Once a Crooked Man (23 page)

“Simple,” replied Enzo. “We relocate the guys we know here.” He glanced at the doubting faces around him. “Look.” He shoved aside the dishes. “It's like this.” He illustrated with a finger on the tabletop. “I would be in overall charge from here in Manhattan. We divide the country into sections. We assign someone we can trust to each one and let them pick a team. They will report directly to me here in New York.”

“You think he knows what happened in London?” asked Sal.

Rocco spoke up. “If he doesn't know now he will soon. Nothing gets by those guys.”

“He's right,” said Max. “We need to figure out what to say when he asks.”

“Not a problem,” said Enzo confidently.

Sal looked over at Rocco. “Did you wait to see the kid come back to his room?”

“What?” said Rocco.

“When you were in London.”

“No. I didn't,” answered Rocco. “It would have been too risky.”

Sal grunted. “I'd sure like to have been a fly on the wall when he opened that fucking closet. What do you suppose the bastard did?”

Rocco smirked. “Packed his things as fast as he could. Put as much distance as he could between himself and his apartment. No way he could ever explain the stiff in his closet. That was the beautiful part of it all. He had nothing to do with Santiago's death, but when they catch him his goose is truly cooked.”

“Why did you call the hotel?” asked Enzo. “What was that all about?”

“I did it in case the kid checked to see that Mr. Herbie Smith was a legit guest.”

Max tapped on the table. “I think we should reject the offer.”

“Well, I don't,” said Enzo loudly. “I think we should give it more consideration. Think it out.” He stood up and began to walk around the room. “Figure out how many guys we would need. I could buy an atlas. One that has one of those colored maps that show where people live. Make some choices.”

“Population densities,” said Sal.

“What?” said Enzo.

“Barnes and Noble,” said Sal.

Enzo stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Barnes and Noble,” Sal growled, “the bookstore. They got atlases.”

“Every bookstore's got fucking atlases for fuck's sake,” said Max.

Rocco's iPhone vibrated. To answer the call he went over to the far side of the room.

Enzo looked at Max and asked, “How you feeling these days?”

“Fine,” replied Max. “Never better. Who told you I was sick?”

“I don't remember.”

Max stared at him. “Why bring this up now?”

“All this sudden talk of getting out,” muttered Enzo. “Go figure.”

“And what if he did?” said Sal.

“Did what?”

“What if he thought about himself?” replied Sal. “That if he took it easy for a while maybe he could live a little longer! You got a problem with that?”

Rocco came back over with a puzzled expression on his face. “You're not gonna believe this,” he said, sitting in the booth. “You have a call from a Harry Murphy.”

For a moment no one moved. Then everyone looked at everyone else.

“No shit,” said Max.

“He's asking for you Max,” said Rocco.

“For me?”

“Yeah.”

“He's here in New York?” said Sal.

“Seems so,” said Rocco.

“Are you sure it's
the
Harry Murphy?” asked Max.

“Well I don't suppose there are a lot of Murphys around calling about a suitcase of money.”

“A suitcase of money?” said Enzo.

“Yeah. That's what he said. Karl says he sounds pretty crazy. Kind of spaced out.”

Enzo shook his head. “I don't believe I'm hearing this.”

“Me neither,” said Sal. “Are you sure it's not a plant?”

“No, I'm not sure,” replied Rocco. “But I can find out real quick.”

“Get him,” said Max. “I want to meet him.”

“One of us should talk to him first,” cautioned Enzo. “Let me take care of it.”

“Do it fast,” said Max. “I can't wait to meet this interfering son of a bitch!”

 

39

Her instructions were simple. Make the call and then use his initiative. Lizzie took a piece of paper out of her pocket. “That's where you go to make the next call.”

The north side of 25th Street
, he read.
The short block between Broadway and Fifth Avenue.
He looked up. “Why do I have to go all the way down there?”

“That's where Agent MacAvoy will have his men in position. Trained agents will watch you wherever you go. At the slightest sign of trouble they will move in and take over.

“Promise me one thing, Harry,” she said, coming close. “You won't make a move if you think it will get you into danger.”

