Blast. Andrew Kim

He turned in his pistol and knife at the entrance and was led to the interrogation room. The guard brought in Greek, wearing an orange jumpsuit. The prisoner gave Brown a long, penetrating look.

      “What do you want?”

      “I am Lieutenant Brown, homicide division.”

      “And?”

      Greek was clearly not eager to cooperate and tried to take the initiative in the conversation. Brown offered him a cigarette to loosen him up, even though smoking was forbidden within these walls. He looked Greek in the eye, but the con man didn’t flinch, answering with a calm and composed demeanor.

      “Greek, who’s Deuce?”

      “A card. Lower than a three. Anything else?”

      “Very funny,” Brown snorted. “Several times you’ve mentioned a man named Deuce. We’ve got it on tape.”

      “Listen to the recording again, carefully. Maybe I also mentioned little green men. So what?”

      Brown paused. “Could Deuce get C—4?” He kept watching Greek closely and saw him tense up. Smiling at his own thoughts, Greek drawled: “I heard the news. Some guy got his head blown off. That’s what we’re talking about, right?”

      “Do you know anything about it?”

      Greek put out his cigarette. Apparently, he was not inclined to beat around the bush. “Maybe, lieutenant, and maybe not. Why should I talk to you? What’s in it for me?”

      “What do you want?”

      “Deuce might be able to get C—4,” said Greek, after a pause. “He knows a lot of important people in different states. Do you need him? Fine, I’ll give him to you. No problem. But only if you get me out of here.”

      Brown frowned. “We can discuss it.”

      “There’s nothing to discuss,” said Greek firmly, seeing his opportunity. “I’ll get you Deuce, and you get out me out of here. They’ve got me in here for arms trading. That’s not a serious crime, and I know that you can spring me out. I want a deal, and that’s all there is to it. I’m not interested in anything else.”

      Negotiations with the 13th Precinct and the prosecutor’s office presented no problems, and after dinner, accompanied by detectives Gilan and Porras, Brown returned to the jail with signed papers which stated that Greek would be set free until his trial. On the way out, Brown watched Greek collect his belongings with obvious satisfaction – keys, watch, wallet. He led him to the parking lot. Then all of them, including the other two detectives, got into two cars for the ride back to the city.

      “I’ve done my part,” Brown began. “Now it’s your turn, Greek. Who is he?”

      “Where are we going?”

      “To a motel. Until we get Deuce, you’ll be staying with my detectives.”

      “That wasn’t part of the deal,” said Greek apprehensively.

      Brown cut him off: “I’m not going to risk you suddenly backing out. Or warning your buddy that the cops are hunting for him. I will only let you go when I have Deuce. Then you can go do what you want. But for the time being, I too need guarantees. If you’re not happy with it, you can go back where you came from.”

      This was clearly not what Greek had in mind, but he just nodded sullenly. “Whatever you say, boss.”

      “Great. Who is he?”

      “His name is Matt Highley.”

      “How do we contact him?”

      “You don’t. I know his phone number, but he will only speak on the phone to people he knows personally.”

      “Fine. Clear your throat before you dial the number. Is Deuce connected or something? I mean, if they learn you sold them down the river, would it come back to you?”

      “I’ll take care of my own business, thank you,” Greek said drily, and turned away, looking out the window as the suburbs flew by.

      Brown didn’t like him. There was something not quite kosher about him, but what exactly it was, Brown didn’t know. Anyway every criminal had his own fish to fry. Brown was interested in only one thing: that the conversation with Deuce would be a slam dunk. On the Department’s tab, they checked in to a room at the back of a quiet motel on the outskirts of town. They decided to use the phone in the room to make the call. A technician came down from the Department with the recording equipment they needed. When everything was ready, Brown instructed Greek how to behave, and handed him the phone.

      After three rings, Brown heard, through the headphones, a cautious male voice:

      “Yeah.”

      “Deuce, it’s me.”

      There was a pause. “Where are you?” the voice asked.

      “They let me out. I was lucky with my lawyer. It’s a long story, I can tell you when we meet.”

      “How long ago?”

      “A couple of days.”

      “Why are you calling?” Deuce clearly was not dying to buy his good friend a brewskie.

      “Deuce, I’ve got a buddy,” Greek said, exchanging glances with Brown, who nodded to him, “go ahead.” “He needs some wheels.”

      “Who is he?”

      “A good buddy. You know, we got it all figured, but then the cops grabbed me, and the deal fell through. Yesterday I saw the guy, and he still needs the cars.”

      “Why don’t you get them yourself?” There was a hint of malice in Deuce’s voice. “You’re a real bad-ass businessman. You’ve got everything under control.”

      “I just got out of the slammer,” Greek blurted out. “I haven’t even washed off the prison stink yet! I’m not such a moron as to draw attention to myself right away. I don’t want to go back there. But I don’t want to lose a client either. Deuce, it’s a piece of cake, I tell you.”

      Deuce paused, as if listening to his instincts. Brown also sensed, judging from the silence, that Deuce was gauging the chances that this was a setup.

      “I don’t work with people I don’t know.”

      “I’m telling you, his creds are rock solid. I’ve known him for a couple of years, and I did business with him twice. High-end wheels both times. Spare parts too. Deuce, have I ever let you down?”

      The code they used was simple. “Cars” were weapons, and “spare parts” parts were ammunition. Not the most powerful cryptography, but criminals always feel more comfortable talking in code. Over the years, Brown had heard many epithets used by crooks over the telephone to refer to their goods: weapons, drugs, whatever. Anything from “cactuses” to “workers.”

      “What kind of cars are you talking about?” asked Deuce, after another pause. Brown exchanged glances with DiMaggio: Looks like he’s rising to the bait.

      “Ten sedans. Not used; nice and clean, you got it? If it comes together, my buddy will be ready to talk trucks.”

      Trucks were full auto rifles.

      “Where is he going to drive them?”

      “Not here,” Greek hastened to reply, taking the hint. “He needs them to work in another state. No sweat.”

      Another pause. Then Deuce finally said what they had been waiting for: “Write down this number. He should call at exactly 2:00. Exactly. If he calls earlier or later, no deal.”

      Brown was standing at the curb in front of the supermarket. The large parking lot in front of the building was full, with cars pulling in and out all the time, parading before Brown’s eyes in one incessant flow. Deuce had picked a good meeting place: It’s a simple