ORNAZIAN SCOOPED up Michael Hudson a few blocks north of his mother’s house on Sherman Avenue, at his request. Darkness had fallen hours earlier. Ornazian stopped at the corner, let the vehicle idle, got out of the car, and went around to the passenger bucket. Michael slipped under the wheel, powered back his seat, and let his long frame settle.
“Impala SS,” said Michael, failing to keep the pleasure from his voice. “Haven’t drove one of these in a long while.” He gripped and released the steering wheel and studied the instrument panel.
“Told you I’d hook you up. Let’s head out. Our man’s in Ward Nine.”
Michael recognized the somewhat derogatory term for Prince George’s County but made no comment on it, as he had no skin in that game. He pulled down on the transmission arm and went east.
“Where exactly?” said Michael.
“You know Beaver Heights?”
“On the Mer’land side of Eastern Ave.”
“That’s right.”
As Michael drove, Ornazian watched him get a feel for the Impala. On Kenilworth Avenue, when the road was clear, Michael punched the gas. Cruising smoothly on the upmarket shocks, the sedan picked up speed like an airplane on a runway.
“Take care on the corners,” said Ornazian. “It wallows.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It doesn’t hug the road too well.”
“It’s a straight-line runner,” said Michael. “Always was.”
“You had one of these?”
“For a day.”
They parked in the lot behind the complex of buildings where Thaddeus Ward had his business. Michael put the SS at the end of a row of three black cars while Ornazian used his cell to alert Ward to their arrival. Soon Ward, clad in dark clothing, walked across the lot, chest out. Michael checked out his swagger and his neatly trimmed gray mustache.
“Man’s cocky,” said Michael. “And old.”
“Not too old,” said Ornazian. “He can still do it. Pop the lid.”
Ward retrieved a couple of duffel bags from the trunk of the Crown Vic and dropped them in the open trunk of the SS. He got into the backseat of the Impala, reached across the console, and shook Michael’s hand.
“Thaddeus Ward.”
“Michael Hudson.”
Michael drove out of the lot.
THEY PARKED on a side street in Columbia Heights, a couple of blocks west of Georgia, near the bar with the nine ball painted on its light box. Down the block, a kid sat on a chair outside a row house, holding a cell in his hand. The black Range Rover and the blue Mustang were parked nearby.
Michael looked around. “Couple of security cameras on this street. They could be recording our license plates.”
“Not to worry,” said Ornazian. “The plates on this car don’t match the registration.”
“Pretty bold,” said Michael. “To have this place right here, where folks live.”
“It won’t be here all that long, most likely,” said Ward. “They move these whorehouses around.”
“How can they operate without getting busted?” said Michael.
“By the time you get a warrant from a judge, the place is gone. Hard to hit a moving target.”
“Someone’s gettin paid,” said Michael, his eyes in the rearview. He was looking at Ward in the backseat.
Ward spoke with patience. “I worked Vice for a long time, young man. Never knew of any vice cops who were that dirty. Some of the fellas I worked with got a little close to the girls, if you know what I mean. Tipped ’em off in advance if there was a bust about to go down, like that. But that’s different. That’s just being human.” Ward took a stick of gum from his pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it in his mouth. “The chief eliminated the vice squad units in the District in 2015. So there’s less manpower to deal with this mess now. Not making excuses. Explaining it to you, is all.”
“So you were all clean,” said Michael, pushing it.
“I’m only speaking on my experience in the MPD. There’s whorehouses in Montgomery County, one I’ve seen myself. Right in a residential district, on the edge of that neighborhood where the lefties live. You drive by in the summertime, you see the girls sitting in the window boxes on the second floor. A blind man can see they’re trickin. I don’t know how the police out there can let that ride. I wouldn’t. I hate motherfuckers who run women. I just do.”
Ornazian let Ward’s anger simmer. It was good to have Ward jacked up on his bad memories.
An old car with rusted rear quarter panels pulled up to the row house. The kid spoke into his cell as several men got out of the hooptie and went inside the brothel.
“They’re about to get some,” said Ward.
“Our man should be coming out soon,” said Ornazian, glancing at his watch. It was two a.m.
