“So you’re telling me the doc hasn’t been dealing with you people?” Warren asked.
“Shit no,” Twin said with a derisive laugh. “We don’t need no honky doctor for our operation, no way.”
“You should have come to us first,” Warren said. “We would have set you right about the doc. He’s been running with us on the b-ball court for four or five months. He’s not half bad neither. So I’m sorry about Reginald. I mean, it wouldn’t have happened if we’d talked.”
“I’m sorry about the kid,” Twin said. “That shouldn’t have happened neither. Trouble was, we were so pissed about Reginald. We couldn’t believe a brother would get shot over a honky doctor.”
“That makes us even,” Warren said. “That’s not counting what happened last night, but that didn’t involve us.”
“I know,” Twin said. “Can you imagine that doc? He’s like a cat with nine lives. How the hell did that cop react so fast? And why was he in there? He must think he’s Wyatt Earp or something.”
“The point is that we have a truce,” Warren said.
“Damn straight,” Twin said. “No more brother shooting brother.
We’ve got enough trouble without that.”
“But a truce means you lay off the doc too,” Warren said.
“You care what happens to that dude?” Twin asked.
“Yeah, I do,” Warren said.
“Hey, then it’s your call, man,” Twin said. “It wasn’t like the money was that good anyway.”
Warren stuck out his hand palm up. Twin slapped it. Then Warren slapped Twin’s.
“Be good,” Warren said.
“You too, man,” Twin said.
Warren motioned to David that they were leaving. They walked back toward the Washington Arch at the base of Fifth Avenue.
“That wasn’t half bad,” David said.
Warren shrugged.
“You believe him?” David asked.
“Yeah, I do,” Warren said. “He might deal in drugs, but he’s not stupid. If this thing goes on, we all lose.”
31
* * *
WEDNESDAY, 5:45 P.M., MARCH 27, 1996
Jack felt uncomfortable. Among other problems he was stiff and now all his muscles ached. He’d been sitting in the van for more hours than he cared to count, watching customers going in and out of the pawnshop.
There’d never been a crowd, but it was steady. Most of the people looked seedy. It occurred to Jack that the shop was trafficking in illicit activities like gambling or drugs.
It was not a good neighborhood. Jack had sensed that the moment he’d arrived that morning. The point had been driven home as darkness fell and someone tried to break into the van with Jack sitting there. The man had approached the passenger-side door with a flat bar, which he proceeded to insert between the glass and the door frame. Jack had to knock on the glass and wave to get the man’s attention. The moment he saw Jack he ran off.
Jack was now popping throat lozenges at a regular rate with little relief. His throat was worse, and to add to his increasing misery he’d developed a cough. It wasn’t a bad cough, merely a dry hack. But it further irritated his throat and increased his anxiety that he had indeed caught the flu from Gloria Hernandez. Although two rimantadine tablets were recommended as the daily dose, Jack took a third when the coughing started.
Just about the time Jack was contemplating admitting to himself that his clever ploy with the package had been a failure, his patience paid off.
The man involved did not attract Jack’s attention initially. He’d arrived on foot, which was not what Jack expected. He was dressed in an old nylon ski parka with a hood just like a few of the individuals who’d preceded him. But when he came out he was carrying the parcel. Despite the failing light and the distance, Jack could see the “rush” and “biohazard” labels plastered haphazardly over the exterior.
Jack had to make a rapid decision as the man walked briskly toward the Bowery. He hadn’t expected to be following a pedestrian, and he debated if he should get out of the van and follow on foot or stay in the van, circle around, and try to follow the man while driving.