A Black Sail Page 8

  Shit. Did they shoot the driver?

  Taylor couldn’t stop and check, not and avoid getting shot. He ran to the fence. The hole was too small for him. He put his right foot on the stones at the base and used his other to boost himself over. Another explosive crack, and the whizzing that meant a bullet had passed close. Too close.

  He sprinted west and banked right to run south through the thickest stand of trees. He felt the pressure of the tape Samantha had rewrapped around him before he left. And the sore ribs underneath. They weren’t going to slow him down. They couldn’t.

  There was one other exception to Taylor’s rule that daylight was safe most places in New York. Parks. Parks were dangerous all the time, even without gunmen on your ass.

  Chapter 9

  Trees flashed by as Taylor ran at top speed. His breathing came in snatched huffs. His ribs complained about every step he took. Every breath he took in. Every one he let out.

  He made one quick stop to get the .32 out of his ankle holster.

  Bark on a tree ten feet to the right exploded.

  Shit.

  Panic or plan? The whirling ice storm climbed high into his chest. He had to stay focused. Fear could help if it didn’t spin out of control. This morning was heading south fast. He’d gotten more than he bargained for when the tong showed up. And it had all gone in the shitter.

  He crossed two paths—decided they were bad choices that would make him too visible to his pursuers—and plunged back through the trees. He angled farther east and finally crouched behind a big old oak. He heard crashing and yelling. It stayed to the west, pulled even with him, and passed his position going south.

  To his right and behind, at the edge of peripheral vision, the greenery shivered and rose. Taylor turned, his hand tight on the grip of the pistol.

  The plant-thing stood up to the height of a man, a towering man wearing tattered camouflage pants and shirt, and stuck all over with branches, leaves, grass, and other vegetation.

  “Get off my patch.” Plant-thing’s voice boomed through the woods. “Now!”

  Taylor held up his hands and whispered, “Okay, okay. I’ll leave. Just, please, not so loud. There’s some dangerous people around.”

  “Don’t give a shit about dangerous. Not on my patch.”

  Reasoning wasn’t going to do any good. He might have been lucky enough to stumble across a resident of the park who didn’t want to kill him outright, but this guy was going to attract the men who did.

  From the sound of it, his pursuers had turned and were heading this way.

  Taylor crouched and moved directly south from the giant camouflaged man, who lowered himself and disappeared again into the greenery. From the west, the tong gangster closed in on where Taylor had been standing.

  Taylor continued creeping away, slowly, quietly.

  “Get off my patch!”

  A scream followed by a gunshot.

  Taylor froze.

  Goddammit. Not somebody else.

  He turned back—he had to—and eased up to plant-man’s position. The tong member lay on the ground unconscious, his gun next to him. The gangster had blood coming out of his nose and mouth. There was no sign of Reggie.

  Plant-man stepped from behind a tree.

  “He was on my patch. Now you get off my patch.”

  Taylor picked up the automatic and pocketed it.

  “I get it. I’m leaving. Just stay quiet a little and your patch will be safe.”

  “Almost on my patch.” He pointed past Taylor. “There.”

  Reggie crossed between two trees and ducked. Taylor grabbed the arm of the big guy, catching leaves, twigs and camo cloth, and pulled. “C’mon. He’s got a gun.”

  “Not on my patch.” Despite the refrain, plant-man moved and hunkered behind a tree. “I’ll get him too.”

  “No. He’s ready for you now. I’ll lead him away. Will you stay here if I do?”

  A crack, and another bullet buried itself in a tree in front of them.

  “Long as he stays off my patch.”

  God save the crazy of New York.

  “Stay down and do your camouflage thing.”

  Taylor leaned out and fired his gun twice in the air. He didn’t have the desire or the aim to shoot the dealer, just wanted to get his attention. He took off, crashing through the brush, making extra noise for the first fifty yards. “C’mon, asshole. You want me!”

  Screaming ribs, stitch in his side, burning lungs and heat be damned, Taylor ran as hard as he could. He zigzagged, taking a hard right, a dangerous move crossing the path he guessed his pursuer was using. But he had to confuse the guy.

