Bombshell
Page 111
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She picked at a piece of garlic toast instead, the green bean still staked to her fork, her spaghetti untouched. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry about last night. I mean, I put Sean in danger, and you guys—”
Sherlock rolled her eyes. “Sean is all right. He decided the evil Incan mathematician, Professor Pahuac, had tried to break in after all. That’s a character from one of his video games, and since Sean is very good at clubbing the professor with a canoe paddle, Sean said he’d go outside and stomp him. I told him Pahuac had probably already hightailed it back to his evil cave in Machu Picchu.”
A bit of laughter, a good thing. Davis put a fork of twirled spaghetti to Delsey’s mouth, and she opened up and in it went. She chewed, thoughtful.
She said, “Since the gang is all broken up in Maestro, maybe Davis and I can go to the Bonhomie Club after all; it might be good.”
Savich said, “Someone has come after you twice now, followed you out here from Maestro. You saw that stolen SUV pass by right outside here this morning.”
“You mean you don’t think it’s over, even with Salazar shot?”
“I don’t know, Delsey, but I’ve dealt with gangs like MS-13 before. What they do can seem chaotic and disorganized, or it can look that way because they follow their own rules, not ours.
“You were never a threat to them except as a witness linking two of them to Agent Racker’s death, and through him to Salazar and the whole operation. They made some big mistakes that night, and in a gang like MS-13 if you make a mistake that threatens the group, you fix it, eliminate the witnesses that made you a weak link in the chain, or the gang will cut you out themselves. Someone in the gang may still be under orders to kill you, or die himself. If that’s true, we have to stop them.”
“How are we going to do that?” Delsey asked. “What are you planning, Dillon?”
“Right now, Delsey, let’s not worry about that. Let’s all enjoy this good dinner and Davis’s lame jokes. Sherlock made an apple pie for dessert.”
Davis’s eyes glittered even though he tried to hide it, at least from Delsey, but Sherlock recognized that look. Sullivan and Dillon had indeed been planning something, but she and Delsey would have to wait to hear what Dillon had in mind. Dillon appeared to be enjoying his dinner. No meatballs, for him, of course, and not all that much spaghetti, either. He was saving room for the apple pie.
The Bonhomie Club
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday night
Marvin the Bouncer listened to Ariel’s flute float out over him soft and sad into the snowy night as he stood in the open doorway of the Bonhomie Club, his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing only jeans, a denim shirt, and a vest, a man impervious to the cold. He wanted the patrons to know that even though he was from Savannah, he was no stinking wuss. Truth was, it was cold and getting colder, under thirty degrees now for sure, and snow was coming down steadily, white and thick as his granny’s lace curtains, in the lights around him. They always had lots of lights around the Bonhomie Club entrance, but outside their circle, it looked black as pitch, except for an occasional halo of light from the two streetlamps that still worked. The other streetlights were out again, smashed by some pork-brained kids. The neighborhood was supposed to be gentrifying, and Ms. Lilly had told him everything was right on schedule with Washington’s hundred-year plan.
He turned a hairy eyeball toward Sherlock—who’d told him to call her Delsey tonight—and Agent Sullivan, who was supposed to be her date. They’d gotten out of Sullivan’s truck, seemingly alone, and were trying to walk normally, tough because they probably had their SIGs pressed against their legs. Savich had told him about some Latino gang trying to kill this woman Delsey, but he still couldn’t believe any yahoos would try to kill her here of all places, or would the idiots not realize the FBI was expecting them? If those tattooed morons couldn’t figure out there’d be half a dozen FBI agents hiding around the club, they deserved all the pain that was coming to them.
Savich was in charge, so Marvin wasn’t worried. And because he wasn’t worried he hadn’t told Ms. Lilly what was going on. Savich had agreed that wouldn’t be a good idea. She was hunkered down in her office playing poker with some hotshot ragweeds from Pittsburgh, and very probably winning big.
He met Sherlock’s eyes, gave her a slight nod. He had his Dirty Harry’s big-ass .44 Magnum in his pocket, ready for action. He saw Agent Davis Sullivan turn slightly, speak to Sherlock.
Davis said low, “We’re giving them all the chances they could want. I’m thinking the gang has been called off or written Delsey off as too much trouble. I also think Delsey’s going to belt all of us for not letting her come out tonight and play.”
