Savage code, p.26
Savage Code, page 26
part #4 of The Porter Series
He’d seen nothing like that. All he saw were pretty girls, dressed inappropriately for the chill in the air, and men in suits who came and went at regular intervals. Almost like a restaurant turning over tables for the next customer.
“That whole building is his,” Porter muttered.
“Te podría haber dicho eso. ¿Por eso hemos estado sentados aquí tanto tiempo?” I could have told you that. That why we been sitting here this long?
Porter looked over at his newfound ally. “Blow me. Need me to translate that?”
Harsh frowned and went back to his own pizza.
“The last time I went into a building with a bunch of people I didn’t know, things got messy.”
“Esto será desordenado, también.” This is gonna be messy, too.
“We should wait until it’s darker.”
“Hazlo más oscuro.” Make it darker.
Porter furrowed his eyebrows. “You aren’t as dumb as you look.”
Harsh chewed his pizza.
“Okay, here’s what we—”
Porter’s phone vibrated, cutting off his train of thought. He turned it over and felt a bit of relief pass over him when he saw the caller ID. “Where’ve you been?”
“You know exactly where I am,” Rivera said. “Laid up and useless.”
“You’re just taking a break. How you feeling?”
“Fine, I guess. Just tired of these people poking and prodding me. I feel like a test subject or something.”
“Well, I know how much you love hospitals, so you should take advantage of the vacation.”
“Yeah right. Big Harsh must have scrambled your feeble mind.”
Porter nodded, as if she could see him through the phone.
“Listen, I told you I’d call when I got some info. I got some. Turns out Spirelli owns a whole damn apartment building in—”
“Jersey?”
“Yeah,” she said. “How did you know?”
Porter briefly relayed the conversation with Tommy Blue Eyes.
“It’s a setup, right? There’s no way this is legit.”
“I think the old man is a straight shooter,” Porter said. “I’ve been watching the apartment and—”
“Wait, you’re there? Right now? Porter, no, you can’t do that.”
“Sure I can. Who’s gonna stop me?”
Rivera was quiet on the phone. “This is not a good idea.”
“Maybe not. But you should be used to me making bad decisions all the time. I’ll talk to you later, Christina,” Porter said.
“But if you just wai—”
Porter hung up the phone. He knew that the longer they talked, the harder Rivera would try to talk him out of it. He wasn’t sure if she could, but he saw no reason to let her try.
At this point, he wasn’t interested in waiting. His last few days had been a nonstop ride of trouble and pain, emotions and violence. He wasn’t sure if he even cared about Royce Michaelson anymore. He wasn’t sure if he cared about the potential of there being other underage girls on the inside. He didn’t care about Rivera’s case or the money Tommy Blue Eyes had promised him.
He was going into the apartment building because he wanted to. Because he was beat up and hurt. He was going in out of spite for the Ositos and Nico Spirellis and other abusers of the world.
He was going in because he couldn’t get Trish to answer the damn phone in his dream.
Porter stood. “Come on, we need to go.”
“Estoy listo.” I’m ready.
Porter and Harsh went out to the car, which was parked down the street from the apartment. The streetlights were on and the moon wasn’t bright, leaving the men in near darkness as they walked. Porter popped the trunk and pulled open the lid.
Porter grabbed a handful of the string cuffs and stuffed them in his back pocket. He offered a few to Harsh, who shook his head.
Instead, Harsh dug through his own bag, getting his own gear ready. Inside was most of his boxing gear, including several rolls of tape, Vaseline, gloves, and ammonia packets. Harsh pulled out two rolls of athletic tape, and looked around before handing one to Porter.
“I don’t need this.”
“Por favor. Mira tu mano.” Please. Look at your hand.
For the first time in a while, Porter was forced to looked at his mangled paw. To be sure, he’d felt it, every time he’d hit someone with it. Or bumped into something. Or walked too quickly. Or breathed too hard. In the glow of the trunk light, he examined it.
The black and blue had already spread from his fingertips to his mid-forearm. The part of his hand furthest away from his thumb was puffy and swollen. He knew he had a boxer’s fracture, and it wasn’t going to get any better until he stopped using it.
Which wasn’t going to happen any time soon.
Instead, Porter used the entire roll of tape, stopping several times to take direction from Harsh on how to weave the soft tape to make it as hard as possible, to reinforce his wrist while adding extra force to his blows.
Porter patted the Python in his waistband, reassuring himself it was still there, and fished Camelot Jones’s brass knuckles out of his pocket. He held one up to Harsh. “Quieres?”
Harsh shook his head.
“Yeah, me either. Damn things will barely fit on my hand right now anyway.” Porter dropped them back into the car.
Porter slid his gloves over the tape job. Between the swelling in his hand and the tape he’d used, the gloves were tight, but they fit. He paused for a moment and took a deep breath, the night air cool in his lungs.
Harsh handed him one of the ammonia capsules.
“This shit has to rot your brain.”
Harsh nodded, indicating he was aware, yet unconcerned with the possibility.
“I was thinking we should split up. I’ll take the top and you take the bottom. Sound good?”
