That was an incredibly fast bullet. A Browning 9 millimeter fires bullets of one hundred ten grains at only eleven hundred feet per second.
“They also reckon that this thing could blow through Kevlar body armor like it was rice paper. At two hundred yards, the thing could penetrate almost fifty layers.” Even a.44 Magnum will only penetrate body armor at very close range.
“But once it hits a soft target …”
“It stops.”
“Is it domestic?”
“No, Ballistics say European. Belgian. They’re talking about something called a Five–seveN — that’s big F, big N, after the manufacturers. It’s a prototype made by FN Herstal for antiterrorist and hostage rescue operations, but this is the first time one has turned up outside national security forces.”
“You contacting the maker?”
“We’ll try, but my guess is we’ll lose it in the middlemen.”
I stood up. “I’ll ask around.”
Walter retrieved his pen and waved it at me like an unhappy schoolteacher lecturing the class wise guy. “Ross still wants your ass.”
I took out a pen and scribbled my cell phone number on the back of Walter’s legal pad.
“It’s always on. Can I go now?”
“One condition.”
“Go on.”
“I want you to come over to the house tonight.”
“I’m sorry, Walter, I don’t make social calls anymore.”
He looked hurt. “Don’t be an asshole. This isn’t social. Be there, or Ross can lock you in a cell till doomsday for all I care.”
I stood up to leave.
“You sure you’ve told us everything?” he asked to my back.
I didn’t turn around. “I’ve told you all I can, Walter.”
Which was true, technically at least.
? ? ?
Twenty–four hours earlier, I had found Emo Ellison. Emo lived in a dump of a hotel on the edge of East Harlem, the kind where the only guests allowed in the rooms are whores, cops, or criminals. A Plexiglas screen covered the front of the super’s office, but there was no one inside. I walked up the stairs and knocked on Emo’s door. There was no reply but I thought I heard the sound of a hammer cocking on a pistol.
“Emo, it’s Bird. I need to talk.”
I heard footsteps approach the door.
“I don’t know nothin’ about it,” said Emo, through the wood. “I got nothin’ to say.”
“I haven’t asked you anything yet. C’mon, Emo, open up. Fat Ollie’s in trouble. Maybe I can do something. Let me in.”
There was silence for a moment and then the rattle of a chain. The door opened and I stepped inside. Emo had retreated to the window but he still had the gun in his hand. I closed the door behind me.
“You don’t need that,” I said. Emo hefted the gun once in his hand and then put it on a bedside cabinet. He looked more comfortable without it. Guns weren’t Emo’s style. I noticed that the fingers of his left hand were bandaged. I could see yellow stains on the tips of the bandages.
Emo Ellison was a thin, pale–faced, middle–aged man who had worked on and off for Fat Ollie for five years or so. He was an average mechanic but he was loyal and knew when to keep his mouth shut.
“Do you know where he is?”
“He ain’t been in touch.”
He sat down heavily on the edge of the neatly made bed. The room was clean and smelled of air freshener. There were one or two prints on the walls, and books, magazines, and some personal items were neatly arrayed on a set of Home Depot shelves.
“I hear you’re workin’ for Benny Low. Why you doin’ that?”
“It’s work,” I replied.
“You hand Ollie over and he’s dead, that’s your work,” said Emo.
I leaned against the door.
“I may not hand him over. Benny Low can take the loss. But I’d need a good reason not to.”
The conflict inside him played itself out on Emo’s face. His hands twisted and writhed over each other and he looked once or twice at the gun. Emo Ellison was scared.
“Why did he run, Emo?” I asked softly.
“He used to say you were a good guy, a stand–up guy,” said Emo. “That true?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to see Ollie hurt, though.”