HOOKE WAS NOT EXPECTING TO BE WELCOMED WITH OPEN ARMS when he presented himself at the Marcello elevator, and he was right to have low expectations. In fact, the only open arms were the constable’s own, as Rossano Roque frisked him with a thoroughness that would not have been out of place in Gitmo.
Of course Hooke had not simply strolled in the revolving door with the kid slung over his shoulder in a duffel bag. He considered it, but there was blood blossoming through the canvas, and that would have been too brazen, even for him. So instead, the constable parked out back and lugged Squib in through the deliveries entrance, stashing him in the meat freezer behind the kitchen. One of Conti’s lower-tier goons with spirals shaved into the side of his head was dumb enough to challenge him, so Hooke had cuffed him hard enough to knock the grille right out of his mouth and set him guarding the freezer until he could persuade Ivory to station someone there who was a little lower on the dumbass scale.
Ivory Conti was waiting for him when Rossano Roque pushed open the heavy double doors. The capo was standing behind one of those adjustable desks which rose up on a motor so he wouldn’t develop curvature of the spine from too much chair-time writing figures into a leather-bound ledger. That was the world he came out of: Wall Street and hedge funds, one of maybe a dozen of the real high rollers who cashed out in 2007, which was optimum cash-out time. You can believe he laughed his waxed balls off when the crash came the following year. If cash was king, then Ivory Conti had graduated to emperor.
Ivory had decided that the only guaranteed market for his money was contraband, or, more specifically, drugs, and so he invested a large part of his fortune in resuscitating the mobbed-up gang model of the 1950s, when his grandpa had been consigliere for Carlos Marcello, the Tunisian godfather of the Italian Mafia in the French Quarter: a truly international enterprise.
Ivory had heard all the tales from dear old Grandpa—about how the movie stars flocked to New Orleans and Vegas to fawn over the made men, how there was no finer job for a real man than running his own numbers syndicate—and little Ivory had bought it hook, line, and sinker, even though Poppa had worked himself to death to keep Ivory out of the life. And yet here he was, balls-deep in wise guys looking to be like him, a force in the New Orleans drug scene. And he was a force: medium-sized as yet, but getting bigger, all thanks to the army of crooked but excellent lawyers who’d kept him out of prison on Wall Street, and the legion of police from various institutions across the US, Mexico, and Canada who were very well compensated for having his back.
Soon those guys will have my back, Hooke thought now.
Ivory had been known to say, “Don’t expect to make money in the first five years. That’s when you sow the seeds.”
This was a revolutionary business model for drug dealers, who usually expected to see hefty returns right from the off, but Ivory had money and what he wanted was the Life, which was not to say he was one for giving cash away. Ivory applied the same acumen to his drug deals as he had to his funding of hedges, or vice versa.
“I’m building bridges now,” he had told Hooke as part of his recruitment patter. “But in five years’ time this town will be mine. It’s all about infrastructure, cop.”
Hooke had been impressed at the time, that time being a long time ago.
Ivory Conti looked the part, it had to be admitted—if the part in question was a classic-era mafioso with a pin-striped gray suit, slicked-back hair the color of copper wire, and an almost luminous blue tie fatter than a cottonmouth.
“Ivory” was Conti’s mob handle. He’d arrived from New York with the pseudonym in place. “Anthony” was the actual name on his birth certificate, but that was too on the nose for a guy who was actually mobbed-up: “Tony the Mafioso.” No, “Ivory” sounded good, and it suited him too. Ivory Conti: the little white count, on account of his super-pale skin. He had de-fanged any ribbing that might come his way over the complexion by sticking it into his name. Clever.
Hooke thought that this self-applied nickname told a person a lot about Ivory Conti, about how he could control a situation. But shit, he thought with some contempt, a goddamn hurricane couldn’t control Regence Hooke.
