Chapter 20

The Watcher hit George Washington Bridge a couple of hours later and headed south on Henry Hudson Parkway, down West Side Highway, and slowed as he reached the outer edges of the Garment District and headed east. He found a crowded parking lot and nosed his truck between an equally decrepit Toyota and a Ford Explorer. Taking his sole possession, a rucksack, he headed to a self-storage on Thirty-Sixth Street. He headed out of the storage an hour later, his rucksack weighed down by his Glock, magazines, other stuff a good ghost carried, and a hunting knife.

He headed to the nearest pay phone and dialed a number. He knew how the other person would react. Look at the number, frown, think about ignoring it, think again, and turn on the speaker.

He spoke one sentence, ignored the exclamation of surprise, and listened. Ten minutes later he was heading north. He knew what was happening and what he had to do.

 

Broker headed into the city once they crossed George Washington Bridge and drifted into Harlem. ‘You guys wanted to check out the Manhattan Chapter?’

He headed deeper, past Hamilton Heights, and then headed south on St. Nicholas Avenue and headed east again, the neighborhood sprouting auto repair shops, computer shops, barbers, any number of small businesses. ‘Harlem’s gotten better in the last few years… fewer gangs and safer streets… but still a long way to go.’

He slowed a little and pointed to a large walled compound on the left, and as he neared it, they could make out the name of a garage fronting a wide entrance. Several cars stood in the forecourt, and they could see a hive of activity in the garage.

‘This is where they hang out. Dieter Hamm, a few shooters, the top hoods. This is where they do business.’

Roger noted the security cameras and tapped Broker, who speeded up slightly. ‘You want one more pass?’

Roger shook his head. ‘Let’s work out what we’re going to do, and then we can come back tomorrow. I’m sure the moment we make another pass, we’ll get flagged, if they have any decent security shit.’

‘They will,’ Broker said grimly. ‘They’re hoods basically, but not stupid hoods. Let’s not reveal ourselves tonight.’

They reached Broker’s apartment in near silence, and as they were going up the elevator, Chloe broke the silence. ‘The first time we met, you said we’ll just ask them. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll go to that garage and ask this Hamm.’

Bear bowed extravagantly. ‘Your wish is our command, milady.’

She snorted. ‘That would be good if it wasn’t a one-off. And you better be packing heat tomorrow. We’re not going to Sunday school.’

Bwana looked up hopefully. ‘We off-ing Hamm tomorrow?’

She shook her head. ‘I am surrounded by idiot savages.’

 

Broker used the same Rover the next day. ‘If we’re declaring our hand, they might as well know our ride.’

The car shop was busy when they arrived. Broker parked, the Rover facing its entrance, with a clear lane for exit, and led the way inside. Bwana strayed from the group and paused to watch a couple of mechanics work on a Mustang. Seem to know what they’re doing. This is a very good front for the gang.

He went into the reception, a large, white-tiled square that had a desk at one end and posters of cars all over the walls. Broker was talking to a short, bald mechanic with greasy fingers; the others were casually spread out.

‘Dieter Hamm. We’re here to see him.’

‘No one here by that name, man. You got a car to be looked at?’

‘No, we’re here to see Hamm. Could you tell him we’re here?’ Broker, patient, coming across as the Wall Street executive.

The first trace of impatience came into the mechanic’s voice, and his voice roughened. ‘Told ya, no one by that name. And if you don’t have a car to be looked at, you’re wasting our time.’

‘Who’s your manager? Let me speak to him?’

The mechanic opened his mouth and then shut it and looked over Broker’s shoulder. Broker turned to see a tall man in a well-tailored suit glide forward, his tanned skin stretched across his face, his head bristling with a steel gray buzz cut.

He stopped a few feet in front of Broker and made an eye signal to the mechanic to leave.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Not if you aren’t Dieter Hamm. We’re here to see him.’

‘I think Enrique’s told you already that we don’t have anyone by that name here. Now if you don’t have any vehicle to be repaired, I suggest you leave. As you can see, we’re busy, and you’re eating up billable hours.’

