The Reapers

He flicked through some photographs on the table before him: undercover policemen, some of them probably Russian speakers. They were determined, if nothing else. He would have them identified to see if there was some way of putting pressure on them through their families. The police were drawing ever closer to him. After years of ineffectual moves against him, they had been given a break. Two of his men had died in Maine the previous winter, along with two intermediaries. Their deaths had exposed a small but lucrative part of the Priest’s Boston operation: pornography and prostitution involving minors. He had been forced to cease providing both services, and the result had affected, in turn, the smuggling of women and children into the country, which meant that the inevitable attrition of his stable of whores, and the stables of others, could not be arrested. He was hemorrhaging money, and he did not like it. Others were suffering, too, and he knew that they blamed him. Now his club stank of excrement and it would only be a matter of time before the dead men were finally co

But word had reached him that there might be a solution to at least one of his problems. All of this had started because a private detective in Maine could not mind his own business. Killing him would not get rid of the police-it might even increase the pressure upon him for a time-but it would at least serve as a warning to his persecutors and to those who might be tempted to testify against him, as well as giving the Priest a little personal satisfaction along the way.

There was a shout from the doorway in Russian: “Boss, they are here.”

One week earlier, a man had arrived at the offices of Big Earl’s Cleaning & Drain Services, Inc., on Nostrand Avenue. He had not entered through the brightly carpeted, fragrant-smelling lobby. Instead, he had walked around the side of the building to the maintenance yard and waste-treatment area.

This area did not smell at all fragrant.

He entered the garage and climbed a flight of steps to a glass booth. Inside was a desk, a range of mismatched filing cabinets, and two cork boards covered with invoices, letters, and a pair of out-of-date calendars featuring women in a state of undress. Seated behind the desk was a tall, thin man in a white shirt offset by a green and yellow polyester tie. His hair was Grecian-formula brown, and he was fiddling compulsively with his pen, the sure sign of a smoker deprived, however temporarily, of his drug. He looked up as the door opened and the visitor entered. The new arrival was of below-average height, and dressed in a navy peacoat buttoned to the neck, a pair of torn, faded jeans, and bright red sneakers. He had a three-day growth of beard, but wore it in a ma

“You trying to quit?” asked the visitor.

“Huh?”

“You trying to give up cigarettes?”

The man looked at the pen in his right hand as if almost surprised that there wasn’t a cigarette there.

“Yeah, that’s right. Wife’s been at me to do it for years. The doc, too. Thought I’d give it a try.”

“You should use those nicotine patches.”

“Can’t get them to light. What can I do for you?”

“Earl around?”

“Earl’s dead.”

The visitor looked shocked. “No way. When did he die?”

“Two months ago. Cancer of the lung.” He coughed embarrasedly. “Kind of why I decided to give up. My name’s Jerry Marley, Earl’s brother. I came on board to help out when Earl got sick, and I’m still here. Earl a friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance.”

“Well, guess he’s gone to a better place now.”

The visitor looked around the little office. Beyond the glass, two men in masks and coveralls were cleaning pipes and tools. He wrinkled his nose as the stink reached him.

“Hard to believe,” said the visitor.

“Ain’t it though. So, what can I do for you?”

“You unclog drains?”

“That’s right.”

“So if you know how to unclog them, then you must know how to clog them as well.”

Jerry Marley looked momentarily puzzled, and then anger replaced puzzlement. He stood up. “You get the hell out of here before I call the cops. This is a business, dammit. I got no time for people trying to cause other people trouble.”

“I hear your brother wasn’t so particular about who he worked with.”

“Hey, you keep your mouth shut about my brother.”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way. It was one of the things I liked about him. It made him useful.”

“I don’t give a shit. Get out of here, you-”

“Maybe I should introduce myself,” said the visitor. “My name is Angel.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn what-” Marley stopped talking as he realized that he did, in fact, give a good goddamn. He sat down again.

“I guess Earl might have mentioned me.”

Marley nodded. He looked a little paler than before. “You, and another fella.”

“Oh, he’s around somewhere. He’s-” Angel searched for the right word. “-cleaner than I am. No offense meant, but his clothes cost more than mine. The smell, y’know, it gets in the fabric.”

“I know,” said Marley. He began to babble, but couldn’t stop himself. “I don’t notice it so much no more. My wife, she makes me take my clothes off in the garage before I come in the house. Have to shower straightaway. Even then, she says she can still smell it on me.”

“Women,” said Angel. “They’re sensitive like that.”

There was a brief silence. It was almost companionable, except that Jerry Marley’s desire for a cigarette had suddenly increased beyond the capacity of any mortal man to resist.

“So,” said Angel. “About those drains…”

Marley raised a hand to stop him. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“I thought you were giving up,” said Angel.

“So did I.”

Angel shrugged. “I guess it must be a stressful job.”

“Sometimes,” said Marley.

“Well, I don’t want to add to it.”

“God forbid.”

“But I do need a favor, and I’ll do you a favor in return.”

“Right. And what would that be?”

“Well, if you do me my favor, I won’t come back again.”

Jerry Marley thought about it for less than half a second.

“That seems fair,” he said.

For a moment, Angel looked a little sad. He was hurt that everyone seemed to leap at that deal when it was offered.

Marley seemed to guess what he was thinking. “Nothing personal,” he added, apologetically.

“No,” said Angel, and Marley got the sense that the visitor was thinking of something else entirely. “It never is.”

The two men who entered the Priest’s den a week later were not what he had expected, but then the Priest had learned that nothing was ever quite as he might have expected it to be. The first was a black man dressed in a gray suit that looked as if it was being worn for the first time. His black patent leather shoes shone brightly, and a black silk tie was knotted perfectly at the collar of his spotlessly white shirt. He was clean shaven and exuded a faint scent of cloves and incense that was particularly appealing to the Priest under his current, excrementally tainted, circumstances.

Behind him was a smaller man, possibly of Hispanic origin, wearing an amiable smile that briefly distracted from the fact that his clothes had seen better days: no-name denims, last year’s sneakers, and a padded jacket that was obviously of good quality but was more suited to someone two decades younger and two sizes larger.

“They’re clean,” said Vassily, once the two men had submitted, with apparent good grace, to a frisking. Vassily was deceptively compact and his features were gentle and delicate. He moved with speed and grace, and was one of the Priest’s most trusted acolytes, another Ukrainian with brains and ambition, although not so much ambition that it might pose a threat to his employer.