernous space. Long fluorescent lights were strung intermittently overhead, giving off the bright glow of a Super Target.
Another black man stood at a table. He wore a lightweight black leather coat over a white tank top. He had on a blue scally cap and his hands were full of money. On the table were hundreds of small plastic packets, more money, some handguns, and several cell phones.
“Hiya, Binky,” I said.
“Motherfucker,” he said. It was less of an insult than a moment of realization.
“Hands up,” Z said.
I pushed the white guy over by Binky. I explained what would happen if either one of them lowered their hands. Z pushed the guy he’d punched in the face to join his friends. He was bleeding all over himself. Black and white thugs together. Progress.
“Where do you keep your security tapes?” I said.
“Ain’t no tapes, old man,” the young black man said. “You a cop?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe I’m with FTD. You might very well lose your florist license.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Z walked over to the table and flicked through a laptop computer. “Where’s the hard drive?”
Binky looked to the muscular black man. The muscular black man shook his head. “No fucking way,” he said. “You get us killed, man.”
“It’s late,” I said. “I’m getting tired.”
“That’s all somewhere else,” Binky said. “I don’t fuck with any of it. It’s all wireless to the server. Anything older than a day feeds there.”
“Where and to whom?” I said.
“What does it matter?” Binky said.
“You know that fire two nights ago?”
Binky nodded. He was quick, bright. A real future in management.
“That’s why it matters,” I said.
Binky shook his head some more. He looked at me under his cute blue hat with dead eyes and shrugged. “Man, you don’t know the kind of shit you got yourself into.”
“How about we call the cops and let them sort out the details?”
“Suck it,” the white guy said. Leave it to the white guy to say something unclever.
“Where’d the video go?” I said.
I reached for my cell phone and started to punch up the cops. I wasn’t thrilled about explaining what we were up to, but it might be the only way.
“Okay,” Binky said. “Okay. You want that video? You got to see the man.”
“And who’s the man?” I said.
Binky looked over to his two pals. With hands over their heads, both of the men nodded. Binky looked at me. “Ever heard the name Jackie DeMarco?”
“Yep,” I said. “I’d often wondered why he was shaking down people in this neighborhood. Now I know. It’s all part of Jackieland.”
“Goddamn right it is,” Binky said. “And you is fucked.”
“Well put,” I said.
I looked to the money on the table and told Z to scoop it all up with the guns. We exchanged looks. I nodded in appreciation.
“But,” I said. “I’d be willing to bet he’d make a trade first.”
46
The money and guns safely stashed, I returned to Susan’s at daybreak. I let myself in, let Pearl out, and made myself a poached egg and rye toast. As coffee started to brew, Susan came into the kitchen. I needed a shower and a change of clothes. I had a dash of blood on my T-shirt from our adventure in the South End.
“Poached egg?” I said.
“What time is it?”