Andrew Vachss - A Bomb Built in Hell

56/

A big red-white-and-blue sign materialized on Water Street, right across from the factory. It proclaimed the area to be part of the TWO BRIDGES RECLAMATION PROJECT. Wesley figured that the only thing “reclaimed” would be the fat man’s part of the federal expenditures, and that nothing would be torn down or built there for years. Plenty of time. But a methadone clinic was another story—too close and too much trouble.

Methadone meant government-inspected dope. It meant sales-and-service. And too many greedy people.

Pet came back later in the day. He told Wesley that the building on Chrystie had been purchased—he and the kid were going to get to work on it right away.

Wesley just nodded, deep in his problems.

57/

The triplex pump was installed without difficulty. It would work to almost unlimited pressures and function for more than sixteen hours straight at top speed. The pump was connected to a simple tubing system with seventy-two tiny outlets in the ceiling. The hydrocyanic acid was easy to obtain. When forced through alcohol it produced a gas much more deadly than the apple-blossom perfume they used to snuff enemies-of-the-state in California.

The interior rapidly took shape: expensive leather lounge chairs, a wet bar against one wall, a huge blackboard directly opposite, indirect lighting, a highly polished hardwood floor, a large air-conditioning unit prominently displayed in the single window.

The marks wouldn’t be remotely suspicious of bars across the windows of any building being renovated in that part of town. The entrance to the room was by a pocket-door. But instead of the usual four-inch penetration, this door went two feet into the frame, activating a series of snaplocks with each six inches it moved.

Wesley and Pet went over the plans dozens of times; revised them again and again; discussed, modified, refined, changed, sharpened, rejected ... always polishing. The kid was going to have to be used for this one, too; there wasn’t any other way and they’d be shorthanded as it was.

“Remember, unless everything goes exactly like we expect, the whole thing is off.”

“Wes, maybe we’ll never got another chance,” Pet said. “So what if we...?”

“Forget it. There’s a lot more to do now. Stuff I didn’t know about before. This is for Carmine, but there’s a lot left for me and you, after.”

“I don’t get it. I thought we were just going to take them and—”

“We are, but I’m not going with them. And ... and you’re not either.”

“Okay,” the old man said slowly. “Only if everything goes perfect.”

58/

Tuesday, 10:33 p.m. Pet’s cab pulled up at the back alley door to the building on Chrystie Street. The ill-tempered Don in the back seat said, “I still don’t see why we couldn’t bring our own cars.”

“It’s security, Mr. G. This way, you have your own bodyguard with you, but if those freaks are watching your home, they’ll think you’re still there. And they’d never try anything like that on your kids if you was home, right?”

The Don didn’t answer, but grunted in agreement.

He waited in the car while Pet rapped three times sharply on the steel slab. The kid opened the door. He wore a shoulder holster with a .45 automatic and carried an M3 grease gun with the stock fully retracted. He saluted Pet, who waved the two waiting men inside. The kid said, “Please be seated and make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. The others will be arriving shortly.” The first-floor room was soundproofed. A large-screen color TV took up most of the space in one corner. “If you want a drink or something to eat, or anything at all,” the kid said, “just ask me, okay?”

By 11:45, they were all assembled. Salmone had been the last to arrive, as befitted his station in the hierarchy. The kid went outside, changed places with Pet, and drove off in the cab.

Pet addressed the assembled group. “Gentlemen! We are going upstairs to a room where we can talk and where I can show you the things I’ve discovered about these freaks. They can be hit; but it’s going to cost—”

Mumbled chorus of:

“Naturally.”

“Who gives a fuck?”

“ Whatever it costs!”

“—and I have to insist that, for your own protection, I be the only one to talk when we’re upstairs,” Pet continued. “That way there won’t be any need to waste time searching for bugs. You can put your own bodyguards anyplace around the building or inside that you want, but be sure they’re not seen.”

Salmone immediately took over. “Tony, over here. You and Sal stay by this back door; Johnny, come upstairs with me. Okay? Lenny, have your man take the front door with Sam’s guy. Al, you leave a couple of men on the stairs. I need at least two more men outside the upstairs door. Everybody else comes with us.”

The men moved silently into position. Pet led the way upstairs. They all filed into the big room. The door slid closed behind them so quietly that it was impossible to judge the depth to which it penetrated into the panel. The air conditioner was the only sound in the room.

Pet walked to the front of the room and seated himself behind a small desk in front of the blackboard. The others arranged themselves in a loose semi-circle facing him, the bosses seated and the bodyguards standing. There was no hum of conversation—snapping fingers and impatient gestures indicated desires for drinks, cigars to be lighted, and deployment of personnel.

Pet began to talk. “We got the whole story now. It’s a whole fucking crew of freaks. Long hairs. All on drugs. They call themselves the People’s Harvest of Vengeance, and they got connections to the...”

As Pet was talking, the kid approached the two men standing outside the back door in the alley. He showed himself clearly, hands spread in the reflected light so the men would relax. There was no sound, but the top of one guard’s head seemed to mushroom from under his hat and he fell heavily to the ground. The kid immediately glanced up toward the roof; the other guard involuntarily followed with his own eyes. The kid was already bringing up his own silenced pistol—the slug caught the second guard full in the chest, killing on contact.

The kid whistled sharply, craning his neck to throw the sound up to where Wesley knelt on the roof, holding the silenced M16. As the kid pocketed his own weapon, Wesley gently tossed the rifle over the edge of the roof—it sailed flat through the air and into the kid’s arms. Practicing that maneuver had been a bitch. The kid quickly laid down the rifle and opened the back door. Then he dragged the dead men inside. Taking the rifle, he walked quickly through the building until he came to a blank wall. He pulled a lever and a portion of the wall slid out. The kid stepped through the opening and kept walking, until he was near the front of the building, facing the street.

There was no glass in the big front window, and the backs of the two guards were clearly visible. Secure that their backs were covered, they focused all their attention on the street. They were taking their job seriously—the fear that gripped their bosses had trickled down.

The kid found the three-foot tripod and felt around in the dark until he located the three mounting holes Pet had drilled deep into the concrete. He assembled the tripod and jammed it into the holes, attached the rifle and sighted along the barrel. There was more than enough light to see by.

The kid held the rifle steady on the back of the guard to his left, then swung it to his right toward the back of the second man. He did this several times, then adjusted the socket under the tripod’s head so that the rifle stopped dead at the place where he would sight the second man. He tested the socket by slamming the rifle hard to the right—it held solid.