Savage code, p.19
Savage Code, page 19
part #4 of The Porter Series
Harsh looked at Porter. “Más negocio?” More business?
“Yeah.
“Sucio?” Dirty?
“The dirtiest.”
Harsh nodded and stood side by side with Porter as he walked down the sidewalk, fishing the keys out of his pocket and heading toward Rivera’s sedan.
Thirty-Seven
Porter sat in Rivera’s car, the engine turned off, the windows cracked. Despite this, there was an ever-present fog of condensation accumulating on the inside of the cab. He looked nearly two blocks up the street from the familiar corner where he’d first met Daisy. As with that first night, the block was a lively place, with seven or eight girls hanging out, soliciting passersby and flashing themselves to the potential johns.
In between Porter and the girls sat a familiar BMW, with its fancy wheels and oversized Ukrainian flag sticker.
It was all Porter could do to keep from running over there half-cocked and dragging the man out of the car. As much as he wanted to, he knew this would not do.
His sweep of the area, both before and after the original incident with Pavel, as well as his time sitting the last several hours, had told him there were no cameras. The city was one of the most heavily surveilled places on Earth; that fact was true. However, there were always going to be more cameras in a place like Times Square than there would be on a small street off the main roads.
There was a reason that first Camelot, then Pavel, had chosen to present their wares in that location.
The problem was the girls. The first night, no one would have said anything. Porter tuned Pavel up and that was the end of it. If the girls saw him tonight, they would likely remember the incident as the last time they saw Pavel alive. If anyone reported him missing, the police would be around asking questions.
The thought of going back to jail soured his stomach, and the prospect of a lengthy prison sentence even more so.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Harsh reach for the radio volume. Porter had it low, running off the battery, listening to Johnny Cash sing about killing a man just to watch him die. “Don’t touch that.”
“Es malo.” It’s bad.
Harsh’s critique of the music aside, Porter was concerned about his new partner. Even in the reduced light put out by the radio, the man had a visible tremor running through his hands. Porter couldn’t be sure, but an old boxer’s life with plenty of head trauma left few diagnoses.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that about Johnny.” Porter thumbed through his phone and clicked on the Notorious BIG. “He’s from New York. That’s the best you’ll get from me tonight.”
Harsh put his hands in his lap and started subtly nodding his head to the beat.
Porter started to put his phone down, but stopped and then dialed a number, first adding star-six-seven to keep his call anonymous. He wasn’t worried about anyone tracking his phone; he just didn’t want his number on record as making the call. Simply blocking his number would give Porter the brief anonymity he required. He clicked the phone to speaker and dropped it into his lap.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a female voice sparked through the phone’s speaker.
“Yes,” Porter said, his voice ridiculously high-pitched. “I’m just out for my nightly walk, and these women attacked me.”
“Sir, are you safe right now?”
“Yes, I am, thank God. I got away from them, but they were so scary. They kept grabbing me and pulling me. Showing me their bosoms. It was terrifying. I shouldn’t have to live in a city where this happens to me when I’m trying to walk in the night.”
“Sir, where are you?”
“I’m not there anymore, I can tell you that much.”
“I understand that. Where were you when this happened to you?”
Porter gave the address where the girls were standing. “Are you going to do something about this or not? Muffy is so scared, she won’t stop shaking.”
“Who’s Muffy, sir?”
“My Malti-poo. I thought one of them was going to step on her with those high heels. It was very frightening.”
“Sir, we’ll send someone out.”
“Thank you so much. And I just want to say—” Porter hung up the phone.
Harsh looked at him with an upturned eyebrow.
“What? I’m not an actor.”
The pair settled into a silence, punctuated by the sounds of gunshots coming from the speakers.
“Me gusta Biggie.” I like Biggie.
“If you didn’t, I’d throw you out of the car.”
After several more minutes, a pair of squad cars came stealthily rolling up to the scene. No lights, no sirens, no hurry. Instead, they pulled to the side and got out and confronted the women.
Porter watched. There was a minor uproar as the working girls were told to move along. Several of them disappeared immediately, gone in an instant. A trio of others, including Daisy’s two friends from Porter’s first meeting, hung around, jaw-jacking and arguing with the cops.
Porter was too far away to hear what was being said, but eventually a scuffle broke out. The three women were arrested and thrown into the back of the squad cars. Moments later, the police drove away.
The entire time, no one moved in the BMW—there were no signs of life at all. Porter knew why. Pavel wouldn’t risk getting a charge—at least not for the women. At some point later, he’d likely see how much their bonds were, and if the investment made sense—how much he’d have to pay versus how much they’d make on the street—he’d spring them. If not, they’d sit in jail.
Porter looked at Harsh. “I need to talk with the guy in the BMW. Understand?”
“Sí.”
“Good. Give me a couple minutes.”
Porter got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk, covering the distance between Rivera’s sedan and Pavel’s Beamer in no time. From behind the car, he could see the soft glow of a cellphone in use.
Porter stepped up to the driver’s side door and slammed his elbow through the window, shattering it to pieces. He stuck his head in. “We need to talk.”
