“You go after the detective, and you’re going to create more problems for yourself with them as well as us. They can be persistent. You don’t need to give them any more reasons to breathe down your neck.”
“So you want me to let the detective slide?” said the Priest. “You’re concerned for me, concerned for my business, concerned about the police.”
“That’s right,” said Louis. “We’re concerned citizens.”
“And what is the percentage for me?”
“We go away.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The Priest’s shoulders sagged theatrically. “Okay, then. Sure. For you, I let him slide.”
Louis didn’t move. Beside him, Angel grew tense.
“Just like that,” said Louis.
“Just like that. I don’t want trouble from men of your, uh, caliber. Maybe somewhere down the road, you might do me a favor in return.”
“I don’t think so, but it’s a nice thought.”
“So, you want a drink now?”
“No,” said Louis. “I don’t want a drink.”
“Well, if that’s the case, our discussions are over.” The Priest leaned back in his seat and folded his hands over his small belly. As he did so, he raised the little finger of his left hand slightly. Behind Angel and Louis, Vassily’s hand reached behind his back for the gun tucked into his belt. The two men at the bar stood, also reaching for their weapons.
“I told you he wouldn’t agree,” said Angel to Louis. “Even if he said so, he wouldn’t agree.”
Louis shot him a look of disdain. He picked up Angel’s glass of soda, seemed about to take a sip from it, then reconsidered.
“You know what you are?” he said. “You a Monday morning quarterback.”
And as he spoke, he moved. It was done with such fluidity, such grace, that Vassily, had he lived long enough, might almost have admired it. Louis’s hand slid beneath the table as he rose, removing the gun that had been concealed beneath it earlier by the man who had accompanied the cleaning crew. In the same movement, his other hand buried the glass in Vassily’s face. By then, Vassily had his own gun drawn, but it was too late for him. The first two bullets took him in the chest, but Louis caught him before he fell, shielding himself with the body as he fired upon the men at the bar. One managed to get off a shot, but it impacted harmlessly upon the woodwork above Louis’s head. Barely seconds later, only four men remained alive in the room: the Priest, the bartender, and the two men who would soon kill them both. The Priest had not moved. The second gun that had been concealed beneath the table was now in Angel’s hand, and it was pointing directly at the Priest. Angel had remained motionless while the killing went on behind him. He trusted his partner. He trusted him as he loved him, which was completely.
“All of this for a private detective,” said the Priest.
“He’s a friend,” said Angel. “And it’s not just about him.”
“Then what?” The Priest spoke calmly. “Whatever it is, we can reach an accommodation. You have made your point. Your friend is safe.”
“You expect us to believe that? Frankly, you don’t seem like the forgiving type.”
“You know what type I am? The type that wants to live.”
Angel considered this. “It’s good to have an ambition,” he said. “That one seems kind of narrow, though.”
“It encompasses a great deal.”
“I guess so.”
“And as for what happened here, well, if you show me mercy, then mercy will be shown to you.”
“I don’t think so,” said Angel. “I saw what was done to those children you farmed out. I know what was done to them. I don’t think you’re due mercy.”
“It was business,” said the Priest. “It was nothing personal.”
“It’s funny,” said Angel, “I hear that a lot.” He raised the gun, drawing a bead slowly upward from the Priest’s belly, passing his heart, his throat, before stopping at his face. “Well, this isn’t business. This is personal.”
He shot the Priest once in the head, then stood. Louis was staring down the barrel of his gun at the bartender, who was flat on the floor, his hands spread wide.
“Get up,” said Louis.
The bartender started to rise and Louis shot him, watching impassively as he folded in upon himself and lay still on the filthy carpet. Angel stared at his partner.
“Why?” he asked.
“No witnesses, not today.”
Louis moved swiftly to the door. Angel followed. He opened the door, glanced quickly outside, then nodded at Louis. Together, they ran for the Oldsmobile parked across the street.
“And?” asked Angel, as he got into the passenger seat and Louis climbed behind the wheel.
“You think he knew what went on there, how his boss made his money?”
“I guess.”
“Then he should have found a job someplace else.”
The car pulled away from the curb. The doors above the club opened and two men emerged with guns in their hands. They were about to fire when the Oldsmobile made a hard left and disappeared from view.
“Will it come back on us?”
“He got above himself. He attracted attention. His days were numbered. We just accelerated the inevitable.”
“You sure of that?”
“We walk on this one. We did some people a favor back there, and not just Parker. A problem was solved, and they got to keep their hands clean.”
“And they’ll go back to running kids into the country.”
“That’s a problem for another time.”
“Tell me that we’ll deal with it, that we won’t walk away.”
“I promise,” said Louis. “We’ll do what we can down the line.”
They ditched the Olds four blocks away in favor of their own Lexus. The car boasted a Sirius satellite radio and, by mutual agreement, each was allowed to choose a station on alternate evenings and the other was not allowed to complain about the selection. Tonight was Angel’s choice, so they listened to First Wave all the way back to Manhattan. And thus the journey home passed in an almost companionable silence.