by L. T. Ryan
"Hungry?" he asked.
She nodded, then stuck her feet over the edge of the bed. "Can I get a shower first?"
He jutted his chin toward the bathroom. "All yours, kid."
Twenty minutes later, Mandy had showered and dressed, and Bear had finished his second cup of coffee. They left the room empty-handed. The rain had let up, rending an umbrella moot. And he kept all important documents on him, not left behind.
Bear placed the do-not-disturb sign on the knob, and a small piece of tape at the bottom of the door, connected to the frame. If someone entered while they were gone, the tape would break off from one side. Not foolproof, but good enough.
Both scavenged at the complimentary breakfast bar, grabbing croissants and pastries. Bear grabbed two to-go cups. One he filled with coffee, the other orange juice. Mandy exclaimed when he handed her the hot cup.
"Sorry, kid. Take this one."
She scowled at him, but the look, like the pain, quickly faded.
Inattention would get them killed if he didn't get it together.
Outside, Mandy took a bite of croissant, then said, "Where're we going?"
Bear glanced down and shook his head. "Swallow your food first."
She rolled her eyes, swallowed. "OK?"
"OK."
"Where are we going?" she asked again.
"Hospital."
"All right." The words dragged out like she had a southern drawl, but without the accent.
"Going to visit a friend."
"Pierre?" she asked.
Bear stared ahead, said nothing.
"Shoot," Mandy said. "I'm sorry. No names. Ever."
Sometimes training takes a while.
A cab approached. Bear stepped into the road, taking up a third of the narrow street and blocking the driver's path. He and Mandy slid into the backseat, and Bear gave the driver the name of the hospital.
No one spoke during the fifteen-minute trip. Better that way, of course. Mandy would too often let things slip she shouldn't reveal. He always tried not to chastise her in public for it. Bear supposed he was the same way at one time. Maybe. He hadn't been much of a talker at that age. Friends weren't easy to come by when you stood a head taller and scared the daylights out of the other kids, even if unintentionally. Wasn't until he dominated on the football field that he found a group to become part of.
Of course, that hadn't lasted long.
Then, down at Parris Island during Recruit Training, people liked him because they feared him. Even the drill instructor gave him less shit than the other maggots. The only one who didn't back down from him was Jack. And that became the basis of a lifelong friendship.
Even if they didn't speak these days.
The breakup was for Mandy's sake. At least, Bear told himself that. He knew that Jack feared he would be the cause of Bear's downfall one day. And frankly, Bear wouldn't argue the point.
The driver pulled up to the curb in front of the hospital's main entrance. Two men hung out by the double doors, smoking. An elderly woman walked past and took one hand off her walker to wave the smoke away from her face. Bear exited, followed by Mandy on the same side of the vehicle. Together, they walked around the woman and past the men and through the automatic doors and continued toward the information desk.
Bear walked up to the middle-aged woman manning the counter. A forced smile was plastered across her face. He spoke to her in French.
"Can you tell me which room Pierre Allard is in?"
She continued to smile. Her eyes, minimized by way of her thick glasses, shifted toward the computer screen. As she typed, her face drew tight. "Did you say Allard last name, Pierre first name?"
"Yeah. His room?"
"I'm sorry. It appears he checked out two weeks ago."
"Give me his address."
She leaned back as though he had tried to take a swing at her. When Bear placed an arm on the counter and started to lean over it, the woman, who couldn't have weighed more than a buck-ten, moved forward to block the screen.
"Sir, we cannot divulge such information."
Without taking his focus off the woman, Bear said, "Mandy, go wait outside."
"What? No way."
"Do it, Mandy."
Her footsteps faded as she backed away, turned and headed toward the main entrance. She might have cursed under her breath. Bear made a mental note that he had to watch is own language around her. Not that she hadn't heard any of it before. And she'd hear plenty of it later.
"Sir, I'm going to be forced to call security."
Bear pushed away from the counter. "Reasonable minds can come to reasonable resolutions."
"Excuse me?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a hundred euros in bills, then placed the wad of cash on the counter. "Just give me an address. Pierre Allard's address. Take the money, get yourself a nice outfit, maybe a facial, or some glasses from this century. I don't care what you do with it, frankly, I just want his address. I know you can see why he was admitted. I was there. I had to leave the country, but now I'm back, and I want to make sure he's all right and help him out if I can."
"Sir…" She looked around. Her cheeks had grown red. Sweat coated her forehead. A few people seated in blue chairs glanced over. "I…"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out another stack of bills. One by one he laid them on the counter. Ten. Twenty. Fifty more euros. The woman's eyes continued to dart around, presumably on the lookout for security, or her supervisor, or just taking in all the attention they had drawn.
"Sir, this is embarrassing. Please stop."
"The address, please, then I'm gone."
She reached for a notebook and pulled a black pen out of an empty coffee mug that read "#1 Grandma."
"I could get fired for this," she said, tearing the paper out of the notebook.
"You let me know if you do. I'll make sure you get your job back."
Bear backed away and glanced toward the entrance. The doors stood open due to Mandy hovering directly in the path of the sensor. He glanced at the address on the paper, then tucked it in his pocket.
