Free Horns of the Devil - Jeff Trask [02] by Marc Rainer Page B

citizen by birth, even though both his parents had been Salvadoran immigrants. He had spent enough time in El Salvador with the Mara chieftains learning his trade and fighting the ARENA government’s forces, but his US citizenship had been a factor in the commanders choosing him to head the Washington clique. The less jeopardy a subordinate faced, either in jail time or through other government leverage, the less likely he was to fold under the pressure of a federal prosecution if caught.
    The crates were all unloaded. Ortega barked an order, and the worker bees began lugging the lengths of copper tubing off the trucks and into the building.

    From the green Buick parked behind a strip mall about one hundred yards to the south, Detective Dixon Carter raised his eyes just above the bottom edge of the driver’s window and focused his binoculars on the activity in the rear of the car wash. He was alone.
    Pipes? Makes sense, I guess…It’s supposed to be a car wash, after all. Helluva lot of them, though. They could redo the plumbing in my whole subdivision with that much copper…What the hell?
    Carter felt the cell phone vibrating in the pouch on his belt. He always had it set to vibrate. Surveillances like this, court appearances, movies…all required silence. Judges hated it if your phone rang during a trial or hearing, and Carter hated it more when a cell gave away his position on a stakeout. He sank back down in his seat and answered the call.
    “Carter.”
    “Dix, turn your dome light off and don’t shoot me. I’m about to open your passenger door.”
    Carter turned to his right and saw the face looking over the edge of the passenger side window. He flipped the switch so the light would not activate, then nodded. Tim Wisniewski, dressed in black from head to foot and wearing a black stocking cap, climbed in and sank down into the reclined bucket seat.
    “What the hell are you doing here?” Carter demanded. “And where’d you get that outfit? Ninjas-R-Us?”
    “I’m supposed to follow you around, partner. Orders of the triumvirate,” Wisniewski said.
    “The what?”
    “Your masters. Sivella, Doroz, and Trask.”
    “Never say ‘master’ to a black man.”
    “Sorry. Massa then.”
    “You’re asking for it tonight, aren’t you?”
    “Give it a rest. I’m half Pole, half Irish. If it weren’t for you black guys, I’d still be a member of two oppressed minorities myself. You ever hear the one about the Polish fighter pilots in World War II?”
    “You don’t expect me to tell a step-and-fetch-it joke after it, do you?”
    “Nope. Anyway, there were these three Polish fighter pilots stuck in a Warsaw ghetto, their planes had been blown to hell by the Blitzkrieg, and they’re sitting there in their little apartment feeling all depressed and guzzling vodka. They got drunk and figured they needed to whip somebody’s butt. They saw a rat run across the floor and into a rat hole, so they drew up a formal declaration of war on the rats, rolled it up, and crammed it into the rat hole. They figured they’d identified an enemy they could whip. By the next morning, two of ’em were POWs and the other one had a war bride.”
    Carter didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help laughing.
    “I know all the best Polish jokes,” Wisniewski said. “Just let me know when you’re ready for another one. What and who are we watching?”
    “ I ,” Carter corrected, “have been watching the local clique of MS-13 in their relocation efforts following the fiery demise of the deli they used to run. You should be watching the insides of your eyelids. I don’t recall inviting you.”
    “Like I said, the triumvirate commands, and I obey. No surveillance van tonight? Might be more comfortable.”
    “I wasn’t expecting company. How’d you know where to find me?”
    “Didn’t. I had to follow your ass out here. You don’t check your six very often do you? Traffic was awful light, and I’m sure you would have