“You give me a nickname, which could belong to fifty people in the city, which would take me a couple of years to check out, and the best you can do on top of that is “nobody knows”? Hash, we don’t work that way, and you know it. This is not enough.”
“I don’t know who he is,” Hash repeated emphatically but nervously. “And nobody knows. Boss, I’ve heard that nickname a couple of times before. They say that Deuce is a tough customer. And very careful, you know what I mean? Very. Even more than us. He never attracts attention and does not work with strangers. And nobody knows who he is. But if you want someone who can get C—4, it’s Deuce.”
That was the information that was going to lead to a slaughter that would shake the Police Department to the core. But Brown didn’t know that yet.
Chapter 2
In the evening, Brown and Chambers met at a bar two blocks from police headquarters on Main Street – a favored watering hole where cops often gathered in the evenings to quaff a few beers or maybe something stronger. Chambers grinned, pulling out some papers from his bag and watching Brown put two mugs of lager on their table:
“What’s up, Troy, don’t feel like going home?”
“Drop dead!” said Brown half-heartedly, lighting up a cigarette.
“Shelley?”
“She’s called me five times. There’s always a different reason, but all the calls boil down to: ‘We’re leaving on Friday, it’s decided.” “She’s called me five times. There’s always a different reason, but all the calls boil down to: ‘We’re leaving on Friday, it’s decided.”
“Have you changed your mind?”
“Of course not. I’ve had it up to here with our hot weather.”
“Does Shelley have relatives in Perte?”
“Yeah, they helped her find a job,” Brown nodded. “An aunt or a cousin, God knows who. It’s all very complicated. Anyway, to hell with it. What have you dug up?”
“There’s nothing on Deuce. We’ve never arrested a man by that nickname on weapons charges. Just in case, I sent an inquiry to the state police, but I doubt they’ll have anything. It seems he is really a very cautious fellow.”
“If he exists.”
“Oh yes he does, Troy. Look here.”
Chambers opened a folder and handed Brown a police file. Brown looked at a photo of a dark-haired, grim-looking fellow.
“Peter Adamidi,” he read. “And who’s that?”
“His nickname is “Greek.’ He’s in jail now. The guys from the 13th Precinct brought him in a month ago. Do you remember the shooting on Ross Avenue?”
Brown remembered. About three months ago, several guys got into a fight at night at a gas station. One started threatening another with a pistol. His opponent, in a rage, snatched an AK-47 from the trunk and went postal.
“Smashed up the gas station,” Brown recalled. “The bozo opened fire with a Kalashnikov and wounded two people.”
While the guys from the 13th Precinct were looking for the shooter, they squeezed his broad to find Greek, who had sold him the gun. Under the guise of being customers, they met Greek and nabbed him when he tried to sell them three banana clips for a Kalashnikov.”
“And what does Deuce have to do with all this?”
“I called the guys at the 13th Precinct. They recorded all their conversations with Greek. He boasted that he works for Deuce. And since he works for Deuce, that means his goods are top quality.”
“Really?” Brown was surprised. “How is it that Deuce’s weapons are now a top brand on the street, and we know nothing about it?
Well, better late than never. So on Wednesday morning, Brown went straight to the city jail. 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