Chapter 11
New York City.
CHARLES STOOD IN front of the Washington Square fountain with his right arm crossed over his chest, left hand covering his mouth. The wind blew an enveloping mist toward him. Most days he'd have thrown a fit over getting wet. But today he had on chinos and a golf shirt. Overdressed, as far as the heat was concerned. Under his clothing, sweat raced down the middle of his back, and coated his inner thighs.
"This fucking weather," he said to the man next to him. "Anyway, you're sure it's my guy?"
The guy nodded, gestured with his head toward the field to the north. Both men started that way.
The duo made an odd couple. Harris was a twenty-plus-year veteran of the NYPD. For more than half that time he'd managed to remain uncorrupted. He'd known Charles when the guy wasn't even considered a thug. Met the Old Man through him. Eventually, the Old Man had made a persuasive enough argument. The kind that went beyond money, and involved Harris's wife and kids. Even his dog at the time. The detective could've fought back. Might've won. It would have been a hollow victory, for he would have lost something, or someone, in the process. Harris had been smart enough to know that. And now with Feng out of the picture, he fell right in line and did whatever Charles needed. The organization paid him handsomely. So much so, that when Harris got word of two men found partially burned and beaten and stabbed and bludgeoned to death in upstate New York, he called Charles rather than revealing that he knew the identity of one of the men.
A short walk later, the men found an unoccupied corner of the park. Charles sat down on a well-worn bench. Harris joined him, then pulled out his smartphone and tapped on the screen.
"They just emailed these to me." He handed the device to Charles.
"Christ." He scrolled through the images of two men beaten so badly he couldn't recognize them. At first, at least. The charred, flabby b
elly obviously belonged to Endrizzi. But the other body, he couldn't tell. "Can you zoom these or something?"
Harris reached for the phone. The detective pinched and spread his fingers on the screen. "There you go."
Charles stared at the picture. No doubt in his mind that the identity of the other man was Milano. Same as Endrizzi, the guy's stomach was charred, and his legs looked worse than fried chicken. His face only had soot and ash on it, but damn if the guy's mug wasn't smashed beyond recognition. What gave him away was the cloak-and-dagger tattoo on Milano's forearm.
"Some hunters driving around on trails nearby spotted the smoke. Led them to the blaze a few minutes after it got started. They had a couple coolers full of ice and water. Used that and some blankets to get the fire under control. The fire department was only three miles down the road. They took the rest. Didn't matter to your guys, though. They were already dead. Pretty good job on the one. Waiting to hear what the fat guy died from."
"Endrizzi."
"Yeah, Endrizzi. I met him once. Who's the other guy?"
"Milano."
"You fucking kidding me?"
"No, why?"
"Our kids play soccer together. His wife and mine even get together for bridge or some shit every once in a while."
Charles looked up from the picture.
"Don't look at me like that," Harris said. "Milano and I had no other dealings outside of what you authorized."
Charles said nothing. He stared off, past a group of kids walking past them thirty yards off. All of them wore red shirts with a black logo of some kind over the right side of the chest.
"What is it?" Harris said. "This ain't the first time you've lost some good soldiers. Something you're not telling me?"
Charles squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Just a lot to take in, Harris. No matter how many times it happens, you don't get used to it." He paused, then added, "These hunters, they say anything else? Like they saw someone fleeing the scene, or anything that would've indicated a car or truck had been there? Footprints?"
"It was dark. And I doubt they were concerned about such things at the time."
For a few minutes they sat in silence. The warm breeze blew the sweat around on Charles's forehead, never cooling it. A wave of diesel fumes reminded him he was still in the heart of the center of the universe.
"What was they doing up there, anyway?" Harris asked.
"Going up to the reservation to play blackjack or some shit."
"Huh."
"Huh, what?"
"Well, why not AC?"
"Endrizzi's got, or had, a girl down there he's been trying to avoid. Knocked her up and wouldn't admit to it. She ain't got the balls to come up here and have him served with a paternity suit. He feared she was gonna track him down if he showed up in Atlantic City and kill him or something. I dunno."
"So, you think it's worth looking into this woman?"
Charles reached back and grabbed the base of his neck. "As a suspect? Why would she follow them five hours upstate? How would she even know?"
Harris shrugged. "Just searching, man. You wouldn't be holding anything back from me now, would you?"
"This questioning?" Charles extended his arm like he was about to deliver a backhanded blow to the detective. "I just lost two guys and you-"
"Keep it down." Harris pressed down against the air between them with both hands. "Already bad enough I'm meeting you out here in broad daylight."
Charles rotated his wrist back and forth a couple times, then glanced down at his watch. He had nothing planned, but the detective's questioning left him itching to go. "I got someplace to be in an hour, Harris. Need to wash up and stuff first. This meeting is over."
"I can walk with you."
Charles looked around. "Nah. Don't think that's a good idea. We've been seen together long enough now. Anymore and people are gonna think we've got something going on."
Harris remained seated after Charles rose and started toward the fountain. "Don't turn your phone off, got it? I might need to reach you for a little more information."