Harry had no trouble crossing his heart and promising to be extremely careful. Thirty minutes later at the appointed spot he went through the now familiar routine with the coins.

Nasal Condition came on the line. “Is dis Murphy?”

Harry replied in the affirmative. The man sneezed and gave him a number to call. Harry dutifully dialed it and was connected to an officious female with a high-pitched voice.

“Is this Mr. Murphy?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Mr. Harry Murphy?”

“Yes,” he said a little louder.

“I am instructed to direct you to make your way by public transportation to the South Street Seaport where you will enter the main building and go to the top floor. At the souvenir shop you will purchase a rolled-up poster…”

“What are you talking about?” said a slightly confused Harry. “I said I wanted to talk with…”

“Sir! I am only instructed,” she said coldly, “to read you the directions in front of me.”

The game was changing. Did this violate Lizzie's mandate to avoid danger? No, he decided. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Start again, will you?”

The woman repeated the itinerary. This time Harry made notes. “Purchase a poster,” he murmured. “Then what?”

“Outside the store are the doors that lead to the balcony. On the balcony there are several benches. You will sit on the first bench on the left and place the poster on the seat beside you. Is this information clear or would you like me to read it again?”

“Quite clear,” he answered. “Thank you.”

And she was gone.

The plot thickened. With any luck it wasn't the first act of a tragedy. The Seaport would be very crowded in the evening and the perfect place for an assassination. Someone could walk up, put a gun in his ribs; there would be a muffled thud; his body would fall to the ground; passersby would scream. Harry would hear the wail of the ambulance as he struggled to stay conscious.

The curtain was definitely up. The late afternoon sun shone through the tops of the trees as he walked across Madison Square Park. Looking around, he tried to see if he could spot MacAvoy's trained agents, but there were few likely candidates. Slouched on a bench was a man wearing dark glasses under a Cleveland Indians cap. A security guard in a blue uniform chatted with a woman in a green uniform who was supposed to be sweeping the pathways. A mother talked volubly on her cellphone as she pushed along an empty stroller. A group of students from NYU photographed a boy on a bicycle carrying a huge unfurled Star-Spangled Banner. An inert couple lay entwined on the grass.

From the park Harry headed along 23rd Street to the subway entrance on Park Avenue where he pushed through the turnstile and onto the platform. When the train arrived it was packed. Harry was careful to move aboard slowly to give his invisible minders time to keep up. When the train pulled into the Brooklyn Bridge station everyone squeezed out and headed up the stairs.

At the exit, a Middle Eastern girl with a dirty face sat cross-legged clutching a baby. An older child in soiled clothes lay fast asleep at her side. The mother reached out a hand in supplication. As a rule Harry never gave to the homeless, but right then he needed all the luck he could get, so he reached in his pocket for his money clip and peeled off a twenty.

Once out on the streets and past J&R Music World, he turned left onto Fulton Street and began to walk as if he were upset and angry. Occasionally he slapped his right thigh in frustration. The Seaport came in sight. A row of stanchions delineated the cobbled roadway as a pedestrian mall. On either side were brand stores and open-air restaurants. The crowd thickened and forced him to move more slowly.

As he crossed South Street he wondered about the poster. Why did they want him to buy it? What significance could it have? By now he was no doubt under observation by both the good and the bad guys.

In the center of a group of tourists on the pier an elderly musician wailed on his saxophone. Some clapped their hands; others happily swayed to the music. Above their heads rose the masts of two massive sailing ships. Harry's progress was slow as he weaved his way through the crowd and over to the mall entrance. Once through the two sets of swing doors he found himself in the cool interior and at the foot of an escalator. On the top floor he entered the souvenir shop and picked a poster from the rack in the corner. The exact change was handed over and he ambled outside to the bench on the balcony.

As instructed, he sat down and laid the poster at his side. On any other occasion he would have enjoyed the view of the shores of Brooklyn bathed in the evening sunshine. Now he was more concerned about what was coming next. He didn't have to wait long. A kid carrying a skateboard adorned with bright graffiti popped up in front of him. Without a word, a slip of paper was dropped in his lap. Harry watched the boy whiz away to the escalator and then picked up the note and unfolded it.