Pavel jumped, looked at Porter, then fumbled to raise his shirt and get to his pistol.
Porter slammed Pavel’s head against the headrest three times, then reached under the man’s shirt and pulled the gun himself. “Get out.”
He stood on the sidewalk and gritted his teeth as Pavel swung the door open and walked around the back of the car, rubbing the back of his head. “That wasn’t smart.”
Porter stood on the slight incline of the sidewalk, looking down on the man. “Who needs to be smart when you’re clairvoyant?”
“What?”
“Clairvoyant? Psychic?”
Pavel looked at him, confused.
“It’s true.”
“Okay, funny man. Tell me the future.”
Porter smiled. “I’m going to kill you.”
Pavel laughed again, longer and louder than before. The sound echoed off the wall beside the men and the BMW, bouncing around until Pavel finally stopped. “You say this, doesn’t make it true. You would have killed me already.”
“Here isn’t a good place for it. Besides, I wanted you to know.”
“Know what?”
“I’m not scared of anything. Really, I’m not. Heights, snakes, spiders, clowns—nothing. But a few hours ago? When you shot my friend? See, that was the first time I’ve been scared in a long time. God, I can’t even remember how long. So I want to repay the feeling.”
Anger flashed across Pavel’s face, but he didn’t move.
“I’m gonna kill you and I want you to be terrified until it happens.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Yes, you are. I can smell it on you.”
Pavel took a step back. “You’re not gonna kill me. Why you waiting?”
“I was gonna beat the shit out of you and throw you in your trunk again. Then, we would have gone somewhere where we could have a little more privacy. But it doesn’t look like I’m going to get the chance to smack you around, and honestly? I’m kind of sad about that.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Porter pointed behind the man.
“I see movies. Like I fall for that.”
“Suit yourself. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Pavel’s collar snapped tight across his neck, and he was yanked backward and driven headfirst into the BMW’s trunk. The man’s head bounced several times off the metal until he slumped to the ground.
Standing above him was Harsh, who slid his hands back into his pockets. “El hombre?” The guy?
“I could have done that myself,” Porter said.
“Lo siento.” Sorry.
“Saved me the trouble.” Porter looked up and down the street. There were no people standing or walking around, but two cars drove by. They were unable to see Pavel, as he was lying on the sidewalk.
Porter stepped around to the driver’s side and popped the trunk. Then he leaned over to the glove box and yanked it open. The BMW had a small switch that toggled the interior trunk release button’s power on and off. Porter turned the switch off, then ripped off the back panel of the glovebox and pulled the fuse to the entire trunk as well.
When he got back to the open trunk, Pavel was already inside and Harsh was standing with his hands in his pockets.
“Not the first body you’ve dumped in a trunk, is it?”
Harsh shrugged.
Porter slammed the trunk. “Okay, you drive this, and follow me in the sedan.”
“No puedo.” I can’t.
“Why?”
“Nunca aprendí.”
“Aprendí… aprendí,” Porter muttered to himself. “Learned? You never learned?”
Harsh nodded.
It wasn’t uncommon for New Yorkers to never learn to drive. With the train, everything was easy enough to get to. Anything the train couldn’t get to could be cabbed to, or now, Ubered. As a Fed, Porter had once worked with a man who didn’t have a license until he’d joined the Department of Homeland Security. As a prerequisite for employment, potential agents needed a driver’s license. So, his New Yorker friend had studied and passed his driver’s test at the ripe age of thirty-two.
“The damn train,” Porter said. “Look, I need you to figure this out. Just step on the gas and turn the wheel.”
Harsh shrugged. “No será bonito.” It won’t be pretty.
“Neither are you,” Porter said.
Harsh got into the BMW. Porter gave him a quick tutorial.
“Gas,” Porter said. “Brake. You put it into drive with this. Got it?”
“Creo que sí.” I think so.
“Good.” Porter jogged back to Rivera’s sedan, and pulled the vehicle parallel to Harsh and the BMW. “Just follow me.”
With that, Porter pulled off. He watched in the rearview mirror as Harsh followed, herking and jerking his way along.
Thirty-Eight
Randall’s Island Park was a decent size, as far as parks went. Porter had expected something larger, until he considered that the city had been being built up for centuries, and any green space was a rare thing.
In his home state of Florida, there were over eight hundred thousand acres of state parks—most with nice, easy wetlands and marshes, where a person could disappear with no problem.
Randall’s Island Park was much smaller, but a welcome surprise in the middle of the congested city. It sat in the middle of the East and Harlem Rivers, the island populated by a small number of people, but the wide-open space mostly used for a new athletic fields project.
During the day, there were a good number of people on the island. The city ran several psychiatric hospitals, a fire training academy, full police and fire stations, and a number of homeless shelters. Curiously enough, there was also a stadium which had hosted any number of rock concerts over the years.