Harsh squinted at the building, then shook his head. “Trabajamos juntos.” We work together.
Porter looked at the man, then back at the building. They could cover much more ground separately. Then again, with a building full of unknown dangers, it was probably best to stick together. “Your call.”
Porter looked in the trunk again, hopeful that a rocket launcher or SWAT team would magically appear. When they didn’t, he shut the door and stepped into the street, Harsh following him.
“Think we should start at the top and work our way down, or vice versa?”
Harsh looked hard at the building and shrugged.
“You’re no help. Let’s start at the top. Get the climb out of the way first. God knows we might be too tired later to walk upstairs.”
The men walked across the street, past the lone streetlight trying to hold back the darkness, and disappeared into the alley next to Nico Spirelli’s building.
Fifty-One
The alley was a dead end, with the brick exteriors of the two buildings as a funnel. There were no windows facing the alley, at least not on the ground level. Porter thought he saw some higher up, but it was tough to tell in the dark.
There was the smell of urine—and something worse—as Porter and Harsh went through the alley. Porter was careful not to step in anything he couldn’t recognize in the low light of the alley.
It was hard to get stains out of Chuck Taylors.
Harsh didn’t seem to mind, and he stomped along next to Porter, occasionally turning and looking behind them.
The men walked near the building’s exterior brick wall, moving quickly until they came to their way in: the fire-escape ladder.
It was the kind that could be retracted when not in use, big springs pulling it up, higher than ground level. Porter looked around, and waited for a moment. He was aware that they looked out of place—two big guys poking around an alley in the early night—but he didn’t care. He needed to be sure everything was clear and no one was watching them.
Seeing no one, Porter took a step and jumped, easily reaching the bottom of the ladder, and held tight with his good hand. The ladder came pulling downward, thankfully well-maintained and without the screech of rusty metal Porter had expected.
He pulled the ladder the rest of the way down and stepped gingerly on it. The metal was covered in the dew of the evening and a thick coating of grime from disuse. Once he was sure his footing was stable, Porter climbed until he was at the first landing.
There was a small bank of windows, but there were thick curtains that Porter couldn’t see through. He climbed again, no longer on a ladder but on a set of metal stairs, which led to the next landing.
Below him, Harsh made the first landing, and pulled the ladder up after him.
The stairs took him to the third floor. Porter stopped at the window. There was a small sliver of light knifing out of the bedroom. He strained to see what was inside.
A thin woman was taking her panties off, leaving her stark naked. A man with a loosened tie sat on the edge of the bed with no pants on, his manhood ready for action.
Not much action, apparently.
Porter shuddered and put his eyes on the woman again. As she turned, he caught a glimpse of her face, and all initial thoughts of her being an adult erased from his mind.
The girl looked barely old enough to drive, and the swelling around her eye told Porter that someone had gotten tired of talking to her.
He motioned to Harsh, who climbed up next to him. “See that? How old you think that kid is?”
“Quince?” Fifteen?
“If she’s even that old. Makes me sick, man,” Porter whispered. He tore his eyes off the scene, resisting the urge to break through the window and put an end to the man’s fun inside. He knew drawing attention this early in the night would be a bad thing.
There would be plenty of time for that later.
He kept climbing, finally stepping from the last metal landing and onto the roof. It was a flat space with tables and chairs, and a string of naked light bulbs hanging from two poles.
Porter looked at Harsh. “We need to find an electrical box or something. Cut the lights off and see how these guys work in the dark.”
The men split up and scoured the roof, but didn’t find any type of utility box or electrical breaker. Porter was unfamiliar with the New Jersey building codes, and had been hopeful that he’d find something on the roof. Something he could unplug or break to cast the building below into darkness.
He didn’t.
Instead, Harsh found a small door with a worn handle and motioned Porter over to it.
“Looks like our way in,” Porter said. He leaned against the door for a moment. “I don’t hear anything.”
Harsh didn’t answer, instead letting his hand hover above the handle. As if mesmerized by his trembling hand, he left it for several moments.
“What’s the matter, you nervous? I figure a tough guy like you would have balls of steel.”
“Bolas de latón.” Brass balls. Harsh pulled the handle and yanked the door open. There was a dimly lit hallway, then a flight of stairs.
Porter went first, smoothly walking down the stairs, until he reached a landing below. There was nothing in the room except, against the far wall, another door. Porter tried the handle and found that one unlocked as well. He walked over to it, and pointed to the ceiling above the door. There were two big water pipes that entered the room from somewhere outside the door, and disappeared into a back corner of the room. “Water has to come from somewhere.”
Harsh nodded, and Porter opened the door, and stepped out into a hallway. “Dingy” was an appropriate word, and the carpet had a well-worn path in the middle from years of shoes. The men were at the end of the hall, with several rooms and doors ahead of them.
The water pipes disappeared into the wall opposite the door they’d entered through. Porter reached over and found the handle locked. He stepped back and eyed the door. Then he took a step and kicked the door open, the battered thing slamming against the wall behind him.
