Parallax

by Jon F. Merz

  He checked his watch as he walked.

  3:15.

  Plenty of time.

  He turned right at the intersection of JFK Street and walked along the wooden fence. All around him people swam by. And Stahl simply disappeared in their midst. He was a nobody, after all. Just another face in the crowd. Just another passer-by, passing-by.

  He turned right again and walked across the main concourse by Memorial Drive. Students hurried across the melting slush toward the school. A few lunatics hung out playing Frisbee on the snowy grass, laughing and spilling into snowdrifts as they scrambled to get the flying disc.

  Stahl reached the main doors and pulled one open, passing through. A disinterested security guard sipped coffee on a barstool near the front door. Stahl frowned. The poor guy must have been frozen.

  In the event of a crisis, the guard's reaction time would be utterly ineffective.

  He paused by the bulletin board. Notices of roommates wanted, items for trade or sale, textbooks, and party flyers all wrestled for attention. Stahl moved one of the notices and read the small pink 3×5-index card stuck to the board with five pushpins arranged in special order.

  Stahl read the note and then removed the card, pocketing it as he walked downstairs to the men's toilet.

  Inside, two students spoke while they pissed at a line of urinals along the wall. Stahl pushed into the third stall, dropped his pants and sat down.

  And waited.

  The two pairs of feet cleared out.

  Stahl reached behind the basin. His hand closed around the plastic-wrapped package. He jerked down and the package came loose in his hand. He looked down and unwrapped it.

  Inside the newspaper and plastic, Stahl found a small pistol with a suppressor, two extra magazines, a holster, and a box of ammunition.

  He dropped the magazine out of the gun, jacked the slide to eject the chambered round. Stahl examined the gun in detail, checking the springs and trigger. Satisfied, he placed the loose round back into the magazine, slid it home, chambered a round and then dropped the magazine out again and topped it off with another round before reinserting it.

  Stahl had been in enough situations where one extra bullet often meant the difference between life and death. He always topped off.

  He stood, pulled up his pants and positioned the holster so it slid around to just behind his right hip. Stahl frowned. He'd never worn it there before. He shrugged, buckled his belt and slid his overcoat back on. The pistol, longer with the suppressor screwed onto the barrel, went into his pocket. The spare ammunition and extra magazines he carefully wrapped in toilet paper so they wouldn't make noise when he walked. He stuffed those into his other pockets.

  Back outside, he let himself be sucked into the slipstream of students headed toward the John Adams School of Government. He checked his watch.

  4:02

  He smiled to himself. Perfect.

  A brisk breeze blew off the Charles River making Stahl shiver for a second. The winter blasts caught people hurrying to class. Stahl sped up.

  He reached the main entrance to the school and passed through the doorway. Room 202.

  Upstairs.

  He climbed the steps, stopped at floor two and walked into the main hallway. At another restroom, Stahl paused inside to pull on his balaclava, keeping it rolled up so it looked like a knit cap. He didn't want to have to kill unless it was necessary. He hoped it wouldn't be.

  But he had no way of knowing how this was going to go down.

  He checked his watch.

  4:05.

  Time for class.

  He waited inside a stall for another ten minutes, giving the late arrivals time to get to class. At last, he left the bathroom and walked down the hall toward room 202.

  His footsteps made no noise.

  The hallway was deserted.

  At room 202, he opened the door.

  He saw her.

  Speaking.

  The woman stopped when she saw Stahl. "Can I help you?"

  "Excuse me," said Stahl. "Is this Politics in Revolutionary America?"

  "It's a class on early-20th century imperialism. You want the class down the hall."

  Stahl smiled. "Pardon me, I'm new to the school. Still trying to find my way around this fine institution."

  The woman's face changed. Her jaw tightened. "I'll show you the way." She turned and apologized to the class and then stepped off the podium toward Stahl. "This way."

  Outside of the class, she glanced up and down the hallway. Then she spun around, her right hand a sudden edge against Stahl's throat. The force and speed of the move backed him up against the wall.