Now he ignored Ivory Conti, deciding to take himself a look at a large painting in an ornate gold frame. Some guy buck naked, more or less, tied to a tree and porcupined with droopy arrows. Guy still looked all holy and shit, like the arrows didn’t bother him none ’cause he was off down the yellow brick road or whatever to see his Lord.
Hooke knew that look from his own father: the holier-than-thou look. He sniggered. This guy is certainly holier than me, he thought. In every sense.
“Saint Sebastian,” said Ivory behind him. “By Botticelli. A fine example of chiaroscuro. You familiar with chiaroscuro, cop?”
“Something to do with how light falls on the subject,” said Hooke, dragging up that nugget from somewhere. “That’s it, right?”
“That is it, Constable Hooke,” said Ivory. “Look at this, Rossano: The cop knows his art.”
Hooke turned from the print. “I know enough to know that’s a fake, boss man. Ain’t no Botticelli in the French Quarter.”
Ivory winced, pained. “It’s a print, Hooke. Not a fake. And someday I might get the real one up there. Maybe I already have it.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the titanium walk-in wall safe, which, rumor had it, doubled as a safe room.
I surely would love to get me a peek in there, thought Hooke. An Aladdin’s cave of wonders, I bet.
“It’s important to have goals,” he said.
Ivory went back to what he’d been doing, which was counting money right out on his standing desk.
“Constable Hooke,” said the self-styled kingpin. “A cop in my den.”
Cold shoulder, thought Hooke, so he thought he might push the boundaries a little, shake this little mafioso out of his Capone fantasy. “Gauche,” he said, nodding at the towers of cash.
This term was unusual enough for Ivory to spare him a glance. “What’s that, Constable? You trying to educate me?”
“What you’re doing there, son. Gauche. Unpolished.”
Well, that was enough impudence to stop Ivory in midstack. “You know I’m Italian, right? Sicilian, as a matter of fact. And you’re coming in here calling me unpolished in front of my boy?”
Now Hooke had his full attention, which was the point. “No, Mister Ivory, I’m just trying to help you along the road to the big time. The boss don’t count money. The soldiers count money. You didn’t know, son—how could you know, being as you’re starting out? Grunt work like that gets delegated.”
Ivory stopped counting the money. “What are we talking about here, Constable?” he asked, and Hooke thought that maybe he was smarter than he looked in his Armani suit.
Hooke eyeballed Roque until the big bodyguard shifted himself out of the way, and then the constable sat uninvited on the chaise longue. “What we’re talking about is how far up the ladder you’re aiming to climb, Ivory.”
Roque piped up, “I’d say Mister Ivory’s on the top of the ladder, cop. Look around you.”
Thank you, dumbass, thought Hooke, but he did indeed look around him, taking his sweet time. “Yup,” he said, “this is a fine building you got. Pillars and the whole works. I guess you’re pretty much in control of all the corners you can see from up here. Every single one.”
Ivory was no fool. He knew blatant sarcasm when he heard it. “I know what I got, cop. I know who I am.”
Hooke lit a cigar. “Maybe—but do you know where you’re going?”
Ivory came around the desk. “I’m trying to figure your agenda here, Hooke. A fucking constable on my payroll who runs minor shit occasionally through a swamp coming in here with all this talk about where I’m going? You gotta know this don’t end well for you. Maybe you’re just insane. Is that your deal, Hooke?”
Hooke took a deep drag. “Psychotic I would say. Yeah, that’s fair. Insane? That’s a little too much for me to take from you.”
At this point, Ivory had no choice but to stop wondering about Hooke’s agenda and take action. “Okay, that’s it. I got no more time for you, Hooke. This one single building I have is a busy place. I gotta oversee all these corners. Gets real busy here in the city.”
