Bonnie drove twenty miles at high speed before deciding the Long Fong Boyz weren’t still on her ass. At that point she slowed down a little, lit a cig, and checked Sammy to see who’d been rude enough to call at the most inconvenient time.
Des. Of course.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to talk to him, but she returned his call anyway. “What’s buzzin’, cousin?”
“Just checking in. Where are you?”
“In motion. As usual.”
“Things settle down yet?”
“Oh, sure. Everything’s hunky-dory. I got a mob wiseguy on my ass, plus the Asian gang I told you about. And my latest client just got snuffed.”
“What?” He sounded as if he hadn’t heard, or just couldn’t take it in.
“The guy who hired me for the job I did yesterday. Kaput.”
The startled silence on his end lasted five long seconds. Bonnie counted.
“But,” he said finally, “but how … how could that happen?”
“People get killed in this game, Des. That’s something you oughta know by now.”
“Yes … sure …”
“Don’t let it throw you. I got a master plan to make it all copacetic. Just let me do my thing, and you’ll hear from me when you hear from me.”
“You’re still not sleeping over?”
“Nuh-uh. I’m kind of a bullet magnet right now. Anything else you wanted to talk about?”
There was a beat of silence on the line. “That new cop, Bradley Walsh, came by the gallery a little while ago.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a purely official visit. The vibe I got is that he knows about us. And he’s interested in you.”
“Everybody’s interested in me. I’m friggin’ irresistible.”
“I’m serious. I had the impression he was checking me out, sizing up the competition.”
“He’s a kid, Des.”
“I don’t know. He seems like a decent enough guy. And he clearly cares about you.”
She thought of the Xeroxed file. More than you know, she thought. “You trying to set me up with him or something?”
“No, I’m just saying …”
“What?”
“That you might be better off, that’s all. A young, healthy guy like him …”
“An action figure whose moving parts are still moving? That it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Jeez, Des. I never took you for a guy with a critical shortage of self-esteem.”
“It’s not that, exactly. It’s … Never mind.”
She had an idea of what he wanted to say, but this wasn’t a talk they could have on the phone. “Look, I gotta get off. My connection’s breaking up.”
That was a lie, and she figured he knew it.
“Okay, Parker. Take care.”
“Always do.”
Another lie. That made two in a row.
She clicked off and fired up another cig.
- — -
As she approached the parkway’s Maritime exit, she placed a call to Mama Blessing. “Yo, Mama. Doing business today?”
“Always open,” Mama said cheerfully. “I never close.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen.”
In Maritime, she guided the Jeep into a low-income neighborhood near the hospital. The area consisted mostly of housing projects, but these projects were nothing like Crossgate Gardens. Here, people lived in neat little bungalows with postage-stamp yards and cars up on blocks in driveways.
She parked on the street. Before going inside, she circled the Jeep, poking around the chassis. It took her less than a minute to find a matte-black case, the size and weight of a cigarette pack, magnetically affixed to the Jeep’s right front wheel well.
It was a GPS homing beacon. The Long Fong Boyz must have planted it last night, after leaving her on the beach. It explained how they’d found her at the hotel. They hadn’t shadowed her; she was sure she would have spotted a tail. Instead they’d tracked her on a computer or cell phone, using a web interface that drew her location in real-time on a map. When they saw that the Jeep was stationary in the vicinity of the hotel, they’d driven down from Jersey City to see what was up.
Of course she could disable the tracker or just chuck it into the nearest garbage bin. But she didn’t want to do that. Now that she knew about it, the homing device could work to her advantage.
She left it in place and jogged through a mist of rain to the front stoop of Mama Blessing’s bungalow. She waited at the screen door, neither knocking nor ringing the bell. Mama would know she’d arrived. Mama was always watching.
In a few seconds a matronly woman ambled into view, her hair coiffed in a high-rise updo bound in an African head wrap. A Malcolm X sweatshirt bulged over her considerable frontage. Turquoise rings glittered on every finger. Her feet, Bonnie noticed as the door swung open, were shod in pink bunny slippers.
“Hey,” Bonnie said, stepping into the parlor. Gray daylight filtered through the windows, providing the only illumination. “I see you survived Sandy.”
Mama clucked her tongue. “That bitch didn’t scare me. I sat in the dark and ate potato chips and listened to Miles Davis on my iPod all night long.”
Bonnie found herself wanting another cigarette, but she resisted the urge to light up. She knew Mama didn’t approve of smoking. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have cared, but she respected Mama. More to the point, she needed her.
“Got cleaned out last night,” she said briskly. “I’m looking to rearm with some heavy steel.”
“How heavy?”
“You got an assault rifle? I mean a real assault rifle, not the bogus ones they show on the news. Full automatic, banana clip, major stopping power.”
“Sister, you sound like you’re in trouble.”
“No. I sound like I’m planning to make trouble.”