  Her eyes bore into him. "Who the hell are you?"

  Stahl smiled. "You don't recognize me? Good. At least the surgeons did what they were paid to do."

  She eyed him. "You have a vague German accent. But that recognition code fell out of use almost fifteen years ago."

  "You recognized it, though."

  "Well, we never really had much choice."

  "You don't remember Milan? The Israeli trade union?"

  Her eyes gleamed. Her hand went slack and she backed away from him. "Not you. It's not possible."

  Stahl smiled. "Anything is possible."

  "Javier?"

  "It's Ernst now."

  She hugged him and then quickly stepped back and composed herself. "My God. It's wonderful to see you." She stopped. "You need something."

  Stahl nodded. "Afraid so. I wouldn't have come here if I didn't. My anonymity is priceless nowadays."

  "As was mine, I thought," she said. "How did you find me?"

  "I still have my sources."

  "Great."

  "I need your helpÉKaren."

  She looked at him. "What kind of help?"

  "The kind you used to give me all the time."

  Karen looked back at her classroom. "I've got a life here now, Ernst. I'm a professor for God's sakes. I can't just up and leave things."

  "I wouldn't dream of asking you to. I only need a small favor."

  Karen smiled. "And that's it?"

  "I promise."

  "All right. What do you want?"

  Stahl told her.

  Chapter Six

  "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

  Frank looked at Gia. Her eyes had always hypnotized him with their deep dark hue - twin black holes that sucked him right in. "I'm not sure what anything is right now. But if I don't keep you around me, there's no guarantee you'll live to see tomorrow."

  "You said you told my uncle to give you a week."

  Frank broke away from her gaze and slid the key into his front door. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean he'll wait. Especially if he thinks I might be doing something stupid."

  "Are you?"

  "Most definitely," said Frank. He turned the key.

  The door behind him opened. Frank grimaced.

  Shit, no. Not now.

  "Frank?"

  "Mrs. Morello," said Frank turning around with a big smile splayed across his face. His neighbor had on a pink plaid housecoat and a hairnet. "How are you?"

  Mrs. Morello's eyes narrowed when she caught sight of Gia. "Who's this?"

  "A friend," said Frank. "Just a friend."

  Gia smiled and extended her hand. "Hi-"

  Mrs. Morello turned abruptly, marched back into her apartment and slammed her door.

  Gia glanced at Frank with a raised eyebrow.

  Frank shrugged. "She's been after me for years."

  "That old gal?"

  "Either for her or her niece," said Frank. "Get inside, c'mon."

  Gumshoe ran up as they entered. Frank stooped to pat her and then watched Gia do the same. Gumshoe responded by purring.

  "She remembers you," said Frank. He wondered if his cat remembered all the arguments, too. If Gumshoe could recall all those nights when Frank had sat up staring out the window wondering why the relationship hadn't worked out.

  Gia looked up at him. "I guess she does.
"

  Frank checked his answering machine, dropped his wallet and keys on the table and walked to the refrigerator. "You want a beer?"

  "Little early."

  "It's almost lunch."

  "Not everyone drinks their noontime meal."

  "You want one or not? I was up and I'm just offering. No need to make it a matter for the UN to debate."

  She sighed. "Sorry."

  Sorry? That was new. The old Gia would never have admitted she was wrong. Frank shook his head. The day was getting strange. He brought the beers to the living room and sat down in his chair. Gia sat on the couch.

  Frank took a long drag from the bottle and then set it down on the table. "So, explain this all to me, would you?"

  "What do you want me to explain?"

  "How about something simple? Like, why the hell are you trying to put your uncle in jail?"

  Gia sipped her beer. "How long have you worked for him, Frank?"

  "I don't discuss specifics. Let's just say it's been a long time."

  "A long time."

  "Yeah."

  "Killing."

  Frank frowned. "You wearing a wire now or something? Maybe you're trying to get me on tape, too? Do a two-fer?"

  "I'm not wearing a wire."

