Crook Manifesto (Ray Carney, #2)(17)
At their pad the detectives got a proper look at the Benson take. It was magnificent, the culmination of their illicit careers, all those small scores over the years and the hard-won experience and dedication to craft. Buck took a handful of cash, Munson grabbed another and they counted it up: a hundred and twenty-five grand. It was a good haul, what Buck and Munson brought home that night.
“We are indebted to the rebels in Algeria and North Vietnam and whatever the fuck for inspiring the Black Liberation Army,” Munson told Carney. He jabbed out his cigarette and lit another. “It helps calm Buck about the subpoena. We’ve always made money because we’re smart and ride it out while the other guys flame out. We can handle Knapp and his commission because we always do.” The stash was safe on Fifty-fourth until the coast was clear.
The holiday bestowed various gifts upon Munson. Like when you sit down to play cards and catch a rush: Gimme, gimme, gimme, I can’t lose. Fred Stevenson threw a barbecue at his new split-level in Union City. Sausages and peppers writhing on the grill in a succulent brown funk, and a truncated view of Manhattan across the river, tinted by the smog so that it looked like a picture of the Old West. Nightfall he drove out to Bay Ridge to pick up Pam and they went to the pictures, Support Your Local Gunfighter at the Loews. It wasn’t as good as the first one, but when they walked out Pam said he reminded her of James Garner. How so? “Because you’re funny but also strong.” Compliment accepted. She worked at the Young Miss Shop at Korvettes and said she could hook him up if he wanted something for a niece. He said, “I’m on permanent discount.” He crept out of her pad at dawn when the pigeons woke him up with their morning bullshit.
Sunday was a blank canvas. He doodled. Somehow he ended up at the old place on Forty-sixth. All new faces, even the watchers in the windows had turned over, with their sooty pillows and silent judgments. The city had a quiet feel, like it was sighing.
* * *
***
After Green’s cosmopolitan bachelor module, Munson’s 157th Street hideout resembled a sparsely propped film set. Push too hard on the walls and they’d topple.
Carney was relieved Munson was unperturbed that Buck Webb had ripped off his score. He looked doped up, which bode well for Carney’s exit from this escapade. It was between the two white men. Munson believed his story, that was the main thing. He could endure the monologue and then go home and take some aspirin.
“This morning,” Munson said, “I’m about to enter the station house and I hear my name. It’s in my hands before I can do anything—I’ve been served. Fucking process server dropped that shit on me and made like Jesse Owens. Out on the street in front of the whole 28th to send a message. Knapp’s calling me in.”
Munson wasn’t trying to pay off a bookie. He was splitting town. “I see why your partner is mad,” Carney said.
“I was going to send Buck his share,” Munson said. “Who does he think I am? I liquidate the stones, collect some debts around town, and cool it somewhere quiet. But he wouldn’t have let me go to a fence, given the other complication.”
“What’s that?”
Munson lit a cigarette. “I could have pulled it off. Calmed down Buck, I know how. The Black Liberation Army—thirty thousand cops in the city looking for them—it’s just a matter of time before they get picked up. Shooting cops for kicks, but their main thing is funding their operation. Robberies, bringing in weed from California for Notch Walker to sell on the street. Notch has been helping them out with weapons and logistics. Other stuff, too, it turns out.”
Carney said, “That’s not good.”
“It’s not good, Carney, you’re right. They’re partners, like on the J. M. Benson job. Half the stuff I gave you today—it belongs to Notch.”
“Notch Walker.”
“Yup. One of my guys works behind the bar at the Emerald Inn, last night he tells me that those guys on 146th Street have fingered me and Buck, and Notch has put the word out. Uptown fences ain’t going to open the door, I come knocking. But someone like you, off the beaten path…”
Munson finished his beer and rose. “Probably got a bounty on my head. Thought I had some time before Buck noticed the score was gone. But maybe he heard Notch was looking for us and assumed I was going to split, or he meant to pull his own disappearing act.” It was Buck who handed Munson the phone when Carney called the station house. Buck must have remembered Carney’s fencing days and put it together, Munson said. The detective popped two pills and fastened his chest holster. He slipped a .38 into the one above his ankle. “You ready?”
“I’m heading home.”
“I need you to drive.” He raised the injured arm. “Division of labor.”
“I can’t.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
Carney stood.
The moment passed. Munson grinned. He put on his sports coat, a thin blue number that was tighter than it used to be, and patted after his wallet and keys. “Give me a lift and you’re off the hook. You’ll get your tickets, we’ll wrap this up, and you can be on your way.”
Carney had worked with the detective long enough to know he was lying, and lying about the tickets as well. It was his own fault. He had been on the straight and narrow for four years, but slip once and everybody is glad to help you slip hard. Crooked stays crooked and bent hates straight. The rest is survival.