Sources were valuable but tricky. He never trusted them completely. Too many had angles, motives buried under charm or fear. But their knowledge was invaluable, in some cases, it was a piece to a puzzle. To minimize his exposure, he devised a system to meet with them.
The protocol was simple. Find the current year's Yellow Pages, pick a location, then page him: page number, column number, row number. Each separated by a zero. That's the meet point.
Freckles chose a secondhand store in Robbinsville, just a block and a half from her East Buxton apartment.
This approach to sources allowed him to scope out locations, but tonight he tailed her, watching from the shadows as she stepped out of her low-rent brick apartment. The landlord took cash and fake names, no questions asked if the rent showed up.
She wore tight black jeans and never carried a purse. Just a few bills stuffed in her front pockets, never more than fifty. No umbrella. Always a hoodie.
She slipped out of Buxton with care, hoodie cinched tight. Instead of a direct route, she walked one block up, then jogged down the next. She was avoiding Maroni's crew outside the shuttered deli where they slung drugs.
Freckles ducked between buildings. He shadowed her from the rooftops, silent and swift. She stopped in an alley and knocked on a back door. A woman opened it. A quick exchange, cash changed hands. She disappeared inside.
He found a latched window to a darkened second floor.
A tap, a twist, a quiet step inside.
The floor was crammed with racks of jackets, coats, and furs. He wove through them slowly, carefully, stopping only when the first floor came into view. A scatter of clothing racks and a glass countertop bathed in dim lamplight.
Freckles fingers rested lightly on the glass surface. "Thanks, Marie. I owe you."
"Not hard when I live across the street," Marie replied. Her gray hair hung blunt at the shoulders. She wore a chunky sweater with a cat stitched across it.
"Where's the spot tonight?"
"Punk bar."
Marie raised an eyebrow. "Hoping to find what?"
"Just checking the scene. Never know who shows up." Freckles flipped through a rack of shirts. "What's new on the block?"
"Maroni's boys are still slinging. Wish someone would hang those little bastards up by their feet." Marie's tone sharpened. "Two neighbors lost kids to that poison. OD'd in their own bedrooms."
Freckles turned to Marie, her tone softening. "Their parents found them?"
"One did. The other was found by his kid sister. Brutal," Marie said. "You hear anything?"
"Some noise in Midtown," Freckles replied, the metal hangers scraping against the racks. "Something about the Cobblepot casinos using non-union labor."
"Heard that too. Girl I know dances in North B. Says they're seeing more mainlanders, even New Yorkers."
"Well, the bosses are arguing about it that much I heard," Freckles said, skimming the dark shirts with band logos.
"Can't imagine it. Cobblepot, the little guy, and greasy-ass Carmine." Marie leaned in. "Seen plainclothes lately?"
"They're everywhere."
"Not these. Heard they're watching the cops."
Freckles stilled, pulled a black Misfits tee. "You mean Internal Affairs?"
"That's what I heard."
"From who?"
"Hair stylist next door. Her brother's a mechanic for a Saigon precinct. Said IA cops got heated with some dirty blues. Nothing physical just a lot of yelling."
"Loeb's sending cops after guys on his payroll?" Freckles asked.
"Maybe the fatso's cleaning house."
"What's that gonna look like?"
"Ugly. I remember when that bastard took over. Cross him, you ended up in the river."
Freckles unzipped her hoodie. Underneath, light blue bra against pale skin, pink hair bright as candy. She tossed the hoodie on the counter and pulled the shirt on.
"Your friend say what the brawl was about?"
"Not a word. Loeb's guys don't talk shop."
Freckles tore the shirt at the seam, cropped it jagged. "Got a jacket?"
"Fake leather upstairs. I'll grab jewelry too—whatever passes for edgy."
Freckles disappeared up the stairs into dust and shadows.
He lingered, eyes tracking her through the rows of pleather. When she reached the window, he spoke in a low whisper.
"Pink hair?"
She gasped and turned. He stood at the open window.
"You're early?" she said with a slight grin.
"What do you have?"
"Something juicy." She glanced toward the stairs, listening to Marie rustling through plastic bins.
Freckles spoke in a low voice. "I went to the hotel. Total dump, but packed. Twenty, thirty people. Drinking. Smoking. I worked the room. Got to talking with a guy who called himself Daze—shaved head, skinny, with a cheap looking skull tattoo on his neck—said he was at a kickback last Saturday in Saigon. It was chill about six people max. Then two guys showed up to pick up this Asian girl, she said her name was Ann. One of the guys tried to get her to leave, but she didn't want to ride his bike in the rain. So he bails along with his buddy, they come back with beers and start handing them out. Everyone drinks."
She leaned closer. "Then it hits—everyone gets woozy. Sluggish. Daze blacks out. Wakes up. Everyone's still out cold. But the two guys and the girl? Gone. But that's not the juicy part. He claims that one of the guys was a cop."
"You get Daze's real name?"
"Better. I've got a date with him. Tonight."
"Where?"
"The Dregs. It's a punk club in Robbinsville."
"I know it."
"Course you do." She smirked.
"Hey, Babygirl!" Marie called from upstairs.
"Be down in a minute!" Freckles yelled.
"Babygirl?"
"Can't use the same name with everyone. That's how reputations are made," she said. "So what's the play—lure him out?"
He handed her an earpiece. "Wear it."
"I still got the other one," she said, slipping it in.
Steps creaked. Marie appeared, holding black platform shoes.
"Got something you might like."
Freckles turned back, but the window was open. He was gone.
"I thought I closed all the windows," Marie muttered.