Bob stared at the other man. Lobo. The Uzi man. Bob recalled the tales he had heard about the guy when he was starting out in the police, a ghost that showed up and vanished again in the mid-nineties and left nothing behind but a trail of blood. Since the blood in question was gang blood, MPD’s hunt for him had been a halfhearted affair. And when Lobo dropped off the radar MPD concluded that he’d probably been killed and most probably by one of his own and they dropped the whole thing.
“Go on,” said Bob.
“After that Lobo was the security boss’s right hand. But he was too crazy, he had no discipline, he went ahead and mowed down people from other gangs, even when they weren’t even threatening our territory. So they had to take revenge, and that meant gang wars, people going down on both sides, bad for business for everybody. So the bosses took Lobo off the barricades and put him in charge of internal security.”
“Entailing what?”
“Checking that no one’s taking money from the counting room or dope from the cutting room, stuff like that. Lobo did a good job. He uncovered not just thieving but snitching too. We had to terminate a lot of guys we’d been trusting blind. Then some of our own people started getting it, Lobo said they’d drawn on him once they knew he was on to them. It happened a few too many times, so the bosses decided they couldn’t have Lobo in the gang no more. They threw him out.”
“So they didn’t kill him?”
The man shrugged. “Lobo always said he was still on the payroll of that cartel he was working for back where he came from. Our bosses were scared to have them breathing down our necks. You said five minutes, pig. If I’m gone much longer the boss is going to think I’ve been giving you fucking state secrets.”
“Okay. So what happened to Gomez?”
“How the hell should I know? Try south of the border.”
“You know who Marco Dante is?”
“No.”
“Stupid question. You know who he is, and you know he got shot yesterday. Did you hear the news that it was Gomez that shot him?”
“Like I told you, all I know is that Lobo was batshit crazy. Drive me back.”
“Last question. Did Dante sell guns to X-11?”
“I guess he must have sold to every gang that at some time or other had the territory where his garage is. So yeah, sure.”
“Well then, thank you. Lean forward.” Bob unlocked the handcuffs. “You can walk.”
“Walk?”
“Do I look like a taxi driver?”
The dealer reached for the bundle of cash but Bob was quicker and grabbed it.
“Hey!”
“Just the top one,” said Bob, pulling out the fifty and handing the bundle to the man, who sat staring down at the pile of newspaper strips in his hand.
“What the fuck?”
“You don’t think we’d pay two thousand for a little general information I could’ve gotten for a pack of cigarettes down at the MCF, or free from a snitch? You’d be better off reading these Help Wanted ads.” Bob pressed the bundle into the man’s hand. “At least they pay minimum wage, unlike X—”
“I’ll be coming after you and I’ll shoot you down, you fucking pig.”
Bob nodded slowly as he looked out the windshield. “You know what? I have actually considered that possibility. But I decided you won’t be looking for revenge. Know why? It’s a question of economic behavioral psychology. Want to hear?”
Bob turned to the dealer, who now looked more surprised than angry.
“Because your disappointment has its limits. Behavioral research shows that our reaction to not getting the dollar we’ve just been promised is less negative than losing the dollar we already have in our pocket. I haven’t stolen from you, so you have no economic or moral incentive to kill me. And you have no social motive, since I haven’t publicly humiliated you either, just here, between you and me. See, so you learned something new today as well! Have a profitable evening, amigo.”
He leaned across the man and pushed open the car door.
As Bob drove off he saw the man diminishing in his rearview mirror. He stood there, arms dangling by his sides, and seemed to be shouting something after the Volvo.
18
