Crook Manifesto (Ray Carney, #2)(99)

Not an inspiring report. Before today, Carney would’ve had a hard time seeing Oakes getting his dainty, well-moisturized hands dirty—it was the Dumas Club, for Chrissakes—but they had torched his store that morning and the gangster’s profession was, actually, killing and maiming. The money involved bent all forecasts. “Who’s the Red Conk?” he asked. “Yesterday you called me that.”

“That comedian, Roscoe Pope, when I was working on that movie. It was one of his comedy routines. A Negro with superpowers.”

Carney stopped. “What happens in it?”

“What do you think happens? He’s a Negro with superpowers— they take him out. He thinks they can’t touch him, until they do. I thought Pope was talking about himself. Being famous, the newspapers go after him, or the cops. But nobody’s out to get that guy. When Pope goes down, it’s himself that will do it. He gets himself.”

Two brownstones down, a man on the second floor stuck his head out the window: “Can you shut the fuck up down there?”

Carney tilted his head toward the corner, where the streetlights described the majestic silhouette of the Dumas Club.



* * *



***

Given the circumstances, it was foolish for Carney to expect Carl to open the door for him as on any other day, but he did. “Get in,” Reece Brown said. He quickly closed the door behind them. The drapes in every window permitted no light to escape. From the street, the club was closed for the night.

Pepper had told Carney that Reece favored a Black Panther getup, but in the June heat he’d ditched the black leather blazer and stood before them in the foyer in black slacks and white short-sleeve turtleneck. He wore dark sunglasses, so incongruous in the Dumas atmosphere that for a moment Carney forgot about the gun Reece pointed at him.

The gangster motioned for them to raise their hands. The black garbage bag swung from Pepper’s right hand. Reece made a disapproving face at their choice of carrying case. He took the black garbage bag and patted them down, removing the .38 from Pepper’s windbreaker pocket. “Oakes!” He waved them into the parlor.

Alexander Oakes was mixing a gin cocktail. The sleeves of his crisp white oxford shirt were rolled up and his red-and-navy-striped tie was tucked between buttons. Carney had never stepped behind the mahogany bar; the waiters snapped at members who got too close, in a kind of shtick. It was an entitled display, as if despite the guns Oakes was a little boy engaged in dumb mischief. Dumb, dangerous mischief that got his store burned down.

“Carney! This is the best part of the late shift, man,” Oakes said. “You get to do what you want.”

Reece directed them to stand by the big, overstuffed burgundy leather sofa. The Burlington was a battleship; Carney had spent many evenings on deck listening to Pierce as the lawyer opined and tapped his cigarette over the pedestal ashtray. Next to Carney, Pepper surveyed the joint, taking in the furnishings as if he’d parachuted into a museum gallery. His lips curled like he smelled a dead mouse rotting in the walls. The faces of the founding members stared down at the interloper. Pepper stared back.

“Where’s Leon?” Oakes said.

“He had to take a piss,” Reece said.

“Been a while.”

Leon Drake walked into the parlor and closed the French doors behind him. Reece had opted for the firebug instead of another member of Notch Walker’s crew, to keep the circle closed, Carney figured. His Maker had not equipped Leon with a bruiser’s physique, but had bestowed upon him unsettling nutjob eyes, a mighty weapon in their own right.

“So this is what it looks like,” Leon said. “I grew up down the street.” He had a knapsack on his back, and tugged the straps like a little kid.

Reece kept an eye on Carney and Pepper as he deposited the garbage bag on the bar. “Check it for a piece.”

Oakes patted the garbage bag with an expression of exasperation at the man’s excessive caution. He didn’t feel anything suspicious. “Reece thought you’d be a hundred miles away by now, Carney, but I told him you’d show. Neutral territory. Safe.” He sipped his drink. “How do you two know each other?”

Casual, like they’d run into each other at a cookout in the alley behind their houses, and Carney had been too slow to execute a getaway. “Family friend,” Carney said. He gestured at the portraits, the Gallery of Muttonchops. “You got these guys, I got him.”

“What were you going to do with it,” Oakes said. “Go to the newspapers? The Feds? Prosecutors—even ex-prosecutors—don’t go to jail, we skate. That’s the point.”

“They don’t get elected,” Carney said.

Pepper scratched his jaw. He looked tired.

“Where’s my man Hickey?” Reece said. “You fuck with him?”

“He told us where to find it,” Pepper said.

“Like I said,” Leon said. “Stool pigeon.”

“Hickey,” Oakes said. “I was pretty surprised when I got back to my office last night and saw someone had ripped me off. Hickey’s missing, after he went after this Pepper guy with a baseball bat.” He looked to Carney. “Reece got word you and this guy Pepper were tight, pulling all sorts of shit over the years. It couldn’t be anyone else. But why?”

“Get the fuck back over there,” Reece said. Pepper had taken two steps closer to him. Carney hadn’t seen it happen. Pepper moved back next to Carney.