The Colombian cartel was most definitely a racketeer-influenced and corrupt organization. If they could tie the Guide’s Pizzeria murder to El Jefe’s drug operation, he’d be sitting on his ass in Kansas for the rest of his life, Toto.
Bingo and Bop felt certain that the two shooters hadn’t revealed anything that might incriminate Ramirez. The indicted pair knew well enough that the long arm of the cartel could reach into the loneliest of prison cells, and they did not long for an icepick in the eye one dark and stormy night. Better to ride the road upstate alone, do the time, and breathe easy.
Besides, if the pair had traded Ramirez for some kind of Chinese deal, the grand jury would have already indicted him. Bingo and Bop knew of no such paper handed down.
It galled them to know that one of Ramirez’s hit men was sitting downtown in custody, where any police officer with a bit of ingenuity could gain access to him and perhaps learn something about who had sent whom to shoot the hapless little stoolie neither of the detectives had ever met or used. They already knew who had sent Milagros to that pizzeria because it was common knowledge up here in the Eight-Nine that Milagros and his partner Blaine were two of El Jefe’s cleanup men. In the American criminal justice system, however, knowing something wasn’t enough. You also had to be able to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, worse luck.
That Monday night, the sixth of December, while two detectives in Hopscotch filed their DD-5 on the little old lady who’d had her neck broken, and the reverend Foster pored over that day’s newspapers trying to figure out a way to turn the arrest of Hector Milagros to his advantage, Bingo and Bop drove downtown to the Men’s House of Detention in its new quarters on Blanchard Street, and told the jailer on duty they were there to see the Guide’s Pizzeria shooter. The jailer wanted to know on whose authority.
“We’re investigating a related drug matter,” Bingo said.
“You got to go through his lawyer,” the jailer said.
“We already talked to him,” Bop said. “He told us it’s okay.”
“I need it in writing,” the jailer said.
“Come on, don’t break ‘em, willya?” Bingo said. “Where the fuck we gonna find his lawyer, this hour?”
“Find him tomorrow,” the jailer said. “Come back tomorrow.”
“We got something hot can’t wait till tomorrow,” Bingo said.
“You ever hear of hot pursuit?” Bop said.
“I never heard of hot pursuit leadin to a jail cell.”
“Come on, we want to nail this cocksucker sellin dope to your kids.”
“My kids are grown up and livin in Seattle,” the jailer said.
“Ten minutes, okay?”
“The door was open, and you walked in,” the jailer said.
Milagros was in his cell reading his Bible. One other cell in the hall was occupied by an old man mumbling in his sleep. Milagros had never seen these guys in his life, and he wondered how they’d got in here. His lawyer hadn’t mentioned anything about anybody coming to see him. Far as Milagros knew, he’d be sitting on his ass here in The Catacombs till his case came to trial. The way his lawyer had explained it, you couldn’t convict somebody solely on the uncorroborated testimony of an accomplice.
Anyway, who was gonna believe a guy who tried to kill five cops and succeeded in hurting one of them pretty bad? Nobody, that’s who. Just sit tight and you walk, his lawyer had said, which was fine with Milagros. So who were these two guys, and what did they want here, this hour of the night?
The door clicked open electrically. Bingo and Bop entered the cell, and closed the door behind them. From the far end of the corridor, the jailer threw the switch that locked it again.
Bingo smiled.
Milagros had learned a long time ago all about guys who came at you smiling.
The other one was smiling, too.
“So tell us who sent you to the pizzeria,” Bingo said.
“Who the fuck are you?” Milagros asked.
“Nice talk,” Bop said.
“We’re two fellas gonna send your boss away,” Bingo said.
“What boss you talkin abou’, man?”
“Enrique Ramirez.”
“Don’t know him.”
“Oh dear,” Bingo said.
“Get the fuck outta here, I call d’key.”
“The key is down the hall takin a leak,” Bop said.
“I wake up dee whole fuckin jail you don’ ged outta here,” Milagros said.
“Oh dear,” Bingo said again.
“Someone I’d like you to meet,” Bop said, and yanked a nine from a shoulder holster. “Mr Glock,” he said, “meet Mr Milagros.”
Milagros looked at the semi.
“Come on, whass dis?” he said.
“Dis,” Bop said, mimicking him, “is a pistol. Una pistola, maricon.
Comprende?”
“Come on, whass dee matter wi’ you?”
“Who sent you to kill that fuckin pussy-clot?”
“Nobody. He owe us money, we go on our own.”
“El Jefe sent you, didn’t he?”
“You know who El Jefe is?” Milagros said, and tried a smile. “My mama is El Jefe. Thass wha’ me an’ my brudders call her. Jefita.”
“Gee, is that what you call your mama?” Bingo said.
“Is that what you call your whore mama?” Bop said.
“‘Ey, man, watch your mou’, okay?”
“You watch your mouth,” Bop said, and rammed the barrel of the nine against Milagros’s lips.
“‘Ey, man…”
