Thirteen: Assessment

Angel Muerto tossed the Cadillac's keys into a small brass bowl. The bowl was on top of a battered banister. The banister, now repaired, was at the top of the steps of the Utica three-decker that the gang called a hideout. The keys rolled around the rim once, neatly, before settling at the bottom. He mused momentarily at the banister. It had broken when he had thrown Bulldog down the stairs all those weeks ago.

Another fool gone who couldn’t do his job. In his assessment, he’d seen far too many in the gang. He’d been stunned at how badly the books had looked in the month between Luis Colón’s death and his arrival in Utica. The gang had done next to no work, barely holding on to what they had under Colón. Bulldog should have been their teacher, expanded their ambitions, shown them how to be familia. Instead, he hadn’t cared about his profession.

Bulldog was dead now. Muerto certainly didn’t feel any remorse. He had set it up. The vigilante known as Spears had done it for him, and he had taped the whole attack from the dark corner of a ratty warehouse. The tape was now in the hands of his pet police officer, and Spears was either in jail or dead. All-in-all, not a bad way to wrap up his business in New York. He’d trimmed the fat from the Utica gang and pinned the blame on a misguided soul waging his own holy war.

Only the girl, Bebé, had been worth anything—young, ambitious, and eager to please. He hoped that she’d recover, and surprised himself that he felt anything at all for her. Perhaps he was getting softer as he grew older. After all, he hadn’t killed anyone in weeks.

He picked up the phone and dialed a long string of numbers. Back in Columbia, someone picked up. He said his last name and waited. The Cartel would ship up someone to replace him who would, he hoped, hire decent local talent and get the gang earning. Muerto was thankful it would not be him. The city was too small. It was turning cold, too.

Diego came on the line. Muerto started to speak, but Diego cut him off.

“What the hell is going on up there, Muerto?” his boss growled in Spanish. Muerto knew better than to stammer out an answer. He waited, but he felt his throat tighten.

“Do you know what happened to our shipment? Our two million dollar shipment? It just fucking blew up.”

He waited, painfully aware of the uselessness of his assessment.

“I thought you had things under control up there,” Diego continued “so I sent Morales up with a couple of mules. One guy was in a car. The other was driving a semi. Both seem to have vanished. No one can reach Morales, either. And there are large bonfires where there used to be vehicles.”

Muerto sucked at the air around him. He couldn’t seem to get enough into his lungs. He no longer felt cold. The hand gripping the phone trembled, but not with fear. Diego would not kill him, not yet. No, rage coursed through him. His vision tinged with red around the edges. Rage at himself for underestimating the man named Spears, and for Spears himself.

“You better find out what the fuck is going on. If I have to set up in another upstate city, it’s going to be a pain in my ass. Another turf war, new contacts, new bribes. I will have to downsize my workforce, starting with you. And you don’t want to be downsized.”

Muerto didn’t care about the threat. His professional pride had been wounded.

“I’ll take care of--” Muerto’s first words cut off as the window shattered. A Molotov cocktail crashed against the wall, engulfing the cheap yellow arm chair immediately. Fire raced up the wall and along the floor. He stood with the phone in his hand watching it, then walked to the window. Outside, the pickup truck of his adversary sped away.

“I’ll take care of it, Diego,” Muerto finished. “Here’s what I’ll need.”

He finished quickly and did not bother to hang up the phone. When he took the Cadillac keys out of the brass bowl, the fire was licking at his heels. He calmly walked down the stairs, took an AK-47 from next to the door, and walked to the car. After all, he hadn’t killed anyone in weeks.