Mama nodded, unruffled. Bonnie had never been able to determine her exact age—it had to be somewhere between fifty and seventy—but she knew Mama had been in the business long enough to be unsurprised by any request. She’d been dealing guns in the neighborhood since forever, and paying off the cops to look the other way. She didn’t make much of a secret of it; hell, even her sweatshirt showed Malcolm toting a gun. When she wasn’t hawking small arms, she baked macadamia nut cookies for the local kids. Bonnie had tried a cookie once. It was delicious.
“I do have an item that would suit your needs,” Mama said, setting herself down on a lumpy overstuffed couch. “TEC-9 conversion job. Built in eighty-nine; it’s old but well maintained. Takes a fifty-round extended magazine. Fires a thousand rounds a minute. You can shoot your whole wad in a three-second burst.”
“That’s what I’m looking for.”
“Never known you to buy a full automatic before. Aren’t you the one who told me it’s cheaper to buy a semi and convert it yourself?”
“Yeah. But right now I don’t have the time.”
“This is urgent, huh?”
“I need it yesterday.”
“You can have it here and now. But it’ll cost.”
“How much?”
“A grand.”
“That’s pretty steep.”
“You’re pretty desperate.”
Bonnie couldn’t deny it, but she went through the process of haggling anyway. Five minutes later she’d talked the price down to $700 for the gun alone, with ammo to be purchased separately.
“Deal,” she said, peeling off bills from a roll she’d taken from her office safe this morning. With the ATMs out of service, she’d figured she would need cash. “Now let’s talk about those fifty-round mags.”
“I’ve only got one.”
“I’ll take it.”
They settled on a price, and Bonnie peeled off another hundred bucks. Mama Blessing spent some time folding and refolding the currency, which then disappeared into the deep valley of her cleavage. She left the parlor without a word. Bonnie stood around looking at porcelain figurines and photos of Mama’s grandchildren until the woman returned, the gun in her hand, the long magazine already inserted.
“You want it gift-wrapped?” She always asked that. Bonnie was never sure if it was a joke.
“Brown paper bag will be fine.” It was how she always answered.
The merchandise went into a Shop-Rite bag. Bonnie tucked it under her arm.
“Nice doing business,” she told Mama with a smile.
The woman was watching her. “This isn’t a hit kit, young lady. Just what are you up to?”
“I’m in a war. This bad boy ought to neutralize the enemy’s advantage.”
“You can do a lot of damage with a piece like that.”
“I intend to.”
She headed back out into the rain. Mama Blessing stayed behind the screen door. “Stay safe,” she said.
Good advice. But at this point it was no longer possible.
- — -
Back in the car, Bonnie jumped on the phone again, tracking down Walt Churchland’s home number and giving him a call.
“Sparky? It’s your new best friend, Bonnie Parker. You know that video camera you were bragging about? I need to borrow it.”
“I don’t really lend it out.”
“You do now. Or your boss finds out who his fish swam off with.”
“Shit. You’re blackmailing me?”
“I’m calling in a favor. I did you a solid. What goes around comes around.”
Churchland lived in a ground floor apartment in Algonquin, not far from the fish store. Bonnie parked outside and met him at his door. He did not appear happy to see her.
“That it?” She nodded at a squarish, toaster-size camera in his hand.
“Um, yeah. I don’t feel too good about this.”
“Really? I feel great. Tell me about the camcorder.”
“It’s a Panasonic AG-DVC30. I bought it on eBay. It’s an expensive piece of equipment.”
“Right, right.”
“You won’t be subjecting it to harsh treatment, will you? I really don’t want it damaged.”
“Do I strike you as the kind of person who takes foolish risks?”
“Very much so.”
“No worries. I’ll bring your AC-DC back in one piece.”
“AG-DVC.”
“Whatever.”
He spent some time teaching her which buttons to push, how to set the tape speed, and how to import video from the digital videotape cassette to a computer via a four-pin FireWire input.
“I got FireWire on my laptop,” she said. “Never use it, though.”
“All you need is an EEE 1394 cable.”
“Don’t have one. But I’m betting you do.”
“Well … yeah.”
“Fork it over, Dr. Venkman.” She thought this was pretty good, but he didn’t even crack a smile. “You know, Peter Venkman? In Ghostbusters?” Still nothing. “Oh, come on.”
He regarded her with a cool stare. “I don’t joke about the paranormal.”
“Fair enough. So where’s my EEE thingy?”
He got the cable for her but didn’t hand it over. “You can shoot video with your cell phone, you know.”
“Not in the dark. This toy of yours can do that, right?”
“Yeah, in infrared mode.”
“Good.” She held out her open palm. “Gimme, gimme.”
He surrendered the cable. “You’re a real pain in the ass.”
“Don’t I know it.” She hefted the camera. It was heavier than it looked, maybe six pounds, but it fit snugly in her hand.
“What do you want it for, anyway? I can’t believe you’d go ghost hunting.”
“Oh, I’m hunting, Sparky,” Bonnie said as she headed out the door. “But not for ghosts.”