Apaches by Lorenzo Carcaterra Read Free Book Online

numbed by heavy blasts of music coming off car radios.
    “Still like your job?” Eddie asked his son, eyes focused straight ahead.
    “It fits me, Pop,” Dead-Eye said. “Don’t really know why. But it always has.”
    “I know,” Eddie said. “I was the one wastin’ breath tryin’ to talk you out of doing it.”
    “Sorry you didn’t?”
    “Sometimes,” Eddie said. “Whenever I hear about a white cop shooting another black kid. Everybody rushin’ in, from mayor to priest, lookin’ to clear the shooter’s name. Then they all go on the TV and talk about how killing a black teenager who might have had a gun was justified.”
    “It’s not always murder,” Dead-Eye said.
    “Most times it is,” Eddie said, turning to face his son. “You think about it at all?”
    “About what?” Dead-Eye asked. “Getting shot?”
    “They put you in these places alone,” Eddie said. “Then, if there’s any trouble, they supposed to be there for you. Back you up. Make sure you don’t die. Am I right so far?”
    “Pretty much,” Dead-Eye said.
    “You ever wonder what if they don’t show?” Eddie said. “What if they don’t want to risk their own white ass for some young black cop.”
    Dead-Eye sipped his hot chocolate and stayed quiet.
    “It’s a white man’s badge,” Eddie said. “Just because they let you have one don’t change that.”
    “Times change, Pop,” Dead-Eye said. “Old men like you forget that.”
    “But people never change, Davis,” Eddie said, standing up and putting the spent cigar back in his mouth. “And that’s something a young man like you should never forget. Not if you want to stay alive.”
    •    •    •
    T HE OFFER FROM the Spanish man in the funny hat made Magoo smile.
    Magoo was only twenty-six years old, but he already had control of all the illegal gun shipments moving in and out of New York City. In six years, starting as a street runner in a Queens housing project, Magoo had worked his way up the criminal ladder with bullet speed, killing anyone in his way, often with the very guns he sold them. He had a street force of more than four hundred men and women, each reporting to district subs who, in turn, handed over orders and proceeds to borough commanders.
    They then handed everything over to Magoo.
    Magoo had been raised in a series of foster homes,where he learned to trust no one. He especially hated cops and openly bragged about the three he himself had brought down, one of them a young undercover he made crawl on his knees and sing the theme from
Shaft
before putting three bullets in the back of his head.
    He knew very little about guns other than that they were in great demand and the right people on the wrong side of the law would pay any amount to get them. He hired only blacks and put a permanent price on loyalty. He stayed clear of drugs and drink, figuring his line of income was risky enough without supervising it through hazy eyes. He banked his cash past a laundering system that was run out of Toronto, flowed into Europe, and eased back into his private Manhattan account. Money meant everything to Magoo, and he made it his business to remove any threat to the cash flow.
    Davis “Dead-Eye” Winthrop was such a threat.
    •    •    •
    D EAD -E YE WAS A different man at home, caring for his wife, doting on his son.
    On many evenings before he hit the streets, Dead-Eye would make it a point to rock and cradle the four-month-old baby to sleep, then lay him in his crib, belly side down.
    He watched him sleep, the baby’s eyes twitching to a dream, his lips pursed, hands balled into fists. The boy, Eddie, had his mother’s pleasant smile and his grandmother’s sweet nature. Dead-Eye looked around the room, the stuffed toys bunched up on a corner window seat, soft dolls strewn around the floor. A warm room in a warm house. The house his father bought and paid for with hard work and now shared with his son and his family, keeping his own