The Man Who Came Uptown
- Автор: Пелеканос Джордж
- Год: 2018
- Язык: английский
- Год: Mulholland Books / Little, Brown and Company
- ISBN: 978-0-316-47982-0
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Man Who Came Uptown». Краткое содержание книги:
“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.