In the evenings, most of the daytime inhabitants of the island were gone—back to their homes, wherever they might be. The best part, for Porter’s purposes, was that the southeastern part of the island was nearly deserted at that time of night—the athletic fields were closed, the rest of the population a couple of miles away on the north side of the big island.
Porter had driven in, driving slowly from road to road, until he got on the small road that circled the tip of the island, putting the soccer fields on the left and waterfront on the right.
He followed the road until he found what he was looking for: a small alcove. Porter looked around and saw no one, so he turned off his headlights and weaved his way through a line of rocks obviously meant to keep out a less determined driver.
Thick clusters of trees surrounded him on the left and right, and nothing was in front of him but a short ledge of dirt, and then the notorious East River. The lack of shelf of the river’s floor meant anyone going for a swim was stepping into water that was at least thirty feet deep.
Harsh drove the BMW up in fits and starts, pulling his way into the alcove, door to door with Porter. Porter got out of Rivera’s sedan and was hit by the smell of burning brakes. He coughed and looked around for several moments, ensuring the privacy of their parking spot, before sitting in the passenger seat of the BMW.
Neither man spoke for several minutes. Instead, they sat looking through the windshield at the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge. In the distance, thousands of lights shone in the night, but Porter had no clue what part of the massive city he was looking at.
“Too many people,” Porter muttered.
“Qué?”
“Nothing. We need to talk.”
“Para qué?” For what?
“Because I don’t know you. Sure, you throw a mean hook and you smacked Pavel around for me. I got that much. But I don’t like working with people I don’t know. And you? I don’t know you.”
Harsh didn’t answer.
“I’ve been around the block. I know a couple things. Before we fought at Osito’s, in the locker room? I saw your tats. Trinitarios, right?”
The Trinitarios started as a prison gang, formed to help keep Dominican people safe on the inside. They’d flourished in the nineties, and soon had ten thousand members on the outside. They were involved in everything from drug trafficking to murder.
As far as size went, they weren’t anywhere near the upper echelon of street gangs. However, Porter knew them to be vicious when necessary, and any gang that counted the Crips and the Bloods, as well as the Latin Kings, as its enemies was no joking matter.
Harsh didn’t say anything.
“I’m not much up on my gangs anymore, but the Trinis are bad dudes. I’m not sure I want one of them in the car with me. Especially one with bodies on his record.”
Harsh looked at Porter, but didn’t answer.
“I know what your tattoos mean. You did their dirty work, and inked it on your skin like a badge of honor.”
“No más. Me fui.” No more. I left.
“Bullshit. You don’t just leave a crew like Trini. I know the rules. So, if you still wear their ink, you’re still one of them. And that concerns me.”
Harsh took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “I leave. They let me.”
“Why? What makes you special?”
“They scared.”
“Of you?”
“Sí.”
“And that’s it?”
“No.” Harsh groped around until he found the switch for the dome light. He pointed to the right side of his neck. It was the wicked burn that Porter had seen backstage and during the fight.
Porter thought for a moment and put two and two together. “You can’t sport their ink, can you? They let you out, but you can’t represent them anymore.”
Harsh nodded in the dull dome light.
“That’s why you fight with a long-sleeve shirt,” Porter said, nodding. “Hide your ink. That burn. It used to be a tattoo?”
“Sí.”
“How’d you burn it off?”
“Con una espátula.”
“With a spatula? Heat it on the stove and stick it on your neck, huh?”
“Sí.”
“So you and the Trinis are good, then? Don’t show your ink, everyone is cool? Probably kill your ass if you did.”
Harsh didn’t answer.
Porter thought for a moment. “Why’d you leave?”
“Mujer.” Woman.
“You left the life because of a woman?”
“Sí.”
“They have a habit of making us change.” Porter didn’t say anything for a few moments, then, “How much time did you serve?”
Harsh was quiet.
“That huge hourglass on your ribcage? I know what that’s about, don’t try to play me. How long were you in prison?”
“Cuarenta y ocho.” Forty-eight.
“What for?”
“Es importante?” Is it important?
“Yeah. Because if you got it for throwing some guy a beating, hey, that’s life. I’m no hypocrite. But if you got it for touching little kids or—”
Harsh sprang to life, shoving Porter against the passenger door and glaring at him. “No kids.”
“Did I touch a nerve?”
“No kids.”
“You better take your hand off me before I break it off and throw it in the river,” Porter said.
Harsh looked down, as if noticing his independently misbehaving hand for the first time. “Lo siento.” I’m sorry.
“That’s your only warning,” Porter said. “Don’t touch me again. Now, tell me what you did.”
“Esta chica.”
“Same girl you left the Trinis for?”
Harsh didn’t answer.
“You got out of the life for her, then what? You guys had problems? She cheated on you, didn’t she? Forty-eight months sounds like you did something violent, but excusable. Catch her in bed with another guy? Kill him?”
Harsh turned the dome light off.
“You gotta give me something,” Porter said.
Harsh turned the light back on and reached past his collar, pulling out a small locket, which he flicked open and showed Porter. Inside was a picture of a younger Harsh, smiling next to a pretty Hispanic woman.