Porter stepped in and looked around. There were pipes and wires, pumps and things whose purpose he had no clue to. In the corner of the room, two lengths of chain-link fence teamed up with a right-angled wall to form a cage.
In the cage was something anyone would be able to recognize: the panel for the fuse box.
The gate in the longer length of fence was padlocked shut with a chain. Porter juggled the chain, and then let it slip through his fingers. He pulled out the Python, and aimed it at the padlock.
“Espera.” Wait.
Harsh walked up with a small fire extinguisher in his hands.
Porter stepped out of the way. “Be my guest.”
Harsh brought the extinguisher down on the padlock and chain three times, and the battered device simply gave up. It broke open, and Porter unhooked it, dropped the smashed lock on the concrete floor, and pulled the gate toward him.
He opened the fuse box and looked at the labels, drawn in long-faded ink. “Let me see…” He flipped all the fuses to off. Then he reached for the main power switch to the right of the box, a big up-and-down lever, and pulled it down with a clunk.
The lights in the electrical room flipped off. Porter looked in the darkness for a moment, until the backup generator kicked on. The lights weren’t nearly as bright as before, and the room had a dim yellow tint to it.
“Maybe now they won’t see us coming.”
Porter walked over to the door and paused before he stepped into the hallway. He pulled out the ammonia capsules Harsh had given him, handed one to Harsh, and cracked his own, breathing deeply. The chemical burned at his nose, throat, and lungs as he inhaled again before dropping the packet and stepping into the hallway.
Harsh was right behind him, fire extinguisher in his hands.
Fifty-Two
Nico Spirelli’s wine spilled on the white tablecloth as he punctuated his words with a fist. “He’s a dead man.”
The crowd at the restaurant, with its fancy wall sconces and smartly dressed maître d’, glanced around at the commotion. They whispered at each other—both the patrons and the employees—but no one made a move to say anything.
Nico was oblivious. “I mean, can you believe that? Two cars, just like that. That stupid eggplant doesn’t even know what he did. He’s got no clue.”
The woman across the table from Nico frowned. Her blonde hair wasn’t from an ordinary bottle, but had been purchased at one of the more expensive salons in New Jersey. She had impossibly large, aftermarket breasts, and a dress that must have been slid on with the help of copious amounts of Vaseline and a team of strong men. “Keep your voice down.”
Nico looked at her. He slammed his fist again. “Don’t tell me what to do, woman. Who do you think you are, huh?”
There was a small murmur in the crowd, but no one said anything directly.
“Fine, but if we get kicked out of here, you don’t get your money back. I have a no-refund policy.”
“Like I can’t replace you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You stupid whores think just because you take credit cards you’re something better than you are. At the end of the day, you do what every other hooker does, you just do it in Louboutins.” He spat the last few words as loudly as he could, and stared at the woman.
“Don’t blame me because you got embarrassed today. Maybe if you were better at your job, you would—”
Nico grabbed his steak knife and stabbed it into the table top. It stuck, and Nico stared across the table. “Darcy, if you don’t shut your big fat mouth, I’m gonna stuff something in it. You hear me?”
“Promises, promises.”
A thin man in a tuxedo came over to the table, and softly cleared his throat. Nico didn’t pay attention, instead staring in rage at the large-breasted blonde across the table.
The maître d’ cleared his throat again. “Excuse me. Sir?”
Nico slowly looked toward the man. “Can’t you see I’m busy? You got some nerve, coming over here interrupting me.”
“I know, sir,” the thin man said, face red, prickles of sweat beading on his forehead. “However, some of the other guests have complained and—”
“They what?”
“They… they mentioned that things were a bit noisy and wondered—”
“Who said that, huh?” Nico stood up from the table and hiked his pants up, slinging back his suit coat. “Which one of you miserable mooks said something? Come on. You gonna badmouth me, at least say it to my face.”
No one in the crowd spoke up, all faces focused on their meals.
“See? I don’t think we have a problem at all. I think you might have misunderstood things, that’s all. Now say you're sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
“You interrupted my meal. You made me look foolish in front of my date. Ain’t that right, Darcy?”
“Nico, please. The guy didn’t do anything wrong. Let’s just finish our food.”
“Not until he apologizes. Now, say you're sorry. Right now.”
The maître d’ shuffled his feet back and forth, and looked at Nico. “Mr. Spirelli, I’m sorr—”
From his suit coat, Nico’s phone rang. “Shut up. Can’t you see I got a call? Why don’t you go in the back and see about some complimentary wine for the table. On account of your rude behavior.”
The maître d’ slunk off while Nico pulled out his phone and answered it. “What? Can’t I get a night off from you goombahs?”
Nico put his elbows on the chair back and leaned on it as he listened. “So go turn the power back on.”
Another reply from the phone.
“Then call the power company. What do you want me to do about it?”
Nico squinted as he listened. Darcy was quiet, picking at her salmon croquette.
“Do I gotta do everything for you morons? I mean, give me a break. Actually, hold on a minute.” Nico put the phone against his shoulder. “Hey.”
Darcy looked up from her meal.
“You planning on being any better than you were last time, or am I paying all this money for a dead fish?”
