Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

“Let’s go,” Sunglasses said.

The leader of the Hawks got to his feet. Slowly, making it clear he was not responding to a summons but accepting an invitation. As he started toward the Oldsmobile, two Hawks moved next to him, one on each side.

“Just him,” Sunglasses said, pointing.

“It’s all right,” Ace told the others. “There’s no room in there for any more of us, anyway.”

Sunglasses opened the back door. A heavyset young man, dressed identically to Sunglasses, stepped out, gesturing with his head for Ace to climb in.

The Hawks watched as the Oldsmobile pulled away, their leader sandwiched between two Gladiators in the back seat. Hog turned to Larry. “Wait’ll they see,” he said, nodding his head to notarize the promise.

1959 October 05 Monday 11:56

“I’ll be seeing him tomorrow,” Shalare said into the phone.

He listened for a few seconds, then said, “Yes, I know how important this is, Sean. I’m not a man who has to be told the same thing twice.”

Another pause, then Shalare said, “You’ll know as soon as I do. Or as soon as I can get to a phone.”

Shalare hung up. “Brian,” he said to the man seated across from him, “sometimes I wonder about some people.”

1959 October 05 Monday 12:00

Dett awoke at noon. He brushed his teeth, then opened the brass canister and washed down several crimson flakes with two glasses of water, taken slowly and deliberately.

From his closet, he selected a dove-gray suit, an unstarched white broadcloth shirt with French cuffs, and a blue silk tie. He placed all three on the bed, and looked at them critically for several minutes.

From a small jewelry case, Dett removed a pair of silver cufflinks, centered with a square of lapis, and a pewter tie bar.

Picking up the phone, he called the front desk.

“Would I be able to get a pair of shoes shined?” he asked.

“Of course, sir,” Carl answered. “Shall I send a boy to your room to collect them, or would you prefer-?”

“If you’d send someone up, that would be great.”

“Ten minutes,” Carl promised. “And you would need them back…?”

“In a couple of hours?”

“Absolutely!”

1959 October 05 Monday 12:22

Wedged between the two Gladiators in the back seat, Ace resisted the urge to touch the talisman concealed in his jacket. He was torn between relief that he hadn’t been searched and anger that the rival gang hadn’t even bothered.

Sunglasses puffed on a cigarette, flicking the ashes out the open window. None of the other Gladiators smoked. Nobody offered Ace one.

Instead of turning east, as Ace expected, the Oldsmobile crossed Lambert Avenue, motoring along slowly. Kings turf, Ace thought to himself. And they’re just driving through it, like it was theirs. He kept his hands on his thighs, hoping his expression showed how profoundly unimpressed he was.

The Gladiators’ Oldsmobile did a leisurely circuit of the area, even driving right past the block of attached row houses on South Eighteenth, where the Kings had their clubhouse.

Look at all the niggers, standing there on the corner like they owned it, Ace thought. If you had a machine gun, you could just mow them down, like cutting the grass.

The Oldsmobile finally turned east, then headed back across Lambert, and into Gladiator territory. As the driver parked in front of an apartment building on Harrison, all four doors opened in unison, and the Gladiators stepped out. Ace slid across the seat cushion and followed, feeling the presence of the others surrounding him as he walked.

1959 October 05 Monday 12:26

“Why are you always pulling stuff like that?” Dave Peterson asked his partner.

“Like what?”

“You know what I mean, Mack. Wisecracks and all.”

“What are we doing here?” the older man asked, suddenly.

“Here? You mean here, on surveillance? Or here, like… our purpose in life?”

“Dave,” the older man said, wearily, “I thought we came to a gentlemen’s agreement on that stuff. I know you’re a good Christian. Hell, anyone who gets to listen to you for ten minutes knows that. And you, you know I’m a sinner, going straight to hell.”

“I never said-”

“Yeah, I know. Never mind. Look, what we’re doing here, we’re doing our job.”

“You always say that.”

“What else do you want me to say, kid?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“Why not? I’m old enough to be your father, aren’t I? Doesn’t that make you wonder?”

“I don’t under-”

“Come on. You know I’ve got more than thirty years on this job. I go back to the days when Capone was running things. So how come I don’t have an ‘SAC’ after my name? How come I’m partnered with a rookie?”

“I… don’t know. I guess, maybe, to teach me some of the-”

“You don’t know, but you’ve heard, haven’t you?”

“I’m not a gossip,” the younger man said, stiffly.

“I know you’re not,” Mack said. “You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, you don’t gamble, you don’t cheat on your wife, and all you want to do is serve your country.”

“Why do you have to-?”

“I’m not mocking you, kid. I mean it,” Mack said, his voice just short of affectionate. “Okay, look, I’m going to answer my own question. What are we doing here? Our job. And what is our job? We’re blackmailers, kid. You, me, and the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Mack!”

“That’s the way things get done,” the older man said, calmly. “That’s the way people stay in power. Because there’s one thing on earth that’s more valuable than gold or diamonds, Davy. Information. The most precious commodity of all. You get enough on a man, it’s like there’s a handle growing out of his back. And whoever’s hand is on the tiller, he gets to steer.”

“That’s not blackmail; that’s just… law enforcement.”

The older man leaned back in his seat and lit a Winston, ignoring the younger man’s frown. “Law enforcement means keeping tabs on people who are breaking the law, kid. But the Bureau watches everybody. If the boss had his way, he’d have a file on every man, woman, and child in America. Wouldn’t be surprised if he already did.”

“Well, the way things are today-”

“Don’t start with that ‘Communist’ nonsense, again, Dave. That’s just a cover story. We’re supposed to be cops, not spies. That’s the CIA’s job.”

“But the CIA can’t work in America. It was the FBI that caught the Rosenbergs. And it was the Bureau that-”

“The Bureau spies on people because that’s what it does, kid. And they’ll be doing it long after Communism’s dead and gone.”

“You’re… you’re wrong, Mack. We’re not spies, we’re crime-fighters. America’s most important-”

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t it strike you as unfair that we have to play by the rules and the bad guys don’t?”

“Well… sure. But if they did play by the rules, there wouldn’t be any need for us at all.”

Mack tossed his still-burning cigarette out of the side window of the plain-Jane sedan. “Want me to tell you a story, Dave?”

“I… don’t know,” the younger man said, warily.

“Oh, it’s a good one,” Mack promised. “You want to hear the inside scoop on how we nailed Al Capone?”

“I already know that. The Chicago police weren’t ever going to stop him. Probably half of them were on his payroll. But the Bureau got him on income tax, and that finished him and his whole empire.”

“Not a word of that’s true, kid.”

“Al Capone didn’t go to prison for tax evasion?”

“Of course he did. That’s not what I’m talking about. You want to hear the story or not? We’ve got another four, five hours to sit here and wait, anyway.”