Sherlock rolled her eyes. “Sean is all right. He decided the evil Incan mathematician, Professor Pahuac, had tried to break in after all. That’s a character from one of his video games, and since Sean is very good at clubbing the professor with a canoe paddle, Sean said he’d go outside and stomp him. I told him Pahuac had probably already hightailed it back to his evil cave in Machu Picchu.”
A bit of laughter, a good thing. Davis put a fork of twirled spaghetti to Delsey’s mouth, and she opened up and in it went. She chewed, thoughtful.
She said, “Since the gang is all broken up in Maestro, maybe Davis and I can go to the Bonhomie Club after all; it might be good.”
Savich said, “Someone has come after you twice now, followed you out here from Maestro. You saw that stolen SUV pass by right outside here this morning.”
“You mean you don’t think it’s over, even with Salazar shot?”
“I don’t know, Delsey, but I’ve dealt with gangs like MS-13 before. What they do can seem chaotic and disorganized, or it can look that way because they follow their own rules, not ours.
“You were never a threat to them except as a witness linking two of them to Agent Racker’s death, and through him to Salazar and the whole operation. They made some big mistakes that night, and in a gang like MS-13 if you make a mistake that threatens the group, you fix it, eliminate the witnesses that made you a weak link in the chain, or the gang will cut you out themselves. Someone in the gang may still be under orders to kill you, or die himself. If that’s true, we have to stop them.”
“How are we going to do that?” Delsey asked. “What are you planning, Dillon?”
“Right now, Delsey, let’s not worry about that. Let’s all enjoy this good dinner and Davis’s lame jokes. Sherlock made an apple pie for dessert.”
Davis’s eyes glittered even though he tried to hide it, at least from Delsey, but Sherlock recognized that look. Sullivan and Dillon had indeed been planning something, but she and Delsey would have to wait to hear what Dillon had in mind. Dillon appeared to be enjoying his dinner. No meatballs, for him, of course, and not all that much spaghetti, either. He was saving room for the apple pie.
The Bonhomie Club
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday night
Marvin the Bouncer listened to Ariel’s flute float out over him soft and sad into the snowy night as he stood in the open doorway of the Bonhomie Club, his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing only jeans, a denim shirt, and a vest, a man impervious to the cold. He wanted the patrons to know that even though he was from Savannah, he was no stinking wuss. Truth was, it was cold and getting colder, under thirty degrees now for sure, and snow was coming down steadily, white and thick as his granny’s lace curtains, in the lights around him. They always had lots of lights around the Bonhomie Club entrance, but outside their circle, it looked black as pitch, except for an occasional halo of light from the two streetlamps that still worked. The other streetlights were out again, smashed by some pork-brained kids. The neighborhood was supposed to be gentrifying, and Ms. Lilly had told him everything was right on schedule with Washington’s hundred-year plan.
He turned a hairy eyeball toward Sherlock—who’d told him to call her Delsey tonight—and Agent Sullivan, who was supposed to be her date. They’d gotten out of Sullivan’s truck, seemingly alone, and were trying to walk normally, tough because they probably had their SIGs pressed against their legs. Savich had told him about some Latino gang trying to kill this woman Delsey, but he still couldn’t believe any yahoos would try to kill her here of all places, or would the idiots not realize the FBI was expecting them? If those tattooed morons couldn’t figure out there’d be half a dozen FBI agents hiding around the club, they deserved all the pain that was coming to them.
Savich was in charge, so Marvin wasn’t worried. And because he wasn’t worried he hadn’t told Ms. Lilly what was going on. Savich had agreed that wouldn’t be a good idea. She was hunkered down in her office playing poker with some hotshot ragweeds from Pittsburgh, and very probably winning big.
He met Sherlock’s eyes, gave her a slight nod. He had his Dirty Harry’s big-ass .44 Magnum in his pocket, ready for action. He saw Agent Davis Sullivan turn slightly, speak to Sherlock.
Davis said low, “We’re giving them all the chances they could want. I’m thinking the gang has been called off or written Delsey off as too much trouble. I also think Delsey’s going to belt all of us for not letting her come out tonight and play.”
