“I think I’d like to see the nurse now,” I said softly. “Get something for the pain.”
“You’re not hurt.”
“My head…”
“Not a single scratch.”
I looked around the hospital bed, located the nurse call button, and picked it up.
Detective Brier raised both his hands. “Before you do that, there’s someone out in the hall who’d like to talk to you. I think you’ll want to hear what he has to say.”
Before I could answer, he crossed the room, pushed open the door, and leaned out into the hallway. He spoke to someone for a second, then held the door open.
I recognized the man who came in.
The same man I had seen numerous times standing around the undercover police van outside my apartment building. Still in the rumpled white shirt and red tie. Although, now the shirt was covered in black soot and the tie had been loosened, the top button undone. He turned to close the door behind him, the bulge of his concealed handgun clearly outlined in stains of sweat and dirt at the small of his back.
The plumber slash electrician slash carpet installer, who carried a gun.
“This is Detective Horton. He’s with Pittsburgh PD Narcotics division,” Detective Brier said.
“We’ve met, sort of,” Horton said. “I saw you run in there, into the diner, saw you both times. You’re either extremely brave or stupid, or maybe a little of both.”
I reached for the nurse call button again.
“You’ll want to hear me out, kid. You won’t like what I have to say, but you’ll want to hear it.”
Detective Brier returned to his chair.
Horton crossed over to the window, peered out at the black night. “Your friend, Duncan Bellino, is into some nasty business. I’m sure you know that, I’m not sure you understand the full extent, but at the very least, you know who he works with.”
I opened my mouth to protest, and he raised a hand. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s probably better you don’t, not right now anyway, just listen. You’ve seen us watching your building. We rotate, we try to stay out of sight, but inevitably we get made. We’ve got photographs of you watching our vans from the building. Even got some audio of you and Bellino talking about them—”
“Audio?”
“You shouldn’t say anything, just listen. Self-incrimination, and all that.”
I nodded.
“When we started watching your friend, we weren’t really after him. We were after his boss, Henry Crocket. You know how that all works, you watch TV—we nab your buddy on something, get him to roll, give us something or someone bigger.” Horton rolled his hand through the air. “Keep going until we get the top dog, sometimes even the top dog’s boss, work with other agencies like the FBI or DEA, try to take down the whole mess. Crocket has been on our radar for nearly ten years. He started out just like all the other ones, working for someone else, learning the ropes, then branching off on his own. Usually that doesn’t work out well for thesomeone else.”
Horton paused for a second, choosing his words. “See if this sounds familiar to you. He started with small-time stuff—pot, some prescription drugs, then a little meth and heroin. Dealt on his own in the beginning, then wised up and started using kids. Some as young as ten years old, peddling his shit on playgrounds and street corners. We bust them, they’re back out in a few hours. Kids never talk. They know they can’t get in much trouble. Crocket actually gives, well gave, them a bonus if they got busted and didn’t talk, couple extra hundred bucks in their pocket. Nice scratch for a little kid, even nicer for the parents who usually knew exactly what was going on and let it slide—they needed that money too, mouths to feed, bills to pay. Many have a habit, and when they let their kid work for someone like Crocket, they get the employee discount on smack. None of this is new. This is how the drug trade works around the world, every city and town, Pittsburgh’s no different. Some of these guys are happy keeping the business small—they make great money, after all. Why get greedy? They can take home a solid six figures per year. Others, though, others like Crocket, they catch the bug, they’re all about expansion, diversification, they gotta build the business, grow.”
Horton looked down at his dirty tie, mumbled something, then tugged it off, and used it to wipe at the soot on his shirt. When he realized the stains were only spreading, he gave up and shoved the tie in his pocket and turned back to the window. “Last year alone, Henry Crocket was responsible for nearly 30 percent of the drug traffic in this city. 10 percent of all the nastiness in Philly, he branched out. Recently, he’s been sniffing around Chicago, too. I don’t care much about that, busy worrying about what’s happening here in our city. Last year, twenty-three of his customers died, overdosed. Doesn’t matter much, though, because plenty more stepped up to fill those shoes. Hemergedwith at least four of his competitors. And bymerge,I mean he had them killed and took over their territory. So, more of a hostile takeover. Until this morning, he was well on his way to owning 40 percent of Pittsburgh’s drug trade by year’s end, a 10 percent bump over last year. Maybe more. Some of his remaining competition has been bowing out of the trade altogether—better that thanmerginglike the others. Things were going well for Mr. Crocket, right up until today when a car with four armed men rolled up and filled him full of bullets, took half his head clean off, in that diner.”
The image of Crocket’s head popped into my mind, his ruined body slumped over the table. “Normally, I’d drop some pictures in front of you at this point, try to spook you with the images, but I know you saw him, and real life is far worse than a picture. You get the benefit of those other senses, smell, touch. Your friend Bellino had part of Crocket’s head on his neck, his shirt. You got closer to that nastiness than anyone should ever have to. Trust me, it stays with you. Forgetting a photograph is one thing, but you’ll think about Crocket every time you touch something sticky for the rest of your life. Every time you smell meat cooking, your mind will go back there.”
“Am I a suspect, or something? Why are you telling me this?”
Horton said, “I’ve been tracking Henry Crocket for years, recording every movement. The guy picked his nose, and it ended up in three different reports. I can tell you when he shits, when he jerks off, his favorite TV shows…in all that time, you know what I’ve never seen him do? Not once? Sit at the front of a restaurant with his back to the door, let alone a window. Guys like him, they just don’t do that. They sit in the back, someplace where they can keep an eye on everything. Someplace less…vulnerable.”
“They were sitting in Dunk’s favorite booth. He always sits there.”
“Always?” Horton replied.
Faustino leaned forward in his chair. “Not always. The first time I saw the two of you, you were sitting in a booth at the back, near the bathrooms. There was even a sign that said it was your booth.”
“We were kids. That doesn’t mean anything.”