Roger shouldered forward. ‘Let’s drop the shit, shall we? We know this is a front for 5Clubs, and we know Dieter Hamm runs this chapter. We want to see him. Tell him we’re here.’

Suit looked Roger up and down and then at the others. ‘Gang? 5Clubs? You’ve got your facts wrong. I own this business, and I’ve nothing to do with gangs. Now I suggest you leave, or I’ll call the cops for harassing us.’

Broker pulled out a business card and handed it to Suit. ‘We’ll be back tomorrow and will expect to see Hamm.’

Suit took the card carelessly and placed it on the desk without looking at it. ‘You’ll be wasting your time.’

He stood in the center of the floor watching them leave. Bear lingered and looked him over. ‘You were a Joe?’

Suit shook his head, his lips moved in a sneer. ‘Marine.’

Bear nodded and left silently, Suit watching him.

Suit made his way to an inner office that overlooked the forecourt and parted the window blinds to watch their Rover leave the garage.

He picked up his phone after activating a scrambler. ‘Some guys came asking for you. Four guys and a woman. They didn’t give a reason and didn’t believe that you weren’t here.’

He listened in silence and then described them.

‘Hold on.’ He put the phone down to fetch Broker’s card.

‘Business card says Broker and has a number. Nothing else on it.’

He spelt out the name and a New York number. ‘He said they’d be back tomorrow.’

He listened some more and grunted and put the phone down.

 

Hamm tossed the phone, leaned back in a plush chair covered with lizard skin, and stretched. His body rippled and flowed in the chair, the long snake tattoo on his forearm curling and flexing. 5Clubs had a flat hierarchy with no layers separating the bosses from the hoods. Quinn and a few other managers, in effect the enforcers and shooters, had easy access to him. The gang also had an impressive early warning system. Anything out of the ordinary got reported upwards immediately, however small.

That the garage was a front for the gang was known to very few in the business – even the NYPD had no knowledge of this – it troubled him that the façade had been uncovered so quickly by these strangers.

He picked up another phone, a burner phone that would be crushed at the end of the day, and called a number that was burnt in his memory. That number would change the next day, and he would have to memorize the new one. He was allowed to make only one call a day to the number.

The phone at the other end got picked up after precisely five rings. Always five rings, no more, no less, at any time.

The person at the other end didn’t say anything, just filled the line with silence.

Hamm recited what had occurred in short precise sentences, unemotionally. The listener didn’t say anything for a long minute after he had finished. ‘You trust Quinn?’

‘Yes. Served with me. Good guy, not imaginative, but will die for the gang.’

‘Call me in two hours.’

Hamm nodded. ‘Okay.’

After two hours he got his orders. Meet the strangers and find out what they want. Have them followed. Bugged if possible.

 

The next day, the garage was the same scene, except for the presence of several hoods loitering around, alert, trying to fit in and failing.

Suit approached them as Broker led them inside the office. Suit was in decent shape for his age, but the well-cut jacket couldn’t hide the thickening of the waist.

Broker greeted Suit before he could open his mouth. ‘Hamm going to see us?’

Suit gestured to a few chairs and disappeared wordlessly into the snugly fit door he had come from.

‘Power games,’ mumbled Broker to Roger, who was closest to him.

‘Who’s the fucker? Bear said he was a Marine?’

Broker nodded. ‘Name’s Quinn. Nothing special in his record. Except for a dishonorable discharge. A temper that gets worse when drunk, and he gets drunk often.’

Broker looked over at Bwana and frowned. Bwana and Chloe were looking up at the ceiling. If you looked hard enough, you could just make out the concealed camera. Bwana stuck his finger up and grinned silently.

‘Cut that shit out, Bwana. This is a public place.’

Chloe gave a last look at the camera. ‘Maybe Bear and I should wait in the Rover?’

Broker nodded in their direction, their ride had to be secure, and settled down to wait, Roger and Bwana leaning against the opposite wall. An hour later they were unmoving, all three of them, with their eyes shut. They heard various customers drift in and out of the office, the clunky sounds of the garage at work, and then the inner door opened.

‘Come.’