Charles stopped, turned, said, "Why don't you leave the investigation, if there's gonna be one, up to me? You five-oh types get all worked up about a couple of dead gangsters when you should be celebrating two more of my kind are off the street. Just forget about it, all right?"
Harris rebutted, but Charles didn't hear the man's words. He'd noticed for the first time the Fed hanging around just past the first couple trees. The detective's words trailed off as Charles trudged on in search of a crowd to get lost in.
Chapter 12
New York City.
JACK LEFT HIS apartment around two in the afternoon without a clear set of plans for how he'd spend the rest of the day. Of the people he knew remaining in the city, there was little desire to visit any of them. With that crowd came problems. Problems with the law. Problems with people opposed to the law. Unforeseen problems. Laying low would work out better than inviting unwanted attention into his life.
But even low had its limits. And Jack had reached it.
Today saw no respite from the heat. Same for the humidity. If anything, it felt worse. Within a block, he regretted wearing pants. But he didn't turn back. A little distance would be a good thing and there was only one way to get it.
He stopped into a local deli to cool off, then negated the effect by having a grilled sub followed by two cups of black coffee. The brew had been on the burner too long and left a bitter aftertaste. The waitress left it off the bill even though Jack hadn't complained.
After eating, he cut through Central Park, westbound, and visited the American Museum of Natural History. In his teenage years, he'd narrowed down his college selections based on their archeology programs. Florida State had the program he wanted. And they were willing to offer him a full football scholarship. The Marines won. Even though post-secondary education wasn't in the cards, Jack's interest in pre-history never faded.
And he much preferred it to current technology, despite his recent somewhat successful attempts to learn more.
Exiting the museum, he spotted a man positioned across the street. The guy looked out of place, like he'd forced himself to dress like a tourist, but was uncomfortable without fatigues and shoulder and thigh holsters. The guy glanced in Jack's direction. Wasn't much, but it lasted a hair too long. Jack merged into the steady stream of pedestrian traffic, headed west on 77th, away from the guy, then north on Columbus. Twice he glanced back at the man. The first time, the guy remained perched on the stairs leading into a clothing shop. Jack tried to convince himself that the man was waiting outside while his wife shopped. A bead of sweat streamed down Jack's cheek.
Who waits outside on a day like this?
His second glance revealed that the man had started moving west as well. And it also yielded a flash of recognition. He'd seen him in the Park. Thought nothing of it at the time. He saw lots of people in the park. Why hadn't the guy stood out then? He recalled the countless faces he'd passed since then. Impossible to store them all in accessible memory. For all Jack knew, the guy'd been tailing him since he left the apartment. Maybe even before that. Maybe since the odd meeting yesterday morning.
Columbus was one-way and ran south. A cab would take him right past the guy. On the one hand, he'd get a better look. On the other, it'd do the same for the man tailing him.
If he still followed along.
Jack ignored the incessant itch to look back.
At 81st, he turned right, headed east, quickening his pace. Traffic stood still in the middle of the street. Jack cut across mid-block, weaving past front and rear bumpers. Once on the other side, he darted under the dark blue awning of The Excelsior Hotel. The circular rotating front door offered no resistance. As the pane of glass behind him cut him off from the outside world, he glanced back, searching through the maze of vehicles and pedestrians, looking for the guy who'd watched him.
Had Jack lost him? Or had he given up after being made?
; In the mirror, the reflection of two employees dressed in khaki slacks and white shirts hovered around ten or so feet behind Jack. Both covered their mouths with their outer hands as they spoke. Their words were indecipherable, but the mirror images of the men were clear enough that he saw their eyes focused on him.
One of them stepped forward.
"Help you, sir?" Shy. Timid. His voice cracked. Had he even hit puberty yet?
Jack looked back and made eye contact with the young Hispanic guy and said nothing. Didn't need to. These two were bellhops. Maybe the concierge had sent them over to check Jack out. Perhaps they did it on their own volition. Whatever the reason, they weren't in a position to do anything, and they posed no threat.
So he turned back toward the street and performed a quick scan of the sidewalk, road, opposite sidewalk and the Teddy Roosevelt Park. Nothing. He turned his attention to the multitude of vehicles in front of him. Quickly, one-by-one, he looked past the clear and tinted windows. Half-way through, someone broke his concentration.
"Sir, do you need some assistance?" Deep. Smokey. Spoken with authority. Like he had a set and could tip a table with them.
Jack turned and faced a third man. Six-three and three hundred pounds, at least. How had he not spotted him on the approach?
Tunnel vision.
The big guy took a few steps forward. Jack held steady. Grease stained the guy's denim coveralls. His face and hands, too. He added to the mess when he wiped his cheek while asking Jack once again if he needed assistance.
"Maybe you should turn around and go wash up," Jack said. "This place has a reputation to uphold."
The two men in khakis looked at each other. Shock on their faces. No one spoke to Grease Stain like that. His presence alone was supposed to whip Jack into answering them. The tower of a man approached. Jack still held steady. He choked a bit as a wave of body odor washed past. The big man reached out and placed his hand on Jack's shoulder.
"Get your dirty paw off me," Jack said.
The guy squeezed, said nothing.
"You see my right hand?"