"I just bought 'em." He crushed the pack and tossed it into the street. "Give it up, they're not good for you."
"Fuck that, man."
After the kid vanished Tony joined him. He was wearing his own brand of undercover garb--black jeans an
d a T-shirt, a gray leather jacket, Yankees cap swiveled backward. Together they headed toward the mouth of the alley next to the Orc Cave building.
"What goes on in there?"
"No idea. The kid swears Oden's in there now. Well, he didn't swear. He thinks he's in there. And it's the only lead we've got. So here's hoping."
"Feels like a meth house."
Ron hoped it wasn't. Both meth-and crackheads could get wound up like superheroes. The junk gave them crazy strength and unmeshed their thinking. If Ron and Tony were lucky Oden wasn't retail; he sold in bulk. Maybe even to Charles Baxter directly, the perp Rhyme had put in Rikers. After all, brokers and Wall Street lawyers had to get smack and C someplace.
Tony said, "If he's dealing he's not going to be alone and they're all gonna have weapons. Did you ask the kid?"
"Yeah, I did. Not helpful."
Dunno...
"We've been here forty minutes. Nobody in or out. I think it's cool."
"Oh?" Tony asked. "You don't maybe think Oden and his three minders, and their AK-Four-Sevens, might've got here forty-five minutes ago?"
"Tone."
"I'm just saying. K. We go."
Unzipping the jacket to better access his now-holstered Glock, Tony looked over his brother. "Where's your piece?"
"Ankle."
"No. In your waistband."
Pulaski hesitated then tugged up his jean cuff. He lifted the Bodyguard out of the holster and slipped it into the pocket where he kept the rest of the buy money. His brother nodded, a concession that, okay, the tiny .380 would probably fall out of the waistband or slip down to Ron's crotch.
Tony touched his arm. "Just, one last time. You sure this's worth it?"
Ron smiled.
And together, they eased up to the front door of Oden's building. It was unlocked. To be exact, it was no-locked. A gaping hole where a dead bolt had been.
"Which apartment?"
Dunno...
Ron shook his head.
But they didn't have to look very far. On the second floor, the apartment in the back, 2F, had a handwritten card beneath the buzzer button, in the center of the door, which was red and scuffed.
O'Denne.
Under other circumstances Ron might've laughed. An Irish, not a Norse, drug dealer.
Tony stood to the side of the door.
Ron didn't. When one looks out a peephole and sees nobody in the hall that means the visitors are cops. He put a stony look on his face and hit the bell. He was sweating. But he didn't wipe the rivulets off. Too late.