A half hour later, Gustav, in his ill-fitting sport jacket, and Cesar, his second, came out of the house. Cesar carried two briefcases. There was no third man.
“Where’s the dude who drives the follow car?” said Ward.
“I don’t know,” said Ornazian. “Whether he’s with them or not, we have to do this tonight. Tomorrow’s Monday. Gustav might start laundering the cash.”
Cesar put the briefcases in the backseat and got behind the wheel as Gustav climbed up into the passenger seat. The Range Rover pulled off the curb.
“Cook it,” said Ornazian.
Michael turned the ignition. He rested his wrist on the transmission arm. “Waitin on your word.”
“Ease up,” said Ornazian. “We know where they’re going.”
GUSTAV LIVED at the southern edge of Hyattsville, just above the North Brentwood line, in Maryland. He was west of Rhode Island Avenue, down a road that backed to Northwest Branch parkland. At the head of the street, the pavement had buckled into a V, and Michael negotiated it carefully. At Ornazian’s direction, Michael killed the Impala’s headlamps and rolled slowly alongside Gustav’s property.
“Keep going,” said Ornazian.
As he followed the curve in the road, which wound around to the front of the house, Michael saw that the street led to a dead end, where short concrete pylons flanked a bike path leading into the park. The pylons were framed by trash cans on the left and the edge of a wooded area on the right. Michael studied the space on the right and gauged its width.
“What’s that lead to?”
“The Northwest Branch trail. Runs along the Anacostia River.”
“The Anacostia comes all the way out here?”
“We’re not far from the District. You good?”
“Yeah.”
Michael turned the car around and faced it back out toward the highway. He parked along a post-and-board fence that was in disrepair and let the engine run.
Gustav’s residence was a two-story affair with white plank siding situated on a half an acre of weedy land. Lights were on inside the house. The back of the house held a deck and it gave on to more land running to woods that bordered a soccer field. The Range Rover was parked in the gravel driveway. There were no streetlights. There was only one other house on the street and it was relatively distant and up on a rise.
Ornazian reached up and disabled the dome light. He turned toward Michael. “I’m gonna give you a two-way.”
“Okay.”
“If you need to contact us, use the radio, not your phone. Call me Number One if you want to address me. Don’t use my name.”
“Go it.”
“Pop that lid.”
Ornazian and Ward got out of the car and went to the open trunk. Ward bent in low and, with a mini Maglite in his mouth, unzipped the duffel bags. They slipped nitrile gloves onto their hands, and then they tooled up, Ward with his Remington shotgun and Glock 17, Ornazian with the .38. Ward stuffed various sizes of plastic cuffs and a Buck knife into his jacket pocket while Ornazian grabbed a set of two-way Motorola radios. Last, they fitted stockings over their faces. Ward closed the trunk’s lid.
Ornazian went to the open driver’s-side window of the Impala and handed Michael a radio. He spoke softly. “Use channel eleven.”
Ornazian nodded at Ward over the roof. They went to the fence and walked into the yard through a space where a board had fallen, then over to the rear deck. Ornazian got down and crawled under it, through gas cans, empty beer cans, and brown leaves, and came out on the other side. Now Ward and Ornazian flanked the deck, both in a crouch.
Ward looked into the double glass doors at the rear of the house. The bodyguard, Cesar, was holding a tumbler of something amber over ice, absently watching a soccer game on a wide-screen TV. His back was to the doors. Gustav was not in sight.
Ward stood up to his full height and moved around the corner of the deck, deliberately triggering the exterior security lamp mounted on the second floor of the house. Light flooded the yard and Ward immediately crouched back down. They waited and listened and soon heard the unlocking of the back doors. Then the sound of heavy footsteps on the deck. Then the rack of a slide.
Ward stood, pumped a round into the Remington, and pointed its muzzle at Cesar. Cesar held a semiautomatic in his right hand.
Ornazian came into the light, snicked back the hammer of the revolver, and trained it on Cesar. Cesar heard the trigger lock back but he did not look at Ornazian or react.
“Drop it,” said Ward.
Cesar, expressionless, raised his gun and trained it on Ward. Ward made a step forward but otherwise did not flinch.