  Taylor’s heart almost stopped when he exploded out of the trees right onto the shore of Morningside Pond, nearly tumbling into green, brackish water with clouds of mosquitos and gnats spinning above it. A path the width of a street ran to the left along the pond to two ball fields. A killing zone. He backed away from the water and instead worked his way right around the pond through more trees as well as thick undergrowth that made the going slower. Crunching and swearing sounds told him the villain was making the same progress.

  Taylor decided the park had become a liability. Once clear of the thick vegetation, he ran due west and re-emerged on Morningside Drive, directly across the street from the back of the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine. He boosted himself over the stone wall that ran around the cathedral property. He could disappear in here somewhere, assuming the thug hadn’t seen him go over. Big assumption.

  Getting to the front of the cathedral hurt as if it were the longest run of the morning. He passed two gardens and three stone and brick houses along the way.

  Almost out of gas, he huffed up the steps and walked through the big doorway. The cathedral was a long, soaring tunnel of rose light framed by two rows of identical pillars climbing to the ceiling—or maybe the sky. The light brightened to the white of daylight at the far end, where the high altar looked to be about a mile away. The sightlines were spectacular—which meant they were terrible for Taylor. He doubted heroin dealers respected the idea of sanctuary. Did anyone anymore? Inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth to make as little noise as possible, he walked along the left aisle and slid down behind a pillar near the altar. He grimaced. His whole right side ached.

  Stone against his back, Taylor tried to get his bearings. He felt small. And alien. The cathedral was another world from the Greek Orthodox churches his mother had taken him and his brother to as kids. Even the large ones were dark, foreboding, their walls crowded with icons of flat-faced saints. Those churches always had the mystical wall separating the worshippers from the altar and the priest in his beard and long robes. Here there were no dividers. You could see everything. What would his mother have thought of this place? He couldn’t remember if she’d ever been. All these years and he still missed her, saddened by all she’d missed of his life.

  He waited and listened.

  St. John’s was the biggest cathedral in the world. Or so he’d been told. New York specialized in the biggest, and as with all its citizens, the memory of all those giant things might as well have been planted at birth. He wouldn’t change his mind about the cathedral until he got real proof. He was stubborn that way.

  Was it stubbornness put him in this situation? Or plain stupidity? When the Chinese guys had showed up, it’d looked like confirmation of what he’d heard had appeared right in front of his nose. He couldn’t believe it. He’d needed to get close enough to make sure something big really was happening in the heroin trade—something no one was talking about. So what had he done? Stared like a tourist at the foot of the Empire State Building.

  Amateur hour. The result: a colossal mess.

  Had the driver of the garbage truck been shot? Why else would the truck have veered? Then there was Mary. She was in serious shit now. If only she’d left when he told her. Reggie knew she’d fingered him. The tong members knew. Junkies, the most disposable human beings in the city, di
sappeared when they snitched. No one went looking for them.

  Feeling stupid was too much like feeling sorry for himself. He didn’t have time for that. Better to focus on his next move before some other bad thing happened. He had to find Mary before they did. As much as he hated the thought, he’d also have to go in to the local precinct and report what he’d seen. This added more urgency. He needed to get to Mary before he dealt with the local cops, who could tie him up for hours.

  Taylor settled into the cab he caught on Broadway one full avenue from St. John the Divine. He’d waited twenty minutes and figured that was as long as he could afford. During that time, he came up with only one good idea for finding Mary: go back to Lowell’s shooting gallery on 134th. She had the $25 he’d given her. She’d quickly cop a fix and head to where she thought she’d be safe. However, if Reggie knew it was her hangout …. It was possible. Some pushers paid close attention to their clientele. Taylor had once done a story on a dealer busted with index cards on each of his customers. Address, frequency of sale, date started, source of income.

  The street hadn’t yet dragged Mary all the way under. He was sure of his gut read. Could she be pulled out before she drowned?