Broker opened his eyes to see Quinn beckoning at him. He flowed out of his chair and approached Quinn, Bwana and Roger falling in behind him.

‘Not them. Just you. This is not a fucking convention.’

Bwana and Roger resumed their Zen meditation as Broker disappeared behind the inner door.

It was a simple office. There were millions of such offices in millions of garages around the country. Untidy piles of paper littered the desk and the filing cabinet in the corner, posters and certifications hung on the wall, a coffee pot bubbled away in the corner.

Millions of garages around the country did not have Dieter Hamm, chapter head of 5 Clubs, seated lazily behind the desk. Hamm was wearing a blue shirt hugging his muscular body, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing veined, hairy, tattooed forearms. His eyes were dark and hooded as he watched Broker cross the room and seat himself after being expertly patted down by Quinn.

He tossed Broker’s card across the desk. ‘You demanded this meeting. What do you want?’

Broker leaned back in his chair and contemplated him, and a broad smile split his face, a chuckle coming from deep inside.

Hamm’s hooded eyes didn’t change; his expression didn’t change. ‘Something funny?’

Broker waved his hand to encompass the room. ‘Yup. This. You. You’re just a punk. All right, a punk who dresses well and speaks well, but still a punk. And look at your airs!’

Quinn shifted on his legs behind him, his shoes creaking above the muted sound of the garage. Hamm blinked. ‘You’re wasting my time. What do you want?’

‘I want the mole you guys have in the FBI.’

Hamm regarded Broker curiously. ‘Mole? FBI? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I have a mole in the FBI? What does a garage have to do with them?’

Broker smiled, but no mirth reached his eyes. ‘Look, Hammy. I’m so glad you didn’t pull that I’m-just-a-small-business shit with me. I know who you are, and doubtless you have done some research on me. Let’s not act virginal about this FBI mole crap. I know you have one there, you know it, and the Feds know it. All I want is the scumbag’s name, and I’m out of your life. I am least interested in your gang and your activities.’

Hamm continued regarding him curiously. ‘Is this where the threats come in? Where you say you’ll destroy us if we don’t give up this hypothetical mole?’

Broker’s sunny grin filled the room. ‘Hammy, don’t be dramatic. You guys are what, three, four hundred at last count. How can three or four of us destroy you? Nope. I think you’ll listen to reason.’

Hamm’s brow furrowed. ‘What might that reason be?’

Broker had to restrain himself from rubbing his hands together. ‘Those guys outside, they’re the reason. See, two of them are known to you. They came across your guys on the border… you’re short a few hoods over there, aren’t you?

‘You might want to check their faces against the news bulletins from Tucson,’ he added helpfully.

He heard Quinn leave the office and allowed the silence to build.

‘Those two don’t like hoods. Hell, none of us do. You guys are parasites. But as you know, I am a businessman. Live and let live is my policy.’ Broker believed himself. Almost.

He nodded his head, indicating the guys outside. ‘I had a tough time restraining those two. They not only share my dislike for hoods, they carry a torch for the vulnerable. Like young girls. Women. Children. They wanted to start a war in Arizona and California and take down all your guys there. The Border Patrol talked them out of it. Luckily. For you.

‘So, they’re the reason. Them and the other two.’ He sat back, case made.

Hamm held up a calloused hand, the fingers slender and rock steady. ‘I’m trembling. Wetting my pants.’

‘I didn’t think you would be. You’re a shit. But you’re a shit that’s survived the toilet paper. But I also think you, and all you cruds and your chief crud, Scheafer, are businessmen and understand risk and reward, cost and benefits.’

‘You really thought you could come here, insult us, demand this nonexistent mole, and we would bend over?’

Broker smiled genuinely this time. ‘Nope. This is exactly the reaction I was expecting. My guys will be glad. They’re getting fat and lazy.’

He headed to the door and pulled it open and turned back. ‘You’re lucky. Bwana wanted to take you out today.’

Hamm stared at the door as he heard muffled voices from behind it. It swung open abruptly.

Bwana and Roger took a step inside silently and looked back at him.

Roger finally spoke. ‘We’ll save you for last.’