“How about I murder you?” said Cesar.
“How ’bout we murder each other?” said Ward.
The three of them stood in the harsh yellow light of the floodlamp. Time passed.
“Why have you come?” said Cesar.
“We’re here to rob your boss,” said Ward.
Cesar considered this.
“Is not my money,” Cesar said. He lowered his gun and placed it on the deck.
AS THEY went into the house, they heard Gustav calling out for Cesar. Cesar looked back at the armed men behind him. Ornazian put his finger to his lips and Ward made a motion with his chin. They were telling Cesar not to speak and to keep moving forward.
He led them past a kitchen, where there were chairs set around an oval table. Then the three of them went down a hall to an open bedroom door. They entered the room all at once and Gustav rose from the bed, startled. The briefcases were atop the bed.
Gustav looked angrily at Cesar, who maintained his unemotional expression.
“What is this?” said Gustav.
“I ain’t tell you to speak,” said Ward.
Gustav cursed creatively in Spanish. Something about shitting in their mothers’ milk.
Ward, who understood a good deal of Spanish, thought it was a curious comment but let it pass. He glanced at Ornazian. “Go to the kitchen and bring back a couple of those chairs.”
Ornazian left the room. Ward held the shotgun on Cesar, which was an insult to Gustav, telling him he was not a threat. With his left hand Ward pulled back his jacket to show them the grip of his Glock.
Ornazian returned with the chairs and set them at the foot of the bed. They were ladder-back in design, constructed of metal and tubular steel.
“Sit down,” said Ward to Cesar.
Cesar sat. As Ornazian covered them with his revolver, Ward used large plastic cuffs to bind Cesar’s feet and smaller ties to secure his hands behind the chair. Cesar did not resist.
When he was done, Ward said to Gustav, “Strip.”
“Eh?”
“Take your clothes off, fat man. Everything.”
Gustav reddened but took off his clothing piece by piece, folding each item neatly and placing it on the shag-carpeted floor. He stood naked before them. He was misshapen, with saddlebag boobs and a stomach that fell in waves over his groin.
“Damn,” said Ward. “You are one fucked-up-lookin individual. Where’d you get them girl-titties at? I mean, you look like a man with your clothes on, but shit…”
Ward continued along those lines, breaking Gustav down, commenting on his uncut penis, its lack of size, and his generally revolting appearance. Then he tied him to the second chair the same way he had bound Cesar. Ornazian hadn’t uttered a word. The psych game was Ward’s specialty and he was doing fine.
After Gustav had been secured, Ornazian opened the briefcases and inspected their contents. Both were filled with rubber-banded cash, but the amount seemed unremarkable. Twenties, mostly, with a smattering of fives and tens. Ornazian shut the lids.
“Where’s the rest of it?” said Ward.
“Huh?” said Gustav.
“High-rollin pimp like you, I know you have a stash.”
Gustav stared straight ahead.
“Never mind,” said Ward. “We’ll find it our own selves.”
Ornazian and Ward tossed the bedroom sloppily. They checked every drawer. Ward used his Buck knife to slash open the mattress and box spring, then swept everything off the dresser top because it felt good. Finally, Ornazian checked the closet. Behind the hung-up clothing was a safe set in the wall. It was the type found in a hotel. There were decaled instructions on its face.
“Well,” said Ward.
Gustav hocked on the carpet.
“It’s your shag,” said Ward. “Spit on it, you got a mind to.”
“Give us the combination,” said Ornazian.
When Gustav said nothing, Ward said to Ornazian, “Try the usual.”
Ornazian began entering the most common four-digit combinations into the pad of the safe. Starting with 1-1-1-1, moving on to 2-2-2-2, and so forth. When he got past 9-9-9-9, with no result, he went with the tried-and-true 1-2-3-4.
“Nothing,” said Ornazian. Beneath his stocking mask, his face was damp with sweat. All of them were perspiring profusely now. The room stank of it.
“What’s your birthday, Goo-stav?” said Ward.
Gustav did not reply.
