“No problem.”
“What do we do with him?”
“You? Nothing. I’ll take care of his disappearance.”
“He’s got enemies and allies. They’ll all come asking.”
“I don’t even know his name. First time he’s been to my place. How would I know where he went or who he saw after? Do the enemies and allies know you?”
Busby shook his head.
“Then don’t worry.”
“What do I owe you?”
“You just watched me kill a man in cold blood, and I’m gonna ask you for money? No.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” he’d said of the garrote.
“You never will.” A cousin in the Bronx custom made them for him. “Once used, it’s disposed of.”
Busby looked down at the body, then back up at Roland. “You do this often?”
Something in Roland’s implacable gaze must’ve been answer enough. Busby held out his right hand. “Allen Busby.”
“I know who you are.”
He’d flashed a smile that was startlingly white even in the dark alley. “Not really. But you’re going to.”
That had been seven years ago. He’d started working for Oz that night by being given a list of other people Oz would like to have disappear. Over time, Oz had also come to rely on him as a sounding board. By now, Roland had earned his complete trust.
Tonight, for instance, Oz had confessed to stealing millions of dollars’ worth of goods from the Caballeros, who weren’t going to take the theft lightly. Then he’d turned right around and stressed that he didn’t want anything to go wrong this week. That looked like tightrope-walking to Roland.
Oz also continued to harp on Haskell. God forbid that the boss get the impression he was going soft on the detective, especially in view of this week’s happenings. He saw the need to seize the initiative, do something moderately chancy that he could report to Oz as a step toward Haskell’s annihilation. But what? If he got anywhere near Haskell…
But maybe he didn’t have to. Minutes ago, hadn’t he advised El Paso to check things out, gauge the situation before striking?
Suddenly motivated, he swiveled his chair around to the console behind his desk. A lower drawer concealed a built-in safe with an old-fashioned dial lock. Inside it, amid bricks of banded currency, several pistols, boxes of bullets, and two new garrotes in standby readiness, was a seldom used burner phone. He checked the battery, saw it had enough of a charge, and tapped in a familiar number.
“This is Dr. Reede.”
“Hi, Dylan. It’s Roland Malone.”
“Roland, hello,” she said, sounding surprised and pleased. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”
“I’ve been busy. You know, the restaurant and all. How are things in Auclair?”
“Hot and muggy.”
“Here, too. Different summer, same swelter.”
After covering the weather, there was a lag, then she said, “I’m glad you called. It’s been weeks since you’ve come in. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay, but, you know, like you said, it’s been a while. I could use an appointment.”
“Of course. When were you thinking?”
“As soon as possible.”