Go to the pay phones northwest corner of 62nd and Lexington. Keep this paper with you.

Puzzled, he stared at it for a moment. Back uptown? It all seemed so pointless. Or were they simply being especially careful to make sure he was alone?

Back on the ground floor he crossed the pier and took a more direct route back to the subway station. The doors were just about to close on an uptown express. Harry ran down the stairs. But halfway down alarm bells sounded in his head. The minders! Using a technique he'd been taught by a stuntman at MGM, he tripped realistically, tucked in his head and arms and rolled down the last few steps to the platform. Jumping to his feet, he cursed audibly at his bad luck at missing the train and dusted himself off.

The next train took him to Lexington Avenue. Two blocks north on 62nd Street, Town Cars and limousines were parked everywhere, their drivers chatting and drinking coffee. A youth in an AIDS Walk T-shirt hosed down the sidewalk in front of the flower stall of the corner Korean market. Harry crossed over to the designated payphones. The right-hand one rang as he stepped up on the curb. He glanced around before taking the receiver off the hook.

“Take a cab,” instructed Nasal Condition. “Go to the Delta Airlines Shuttle at LaGuardia. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Harry, and he hung up.

Now what? Why the airport? Were they going to ask him to get on a plane? He doubted it. Probably they were going to use the crowds to make contact. A vacant cab cruised slowly past the curb. Harry raised his hand and the driver pulled up. Harry climbed in.

“LaGuardia,” he said. “Delta. The shuttle.”

The driver waited until the light was green and then cut obliquely across the traffic and headed fast down Lexington as Harry did up his seat belt. Three blocks later they made a left towards the 59th Street Bridge.

Suddenly he was aware that instinct had overcome caution and he was now very much alone. He hoped he hadn't moved too precipitously. What should he do? Best thing would be to get out as soon as they were off the bridge and take a short walk. This would allow his security detail to catch up.

On 21st Street he rapped on the plastic partition. The man ignored him and increased speed. Harry tried the doors but they were locked and unyielding. Suddenly he was thrown against the partition as the driver braked hard and made an abrupt turn into a car wash. The front wheels bumped into the track. The car wash mechanism pulled the cab forward with a jerk.

Long strips of thick wet material swung back and forward, beating, like severed limbs, against the windows and roof. Flailing brushes spun against the side of the cab and cascading water lashed down. The door beside him was suddenly opened. The water sprayed in, soaking his clothes.

“Now just a fucking minute!” yelled Harry as two big arms reached in and dragged him out. A strip of gray tape was slapped over his mouth by an unshaven hulk with vivid red hair. Harry's arms were pinioned behind his back and tied with rope and he was dragged back to another cab that had pulled in behind the first. Both men lifted him up bodily and dropped him into the trunk. As he fell, the lid was slammed shut and his head hit sharp steel.

In the darkness Harry could feel a wet trickle of blood running across his forehead. What was worse, the tape over his mouth partly covered his nostrils and cut off his breathing. Tucking his chin down against his shirt he tried to push the tape free. The nauseating smell of a new tire filled the cramped space. A small amount of air leaked into the trunk from the outside, but this was mixed with exhaust fumes.

Trussed up like a chicken and very short of oxygen, Harry broke into a profuse sweat. His heart labored frantically to pump blood around his system. His skull felt as if it were going to explode. Harry retched a couple of times, partly from the stench and partly from fear.

Panic had to be avoided. Survival would be impossible unless he was in full possession of his faculties. MacAvoy's men would certainly have lost the trail by now, so if he threw up he would probably suffocate on his own vomit.

Above him, whirring dryers blew the moisture off the paintwork. A couple more bumps followed and then a heavy jolt as the cab swung left out of the car wash. The whole exchange had taken less than three minutes. Concentrating on the sounds outside, he sensed the turns and was able to get a rough idea of which way they were going. Across the 59th Street Bridge. Down the ramp and back into Manhattan. Straight for a while. Right on Third and then a left, probably 66th Street, as this seemed to take them through the park to the West Side.