Angel Of The City Read Online Free
Author: R.J. Leahy
once a fence has your jewelry, he could refuse to pay later, but he wouldn’t be in the business very long if he tried. Some who have tried have ended up missing. But I don’t have that problem with Reed.
Thirty minutes later and I’ve reached the corner of Calypso and 129 th Street, the far western limit of the Chojo and the location of Devon’s nest. From here, I can just make out the uncompleted wall that will soon divide the city, towering above the surrounding buildings. Two transfer gates, allowing entry to the Huenta and Aramaic quarters, should be finished before the end of the month. The Ministry claims it’s to regulate pedestrian traffic, but everyone knows its real purpose is to cut down on the violence between the quarters. People think it’s funny that the same ministry that refuses to acknowledge the existence of the quarters, chooses to build the wall right on the boundaries.
But it isn ’t funny. Like Pen, the joke is on them and like Pen, they aren’t in on it. I am, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
I t doesn’t take me long to spy Devon’s people; four big men in khaki jackets hanging around on the other side of the street, trying to look inconspicuous while watching everyone who crosses into their territory. All have the black nose.
The biggest one sees me and gives a s ignal so subtle it never happened. I cross the street and look around aimlessly, my hands in my pockets, not paying attention to anything for more than a few seconds, yet all the while following. We only go a short way when he ducks into an alley. I’m right behind and follow him through a side door into an abandoned building.
Dim l ight filters in through a row of grease-smeared windows. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I’m in a foul-smelling room strewn with trash. In one corner a shirtless man sits cross-legged, his eyes glazed, sniffing coal dust. A woman straddles the center of the floor on her hands and knees, naked, as a second man rhythmically slaps his pelvis into her buttocks. No one looks up as we walk over them and into the next room.
My guide pulls aside a nasty, piss-stained rug and draws up the hidden door in the floor, moving quickly down the steps. It leads to a tunnel and after only a few dozen yards, another door. He holds it open as I enter. Two men are on me as soon as I step through, rifling through my pockets, hands up and down my legs, cupping my crotch. Frisking is unavoidably personal. All they find is my gun, a cigarette lighter and some loose coins. The gun and lighter I’ll get back. The money is gone. Makes me glad I dumped the bracelet.
The room is large, fifty feet across at least , and just as deep. Carpets on the floor, chairs and some long tables along the walls. There are three doors on the far wall and another on the left. I have no doubt each leads to a maze of other tunnels heading in every direction and probably booby-trapped along the way. Even a Counselor would think twice about running after someone through that.
In the center of the room is a large table filled with foo d, enough food to feed every bobby working the seventy-first’s trash heaps until he was sick. Only one person is at the table though, Devon. I wonder if he was eating like that when he met with Pen. I wonder if he made her watch.
He breaks out in a hu ge grin when he sees me. “Ha Ha! What did I say, huh? By nine thirty, I said. Send that kid to him and he’s here by nine thirty, didn’t I say it? And look at the clock—just past nine. Ha!” He slaps the table with the palm of his hand. “Pay up you slags.”
Three large and decidedly unfriendly-looking men step out from the shadows and toss a few bills each on the table. Devon’s bodyguards.
“ They don’t know you,” he says, tapping his index finger against the side of his head. “Not like I do.”
He wipes his mouth on a napkin and comes around the table to me. He ’s about my size and build. Maybe a little softer, but
Thirty minutes later and I’ve reached the corner of Calypso and 129 th Street, the far western limit of the Chojo and the location of Devon’s nest. From here, I can just make out the uncompleted wall that will soon divide the city, towering above the surrounding buildings. Two transfer gates, allowing entry to the Huenta and Aramaic quarters, should be finished before the end of the month. The Ministry claims it’s to regulate pedestrian traffic, but everyone knows its real purpose is to cut down on the violence between the quarters. People think it’s funny that the same ministry that refuses to acknowledge the existence of the quarters, chooses to build the wall right on the boundaries.
But it isn ’t funny. Like Pen, the joke is on them and like Pen, they aren’t in on it. I am, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
I t doesn’t take me long to spy Devon’s people; four big men in khaki jackets hanging around on the other side of the street, trying to look inconspicuous while watching everyone who crosses into their territory. All have the black nose.
The biggest one sees me and gives a s ignal so subtle it never happened. I cross the street and look around aimlessly, my hands in my pockets, not paying attention to anything for more than a few seconds, yet all the while following. We only go a short way when he ducks into an alley. I’m right behind and follow him through a side door into an abandoned building.
Dim l ight filters in through a row of grease-smeared windows. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I’m in a foul-smelling room strewn with trash. In one corner a shirtless man sits cross-legged, his eyes glazed, sniffing coal dust. A woman straddles the center of the floor on her hands and knees, naked, as a second man rhythmically slaps his pelvis into her buttocks. No one looks up as we walk over them and into the next room.
My guide pulls aside a nasty, piss-stained rug and draws up the hidden door in the floor, moving quickly down the steps. It leads to a tunnel and after only a few dozen yards, another door. He holds it open as I enter. Two men are on me as soon as I step through, rifling through my pockets, hands up and down my legs, cupping my crotch. Frisking is unavoidably personal. All they find is my gun, a cigarette lighter and some loose coins. The gun and lighter I’ll get back. The money is gone. Makes me glad I dumped the bracelet.
The room is large, fifty feet across at least , and just as deep. Carpets on the floor, chairs and some long tables along the walls. There are three doors on the far wall and another on the left. I have no doubt each leads to a maze of other tunnels heading in every direction and probably booby-trapped along the way. Even a Counselor would think twice about running after someone through that.
In the center of the room is a large table filled with foo d, enough food to feed every bobby working the seventy-first’s trash heaps until he was sick. Only one person is at the table though, Devon. I wonder if he was eating like that when he met with Pen. I wonder if he made her watch.
He breaks out in a hu ge grin when he sees me. “Ha Ha! What did I say, huh? By nine thirty, I said. Send that kid to him and he’s here by nine thirty, didn’t I say it? And look at the clock—just past nine. Ha!” He slaps the table with the palm of his hand. “Pay up you slags.”
Three large and decidedly unfriendly-looking men step out from the shadows and toss a few bills each on the table. Devon’s bodyguards.
“ They don’t know you,” he says, tapping his index finger against the side of his head. “Not like I do.”
He wipes his mouth on a napkin and comes around the table to me. He ’s about my size and build. Maybe a little softer, but
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