Murdam wasn’t hired to bug the Lunts. He did that on his own initiative. He was getting a lot of witness intimidation work lately, which was bothering him. There were some new players in town, and he couldn’t figure out their game. They were smarter, more subtle than the eastern syndicates. And smarter than Murdam, which bothered him the most.
Lunt was a member of the police monitoring board, assigned by the city to investigate allegations of police abuse and corruption. Murdam could tell he was already on the take, so someone either has an interest in what kinds of instances Lunt was willing to take graft, or force him to make decisions he otherwise didn’t have the stomach for.
Two days later he picked up the digital recorder attached to the receiver he had planted in the shed of an abandoned house a few blocks away. He was in his car skimming through Mrs. Lunt’s phone conversations when one of Murdam’s cell phones rang. It took him several rings to find the right phone. It was a burner, an untraceable prepaid phone that he used when he needed to give a number to a contact. This one he used for a handful of low-level informants and contacts, mostly drug dealers and bums.
He answered. “What.”
“Stonewall? Stonewall, it’s me, Deuce.” Deuce was a crackhead with a very good memory for names and faces, which Murdam used when he needed information on several of the projects in VC. A good enough memory that Murdam had no intention of giving him his real name. Deuce came up with Stonewall himself after he once accidentally walked into Murdam and bounced to the sidewalk.
“What the fuck do you want, Deuce?”
“I need to see you right away, man. I can’t talk right now.”
“Then call me later.”
“I just need to see you, man.”
“Well, I don’t need to see you. Do you have a reason to use up my minutes?”
“Um, it’s a job. I gotta line on a job, but I can’t do it over the phone.” A little too desperate, Murdam thought, but addicts usually are. Deuce must be hoping for a finder’s fee. Except he didn’t know what Murdam’s racket was. Despite his memory, Deuce wasn’t especially bright, but even he probably noticed that the people Murdam paid to know about often ended up missing or dead.
“So I’m getting work from you now?”
“Huh,” Deuce murmured, mouth turned away from the phone. Murdam strained to hear if there was anyone else with Deuce on the line. “Look, man, I swear I’ll make it worth your while.”
Murdam recognized that level of desperation, the timbre of fear in his voice. He had learned his business from other people’s mistakes: give a man a good cooling off period after the beatings and threats before you force him to make a phone call.
“Ok, Deuce. Text me the address where you want to meet, and don’t call me again.” Murdam hung up, then started counting seconds. The address came less than a minute later. He, or they, fucked up in all kinds of ways.
The address was for warehouse near the docks. Not a bar or coffee shop or convenience store, but a warehouse. Not the place people casually meet for a chat. Also, between Deuce’s shakes and near illiteracy, he could probably manage a text eventually, but not that quickly.
Deuce either had a silent partner helping him out, or more likely forcing him.