  He paid the cab after it pulled over at Lowell’s building, went straight upstairs, and found the dirty rooms just as he’d left them, except several junkies had stirred or gone out. Lowell was also where Taylor had left him. The man, clear-eyed, said Mary hadn’t come back yet. Taylor left, wondering if Lowell got high on a different schedule from his tenants so he could manage his business.

  He staked out the condemned building from across the street, looking enough out of place to draw attention. A few people stared. A patrol car came down the block twice. He did the best he could, leaning on a lamppost, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

  About half an hour later, Mary came up the street, walking quickly—in fact, with real purpose.

  Taylor met her on the stoop. “You need to come with me.”

  “Fuck you. You fucked me up. I did what you paid me for and you got my ass in trouble.” She went through the door. “I’m gonna get high. It’s back to the Ace of Diamonds shit. Because of you.”

  “You’re not safe here.”

  “Those Chinese guys don’t know where I live.”

  “Does Reggie?”

  She paused on the first flight. “Might have told him. I stay away from him, and he’ll stay away from me. It’s you who caused all the problems.”

  She kept going. Taylor was halfway up the first fight when tires screeched in front of the building. He came far enough down so he could see out the front door. Four Chinese men piled out of a white Oldsmobile. A new car and reinforcements.

  Shit.

  He ran up the stairs two at a time. He grabbed Mary’s elbow. “They’re here. Four of them.”

  Pounding of shoes on the stairs as the group came up. This wouldn’t be a surprise attack.

  “I want to get high. I’m going to Lowell’s. You’re the asshole they want.”

  This junkie’s going to get us both killed.

  Taylor pulled the Black Sail bags out of his pocket. “You want China White?” Her black eyes locked on the stamp bags. “How do we get out of here?”

  “There’s just the front door. The fire escape fell off two months ago.”

  He slid the smack back in his pocket.

  “To the roof.”

  Chapter 10

  Just on the chance, Taylor tried the doorknob for the closest apartment on the fifth floor and it turned.

  “I thought—”

  He put his finger to his lips to shush Mary, gently pushed her into the apartment, and closed the door with her inside. From the floor below, shouts and crashing. Someone yelled. More than one someone. He had to draw them up so he and Mary could get out of the building.

  He checked the roof door and exhaled in relief when he found it unlocked. He pushed the door hard so it slammed against the wall, yelled, “Let’s go, Mary!” and pulled the door shut again with even more force. Fast and quiet, he crept down to the fifth floor.

  The bad guys were already running up from the fourth.

  He slipped in the apartment door and eased it shut an instant before they thundered past.

  He stood by the door, his finger back up to his lips, looking directly into Mary’s eyes. If this didn’t work, they were well and truly trapped.

  The gang members threw open the roof door, causing a louder crash than Taylor’s.

  He cracked theirs. Appeared all clear.

  God, I hope one didn’t stay behind.

  “C’mon, while they’re up top.”

  Mary froze. “They’ll chase us wherever we go.”

  He took her hand and gave it a slight tug. She followed him through the doorway. Soon as she was moving, he let go his hold. On the fourth floor, they passed the doorway to Lowell’s. A place that had been plain trashy was now totally trashed. The men had done an impressive amount of damage in a short period of time. One woman in the middle of the room held her arm. Two junkies were sprawled on the floor.

  The tong members figured out the roof was a trick at right about the time Taylor and Mary went out the front door. The gangsters moved fast, sending a clamor through the building to the stoop. It was time to get the hell out of this neighborhood. Taylor ran toward Lenox Avenue, making sure Mary kept up. At Lenox, he jumped in front of a southbound Chevy with a bandana tied to its antenna. The car stopped short. Taylor pulled open the door, let Mary slide across the long bench seat, and followed her in.

  The gypsy cab driver turned around. “Man, I don’t know what you’re doing. I got rules. First—”

  “Ten bucks. I tell you where to go.”

  “That’s one of my top rules.” The black man smiled, displaying two gold-capped teeth. “You pay the right amount. I take you where you want.”