Hooke interrupted before Ivory could get to the part about making Sicily great again. “Okay, Mister Ivory, maybe I approached this all wrong. No disrespect intended and so forth. I just need to know what kinda balls you got in your silk shorts. I’ve worked with big players in Iraq, on both sides. On all sides, actually. I’m talking mountains of cocaine, shipping crates full of weapons. I’m talking billions in profits. You got that same look in your eyes those guys had. Ambition. But I need to move you on a few squares because there ain’t time to develop naturally.”
Ivory found himself strangely flattered by the constable’s comments, but also intrigued. “Thanks a fucking bunch, Hooke. I don’t need any cop to tell me I got ambition. A fucking constable? You ain’t even a sheriff.”
Go on, thought Hooke. Ask me.
Ivory fought the urge, but he had to know. “So, go on, motherfucker. Why ain’t I got time?”
I should make this melodramatic, thought Hooke. These boss types love them a slice of melodrama. Or even better, something from the Bible. And just like that, the appropriate reference leaped out at him.
“You don’t have time, Ivory,” said Hooke, “because like Jesus in the desert, you are about to be sorely tested.”
“Tested?” said Ivory, and then, for appearance’s sake, “Who’s gonna test me? I own the police, I’m tight with the cartel, and this building is a fortress. I got a dozen men on every floor and enough firepower in this room alone to win a medium-sized war.”
Hooke pretended to be impressed by all this exposition. “You know, I do believe I brought this situation to the right place.”
“What situation might that be, Constable?”
Hooke fidgeted with his cigar. It wasn’t a simple thing, to present this case. Blurting out the facts would get him laughed out of the building or, more likely, carried out.
“Okay, son. Here’s the deal. There are a couple of strands, so pay attention.”
Ivory pawed his face like he would pull it off. “Constable, you’re the one testing me. The chances of you surviving this encounter are slim to none unless I like what you say next.”
The twin, knowing a setup when he heard one, drew a 9mm and stashed it behind his back.
“Okay, G-Hop, settle down,” said Hooke. “What we have here is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The brass ring. A chance for us all to elevate our positions.”
“This I gotta hear,” said Rossano Roque.
“Well then, maybe you might consider shutting the hell up, son.” He ground the cigar under his boot heel. “So, the first strand. I got the boy who witnessed that little job on Honey Island tucked away in your freezer. No longer a threat.”
Ivory was surprised. “I hope the second strand is better than the first because I sure as shit never told you to bring a witness here. You sure you’re an officer of the law, Constable? Because you don’t appear to know a whole lot about it.”
“Relax, Ivory,” said Hooke. “You own the law around here, myself included. And the Feds ain’t sniffing around you yet. All’s you got is a hotel and a half a dozen corners. That there’s penny-ante shit to the Feebs.”
“Fucking Hooke,” said Ivory, and Hooke could see those words made his so-called boss feel better, so much better that he repeated them. “Fucking Hooke,” and added, “I rue the day. I surely do.”
Hooke grinned. “Well, that’s all about to change, son, because strand two, this kid, he’s got himself an employer. More of a friend, really.”
“A friend?” said Ivory. “I hate friends. Friends do illogical things for friends.”
“Ah, but this friend is special,” said Hooke. “You need to open your ears now because this is important. This friend could move the earth for us. I don’t wanna say too much about him, but you’ve seen Game of Thrones, right?”
“I’ve seen a few episodes,” said Ivory.
“Game of Thrones is genius, man,” said Roque. “The amount of ass on that show is insane.”
Hooke dropped Ivory a wink, like they both knew his soldier was an idiot.
“The point is,” he continued, “the little blonde lady, she’s nothing without her friends, right? What if we had a friend like that?”
Ivory’s eyebrows shot so high it looked like they might take off and fly away. “Like a dragon? Is that what you’re saying, Constable? What if we had a dragon on the payroll?”
Hooke grinned. “A dragon? Come on, Ivory, I ain’t no crazy guy coming in here with dragon stories. But this friend, he’s something to see. So I think that’s the best way for this to play out: just let you eyeball him. And I reckon he’ll be here any damn second, busting down your door.”
