Chapter 69 Eddie

69

Eddie

Footsteps behind me.

I turned.

Four men walked under the roller shutter doors into the garage. Black T-shirts. Jeans. Boots. Khaki combat pants. Tactical vests.

One of them stepped into the light and I saw a snake tattoo curling up both arms, its body twisting into a figure eight.

The 88s.

The figure in front had a pistol on his hip. He had long hair tied up in a ponytail. I took him for the leader.

‘Buchanan called off the hit,' I said.

‘We guessed as much, seeing as how they left you breathin',' said the leader. ‘This ain't about business. This is all pleasure.'

One of the men hit the control button on the doors. They stopped going up.

Started coming down.

I stood away from the desk, put my hands in my jacket pockets.

‘I'm armed. You should leave,' I said.

The leader laughed, said, ‘You're not armed, conman. I saw Buchanan's guy scan you from head to toe. Your people put two of our friends away – Grady Banks and Butch.'

‘I have no idea what you're talking about.'

‘Sure you do. And we lost a good man outside the Cardozo Hotel. One of your people damn near cut his leg off and he bled out. So this isn't about collecting a paycheck, Fly Man. This is about what's right.'

They advanced. The leader first.

My phone was all the way behind me, on the table. Switched off.

No one else knew I was here. That's the way I'd wanted it. I'd played the odds of talking my way out of the hit with Buchanan. This was unexpected.

Two of the men behind the leader drew knives from their tactical vests.

The doors were halfway closed. No way to get around them and out onto the street. One of them would grab me and take me down.

There are no retired conmen. Sooner or later, this game catches up to everyone. That's why I'd gotten out of the life and chosen a new one – a lawyer. Trouble was I couldn't leave my past behind. I was still the hustler. Still playing long cons and short cons.

And this is what happens to every conman sometime down the line.

I was still Eddie Fly.

Right now, that was a good thing.

The leader bunched his hands, put his right foot forward and started inhaling through his nose. Chin down. He bounced on his feet. Loosened his arms. Ready to charge in with a big right hand.

The good thing about ceramic knuckles is that not only are they lighter than brass, they don't show up on metal detectors.

The leader sprang forward.

I slid all four fingers of both hands into the knuckles and pulled them out of my jacket.

The leader was fast, powerful, but not skilled.

I dropped into a boxing stance, punched from the hip with my right.

I hit him on the left side of his nose. Felt the bones break. He dropped, instantly.

The other three took a second. Stood there.

I can take my chances one on one. Not three on one. Not when two of them have knives.

This was it. Stabbed to death in a dirty garage in northern Queens.

I couldn't win. But I could hurt a couple of them while they took me down.

Two figures rolled underneath the shutter doors.

And I dropped to the floor and covered my head.

Gunfire. One weapon had quick, cracking shots. The other boomed like a goddamn cannon. I could smell the gun smoke, but I dared not look up. I covered my head and lay flat until I heard the last body drop.

I looked up.

Bloch and Lake, their weapons drawn, were checking the bodies. Making sure the 88s were down and that they stayed down.

I got to my feet, saw the leader rolling on the floor, his hands over his face, blood gushing through his fingers.

Lake stood over him, pointed the weapon and fired once.

The man without much of a nose became the man without a face.

I put away the ceramic knuckles.

‘How did you know I was here?'

Bloch said, ‘When I checked your car for explosives, I put a GPS tracker under the wheel arch. Somebody has to look after you. We need to get out of here.'

I thanked them both, and we hustled out of the garage. I stopped outside, ran back in and picked up the TV guide and my phone.

On the street, I switched my phone back on.

One missed call. One voicemail message.

I hit play.

‘ Mr. Flynn, this is Chantelle at Mount Sinai. I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, but I see you are the next-of-kin contact for Harry Ford. I'm so sorry . . . You need to get to the hospital as soon as you can . . .'