  “West as soon as you can, then south on the West Side Highway.”

  “You got it, young man.”

  He made a U-turn, drove north and took a left onto 145th Street to get to Riverside Drive and the entrance to the West Side Highway.

  “Where are you taking me?” Mary said.

  “Somewhere safe. Want to make sure we’re not followed first.”

  The cabbie looked into his mirror. “I don’t want trouble.”

  “Fifteen bucks.”

  “Twenty might be worth some trouble.”

  That would leave Taylor with exactly ten dollars until his next paycheck. This morning had turned out to be far more expensive than he’d expected. That settled it. They were going to his grandfather’s coffee shop on Madison. The Oddity was a safe haven. Even though it would embarrass Taylor to ask, he could borrow some cash from Grandpop, who’d help him without a single question.

  Mary, sitting on the Hudson River side of the Chevy, pressed her nose to the window. “Are we being invaded or something?” She said it like a true junkie—as if the answer wouldn’t bother her one way or the other.

  Taylor leaned over to get a view. A gray warship plowed up the river, and behind it, another and another. A parade of them. The first flew the Stars and Stripes and had the number 28 painted on the front of its hull in the boxy shadow-lettered style of the U.S. Navy. Missiles bristled from the front and back of the ship. Fore and aft. Got to get these damn terms down. A flat-topped American ship came up behind, followed by two older-looking vessels flying different flags and sporting traditional guns—at least, the traditional guns Taylor had seen in war movies. Two blimps rode on air currents farther south.

  “They’re the ships for the International Naval Review.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Part of the Bicentennial celebration. They came from all over the world, along with sixteen sailing ships.”

  “Fifty-two naval ships from twenty-two countries, to be exact,” their driver said with some pride.

  Mary looked blankly between the driver and Taylor.

  “Tall ships of sail parading through
New York Harbor and up the Hudson,” Taylor said. “A big patriotic and ethnic celebration downtown. Fireworks. All tomorrow.”

  “Oh, fireworks.” Her look remained blank. Taylor couldn’t be sure if she knew what they were talking about or was remembering fireworks from childhood.

  “That first one’s USS Wainwright.” The cabbie pointed with a hand wearing something like a fingerless golf glove. “A missile cruiser. Sub-killer. What most new ships do nowadays. The one behind is the Mount Whitney. Stuffed with electronics because it’s a command ship. The old chug-chugger in third, the Indepencia, was sent by our friends from Peru. The Venezuelan destroyer Zulia is even older.”

  “You have them all memorized?” Something I couldn’t manage.

  “Close. Been reading all the articles. We won’t see anything like this again. Was hoping I could show folks. You know, maybe give some private tours. I’m in business here.”

  “How’s it been so far?”

  Taylor scribbled notes about the naval parade—descriptions, the atmosphere, the driver’s quotes. Wouldn’t hurt his cause coming in with something he wasn’t assigned. Which only reminded him he still needed to buy Dramamine before meeting Novak at five to go visiting the sailing ships. Before any of that, he had to figure out what to do about Mary.

  “Not so good.” The driver slapped the wheel with one hand. “Not many people. All the warnings about traffic jams scared everybody. Hope it’s better tomorrow. People should see those beautiful ships.”

  They continued to pass naval vessels of all shapes, sizes, ages, and uses, the oddest fleet assembled, looking for all the world like it was hell-bent on steaming up the Hudson to attack Poughkeepsie. At 42nd, Taylor told the cabbie to turn east and take them to the Oddity at Madison and 75th. He’d have cut over sooner but wanted to see the ships.

  Grandpop’s biggest concern wasn’t that Taylor had brought an addict to his coffee shop. No, he wanted to know where Samantha was. As stand-in for Taylor’s dead mother, Grandpop spent a good deal of time worrying about Taylor’s future—his romantic future. He liked Samantha. He thought she was the one. He wanted to see her there whenever Taylor was. Of course, he’d believed all the same things about Laura Wheeler, until she quit the Messenger-Telegram for the Times, then quit Taylor.