Jack O'Connell - Wireless

“You’re the eternal teenager, Hazel. Can’t tell love from harassment. Normally people know when I’m harassing them.”

“The contusions are always a giveaway.”

“I’m not narcotics anymore. I’m homicide.”

“Would that be a promotion or a demotion?”

Hannah gives a mock smile. “I just want to have a little talk with you, sweet one. Elmore was just being a nuisance. I think he’s too interested in you, by the way.”

“Is this where you make the pitch for the convent school?”

Hannah smiles and says, “No, this is where I ask you what the fuck you were doing at the Hyenas’ clubhouse.”

Bingo. The timing and delivery were perfect. Lenore would be proud. Now she needs to capitalize before Hazel can think up a convincing lie.

“You backsliding, little sister?” she snaps. “You bored with the art world here? You anxious to sell your ass for all the Cambodian fuckers over on Hip Sing Street?”

“Hannah—” Hazel begins, coming upright in the booth, but Hannah’s not ready to let her explain, she wants to land a few more jabs.

“Nothing interesting happens in the Park that I don’t hear about. And white-trash bohemian bitches putting out for jarheads is definitely considered interesting.”

Hazel knows she’s beat. Part of her knew it the minute Hannah took hold of her arm out on the street. She goes docile and simply says, “You going to bust me?”

Hannah cocks her head like this is the most stupid remark she’s heard this season and says, “For what?”

“Oh,” Hazel says weakly, “you people need a reason these days.”

Hannah excises all the sarcasm and threat from her voice and speaks clearly and evenly. “The bantering part of this discussion is over, Hazel. Now sit quiet and listen to me. I’m a homicide cop. I’m also the department’s unofficial liaison to the Park. That means I know as much gang shit as the gang squad. It means I still meet up with the vice people more often than they like. If it takes place in Bangkok Park, then very simply, I am involved. By this point, everyone on both sides of the legal fence has come to understand and accept that. I think you should too.”

Hazel gives a single nod and Hannah goes on.

“Now, you probably heard about the priest who got torched in St. Brendan’s. Somebody poured benzine all over this poor bastard’s head and lit him up like a fucking rocket. Back in August, the Angkor Hyenas pulled the same stunt on a bodega that was under the protection of the Granada Street Popes. So either the Hyenas whacked the priest or somebody, maybe the Popes, maybe somebody else, wants me to think it was the Hyenas. Do you follow the story so far?”

Another nod.

“Now, we’ve had an idiot named Zarelli sitting watch over the Cambodians’ little shop on Hip Sing. And he gives me a call the other day that some blond punk goddess just strolled in the front door of slopeland. And in the back of my brain, though I don’t want to believe it, I’ve got a hunch who the Hyenas’ visitor could be. So, I follow up my hunch, ’cause I want to confirm this news before I take any action. And goddamn if my hunch doesn’t end up the truth. So, now you are going to sit there, little sister, and tell me in simple words what the fucking meeting was all about. And if it was to buy your way back into that cesspool that Lenore pulled you out of, you’re going to wish you never put your seventeen-year-old ass on a Greyhound to Quinsigamond.”

Hazel swallows, closes her eyes, rubs fingers over the bridge of her nose, opens her eyes, and looks at Hannah.

“It’s not what you think,” she says.

Hannah doesn’t speak.

“We had heard, some people had heard—”

“What people?” Hannah asks.

“Some of the hackers,” Hazel says, pleading slightly. “The little goofs with the keyboards and the modems. They kind of hang around the radio fringe. They think we’re retro but hip. They—”

“What did they hear?”

“They heard there was a huge boost at this warehouse out near Boston Harbor.”

“Go ahead,” Hannah says.

“I don’t know, you know, it was all rumor—”

“Tell me the rumor,” Hannah says.

“Huge haul. Professional. Had to be. It would take semis to clear out this place. Drivers and muscle to move the shipping crates. And buy-offs. These places use real security. You boost a shipping warehouse, you know, you really piss off the big insurance companies. Last goddamn people you want to piss off.”

“Come on, come on,” Hannah says, intrigued but impatient.

“The rumor was that the haul, part of the haul anyway, was radio shit.”

“Radio shit?”

“Yeah, quality stuff — Japan Radio, Sony, Otari.”

“Go on,” Hannah says, suddenly unsure of the. conversation, feeling an annoying shift in the air as Hazel picks up pace and a little volume.

“Well, Jesus, you know, of course this would be merchandise my people would be interested in.”

“The Wireless crowd,” Hannah says, and Hazel nods and picks up Hannah’s coffee mug.

“I mean we’d have to be talking forty percent off wholesale, even on minimum quantity.”

Hannah shakes her head. “Back up. How does this rumor bring you down to the Hyenas?”

Hazel squints at her as if the question surprises her.

“Everyone in the Zone says the Hyenas are on the move now. Since Cortez left, the Popes are in disarray. This was a huge boost, Hannah. Even if it was strictly Providence-Italian, they’ll need some distribution. We figured if the Italians shopped even part of it to Bangkok, it’d be through the Hyenas. We just wanted to be on the list to buy. You know, crap like this doesn’t fall into your lap every week.”

Hazel ends with a shrug and takes a long drink of coffee. She looks up to see Elmore back at the cashier’s station, revising menus and stealing glances her way.

Hannah shifts her weight, looks down at Elmore but doesn’t say a word. After a minute she slides back into her jacket and starts to get out of the booth.

She does a long stretch with her arms, cracks her knuckles out in front of her, and says, “First off, I’ll be checking on a warehouse boost in Boston Harbor.” She pushes her hands into her jacket pockets and says, “Then I’ll be back down here to check on you again.”

Hazel stays seated and raises her mug in a toast.

“Anytime, Detective. Next time let’s make it dinner. It’s always such a treat.”

A slow parade of moody regulars is starting to file into Elmore’s Rib Room for the 5 P.M. early bird special — vegetarian chili and fresh brown bread. Elmore thinks it’s some kind of crime to serve vegetarian chili in a joint that calls itself the Rib Room, but you’ve got to know your market and most of these kids put the kibosh on meat-eating.

Elmore’s got the radio tuned in to WQSG and the place is filled with the sounds of Grandslam Grab Bag , a suppertime call-in sports show. Most of the Canal Zone crowd aren’t big sports fans, but everyone’s aching for the O’Zebedee Brothers to make a hit and QSG is the most likely target.

And sure enough, at about ten after five, as Elmore is pushing a plateful of diced scallions into his chili kettle, a furious argument about designated hitters is cut off in midholler and three high-pitched trumpet blasts announce the jam.

Bunt this, you bunheads. Yer outta the game. Suspended for the duration. Hit the showers running. O’ZBON clears the bases once again.

A spontaneous cheer explodes in the restaurant, followed by a wave of applause and whistles.

The broadcasting brothers of bedlam are back. The sibling spirit voices of subterranea are signal-sailing into your souls. Crank it up, Elmore, this dinner crowd is about to feast on fib-free fodder.