“He’s gonna come in here looking for beef?” said Ivory. “Who is he, your fucking brother?”
Hooke laughed. “Good one, boss. You zinged me there. He’s a character, ain’t he, Rossano? But no, this guy ain’t my brother. You’ve never seen nothing like this guy. And if we can capture him and get him hooked on product, go a little French Connection, get him on our leash, then we can bust this city open like a clam.”
This was Hooke’s fallback, if Ivory’s men actually managed to subdue Vern.
“He’s that good?”
Hooke considered his answer. “There’s a term—kids use it all the time. ‘Awesome.’ That’s what this guy is, in the true sense of the word. This guy is awesome. He’s Godzilla and Thor and goddamn Batman all rolled into one, and he’s gonna pop in here any second and wipe out half your men without breaking a sweat. You gotta sound red alert and get loaded with armor-piercing rounds—gas, if you have it; whatever the fuck is in your box of tricks. Because Vern don’t play around.”
Ivory snorted. “Vern? Some guy called Vern is gonna off half my people?”
“At least half. More if he sticks around.”
“A guy this powerful, why would I want to kill him?”
Hooke guffawed. “You ain’t killing him. All that shit might just slow him down long enough to get a spike of crank into him.”
Rossano laughed. “Crank? Fucking old-ass bitch be talking about dog food and dragons.”
Hooke was not a man for swallowing insults unless there was an upside, and in this case, he couldn’t see one. In fact, Ivory could use a lesson right about now.
He moved fast, while seeming to move slow, which is about as difficult as it sounds and involves every muscle from the neck down. He had seen a French merc in Iraq operate in this underwater fashion: Old Serge could slice a fella’s neck like he was opening a greeting card, and people never saw him coming. Hooke had studied that technique and practiced it until he felt confident enough to go public with Serge himself, which he figured was the ultimate test.
Hooke passed; Serge passed on.
He leaned forward easily and grasped Rossano’s knee, which was at his eye level. “Sorry,” he said, making it look like an accidental graze; then he tightened his grip and pistoned his arm, pushing the knee in a direction knees don’t like to go.
“Oops, hey,” he said, still playing the bumbler, “watch out there, buddy.”
Roque went down, his face the color of swamp scum, and as he fell, Hooke drove an uppercut into the bodyguard’s jutting chin, which carried Hooke to his feet and almost took Rossano’s head clean off. It certainly drove the life from his body.
“One punch,” said Hooke. “I always wondered.”
To give Ivory his due, he didn’t quake or gibber but stood up tall for the fight to come. The boy had probably had to show some moxie along the road, dealing with all those senior-type mafiosi hooked up to breathing machines over in Saint Margaret’s.
“You wanna go for a gun?” Hooke asked him. “I know you got one in your fancy desk. Smart move, I’d say, because it would be real stupid going toe-to-toe with me.”
“I don’t need a gun,” said Ivory, balling his fists. “I ain’t scared of you.”
Hooke balled his own fists a touch mockingly. “It ain’t Marquess of Queensbury, boy. Getting to the top might be about brawling, but staying there sure ain’t. Rossano had to go because he was distracting you from the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse who’s about to drop in. We can finish this right now, or you can get on the intercom to your floors and get them set up for a breach and maybe make something of yourself. Get out from under the family’s shadow. Be the next big man.”
“I am the big man, Hooke. All I gotta do is holler and a roomful of hurt is gonna come running in here.”
“That’s your call,” said Hooke, though it wasn’t really. “But I wouldn’t waste resources just now.” He gave Ivory a few seconds to think about it, then said, “Come on, son. Clock’s ticking.”
“Okay,” snapped Ivory, “we do it your way for now. But soon as this super-fucking-assassin is strapped to the table, me and you are going to have a long talk.”
“Of course, boss,” said Hooke.
Boss. Like Ivory was still in charge of anything.