Ward went to the clothing pile, kicked it apart, and picked up Gustav’s pants. He lifted his wallet out of the back pocket and opened it. He extracted the cash in the wallet and stuffed the bills in his own pocket. Then he slipped Gustav’s driver’s license out and read it.
“December seventeenth, 1974,” said Ward. “Try seventeen seventy-four.”
Ornazian punched the numbers into the grid but the safe did not open.
“Nope,” he said.
“Okay, try twelve seventy-four. One-two-seven-four.”
Ornazian entered this combination and a green light glowed on the face of the safe. Its door sprang open.
Gustav muttered something unintelligible as Ornazian reached into the safe and extracted several banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills. He made a couple of trips to the bed to fit the newfound cash in with the old. He snapped the briefcases shut.
“Chinga tu hermana,” said Gustav, tears of anger in his eyes.
“Why’d you have to say that?” said Ward. He reversed his grip on the shotgun and with great force pushed its butt into Gustav’s chest. The chair tipped back and Gustav crashed to the floor. His hands, bound behind him, were crushed by his own weight. Gustav cried out.
Cesar looked up at Ward. “Nos encontraremos otra vez.”
“Maybe,” said Ward. “But not tonight.”
They left the house the way they’d come. The security light activated as they stepped out onto the deck. Ward kicked Cesar’s gun over the edge before he took the steps down to the yard. Then they crossed the yard and passed through the space in the fence. Michael popped the trunk’s lid as he saw them approach the car. They dumped their weapons, gear, and the briefcases into the trunk, then their stocking masks and gloves. They closed the trunk and got into the Impala, Ornazian in the front bucket, Ward on the back bench.
“Let’s go,” said Ornazian.
Just as he spoke, a car turned right off of Rhode Island Avenue and stopped at the head of the street, before the buckle in the road. The driver hit his high beams, blowing his headlights fully into their eyes.
“It’s a Mustang,” said Michael. He drew his seat belt across his lap and seated it in the latch.
“The follow car,” said Ward.
“He’s not moving,” said Michael.
“Go,” said Ornazian.
Michael put the transmission arm in reverse, placed his hand on the top of Ornazian’s bucket, and turned his head to look behind him. He hit the gas. The Impala slid into the curve but Michael corrected and headed for the concrete pylons. As he did, Ornazian saw the Mustang accelerate and hit the V in the buckled road. The beams of the Ford’s headlights went down and then up into the sky as the car dropped into the V and shot back out of it.
“Watch those barriers,” said Ward, but Michael had swerved to the left of them, crossing the narrow area of brush that bordered the woods. He drove in reverse down the path along the soccer field, and when he came to the T of it, he swung the wheel, braked, and slammed the shifter down into drive. Headlights off, he headed down the wide asphalt path. He climbed a steep hill, accelerating rapidly. They could not see over the hill’s crest.
“Hey,” said Ward. “Slow down.”
In his rearview, Michael could see the Mustang in pursuit. He did not slow down. At the top of the hill the Impala caught air as all four wheels left the earth, and for a moment they were staring down the other side of the hill as they descended, and when they hit the pavement, a steep ravine to their left, they were jostled wildly and nearly slid off the edge, but Michael, two hands on the wheel, steadied the car. At the bottom of the hill the land leveled and Michael pinned the pedal, negotiating the slight curves artfully. He looked again into his rearview mirror. The Mustang had gone over the crest of the hill, hit air, and come down sloppily. It slid over the edge of the ravine and came to a stop by the rocky bulkhead at the water’s edge.
“He’s done,” said Michael.
Michael eased off the gas pedal. They rolled on the path beside the river, the moonlight shimmering bright on its water. Soon they came to a road and a parking lot. There were more pylons ahead and Michael jumped off the path and into the lot, then took the road. He turned on his headlights.
“The next traffic light is Hamilton,” said Ornazian. “Take a left onto that and then continue on to Queens Chapel Road. It becomes Michigan Avenue.”
“I know where we’re at,” said Michael.
From the backseat, Ward began to laugh. Ornazian turned around and smiled. They dapped fists.
“What did Cesar say to you before we left?” said Ornazian.
“He said we’d meet again.”
The men grew quiet. As they crossed over into the District, Thaddeus Ward closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.