  "I don't kill." Frank took a drag on his beer. "I remove garbage that needs removing anyway."

  Gia's mouth perked up at the corners like she was trying to restrain the urge to laugh. "Was that you last night?"

  "Say what?"

  "Last night. Vespucio. In Revere. Christ, Frank, I can read the papers, you know."

  "Vespucio'd been on the take. He was skimming from Patrisi."

  "And you killed him."

  Frank grabbed the beer and had another gulp. "Let's keep this on you, okay? When did you decide to go to the Feds?"

  "About six months before we broke up."

  "Before you dumped me."

  Gia shrugged. "How ever you want to call it."

  Frank didn't keep digging at her. "Why'd you do it? What I heard about you, there was a wild side to you a few years back. You had you share of run-ins with the law. Now all of a sudden you're passing sentence on a guy who took you in like you were his daughter? Kinda fucked up, Gia."

  Gia took another sip of beer and sighed. "Maybe my sense of right and wrong was fucked up for a while. Maybe I didn't know what to do anymore. Yeah, he helped me out when I came to Boston. And that was cool. But I don't love my uncle. I can't even stand the guy. And the thought of what he's doing leaves a sick feeling in my stomach."

  "So, you thought jail would be a better place for him."

  "I know it sounds na•ve-"

  "Maybe suicidal," said Frank. "Na•ve's for people who don't know any better." He aimed his forefinger at her. "But you, you know what he'd do if he found out."

  "Yeah. I guess it is suicidal."

  "What'd you think was going to happen? You go to the Feds and they say Ôgolly gee come on in we'll take care of you?' Christ, Gia, they'll use you like anyone else they have working for them. I'll bet they told you you had to get something incriminating on Patrisi, didn't they?"

  Gia looked away. "Yeah. They wanted me to plant listening devices."

  "At the club?" Frank laughed. "Did you tell them Patrisi has the place swept twice a day? They wouldn't have gotten anything on him that way."

  "I didn't know that," said Gia.

  "But you planted them?"

  "It seemed easy enough."

  "Sure. Patrisi would never let on that anything'd been found. But they must have been. And then the big guy knew he had someone he couldn't trust nearby. He's probably been losing sleep for the better part of eighteen months wondering about it."

  "He must have figured it out."

  Frank nodded. "Wouldn't be all that hard. If you kept planting devices and they kept disappearing, but then they stopped showing up around about the same time we stopped dating, that would make him suspicious enough of you. And don't forget the guy's got a fair share of people in his pocket. He could dig up a lot of shit on you."

  "You think he found out from one of his scabs?"

  "Someone on his payroll, yeah. Had to be."

  "But there are plenty of other people there working for him who would love to cut the old man's legs out from under him."

  "Not me."

  "You're the exception, Frank."

  "Doesn't matter. He wants you dead. Now I can buy you some time, but not much more than that. I think the best thing for you to do is disappear. Get the hell out of the city. Shit, get out of the country. You've got relatives somewhere, go find Ôem. You stay here and it's only going to get bloody real fast."

  "What about you?"

  "What about me?"

  Gia took another sip of beer. "Won't you get in trouble for not killing me?"

  "I can't kill you if I can't find you. The old man will put it down to you catching wind that he was on to you."

  "Has that ever happened before?"

  "What?"

  "You get an assignment that you didn't complete?"

  Frank took a hearty swig and set the bottle down. "No. It's never happened before."

  "And you think Patrisi will accept your explanation?"

  "I hope so."

  She stayed quiet for a moment. "He knows about us."

  "He knows we used to have something, yeah," said Frank. "But he also knows I'm a professional."

  "You might be with anyone else," said Gia. "But you couldn't do that with me and you know it."

  Frank looked at her. "You know what kind of hell I go through every time I see you, Gia? Part of me wants nothing more than to grab you and hold on with every ounce of my gut. And part of me wishes you'd never even walked into my life."

  "Which part wins?"

  Frank stood. "I don't know yet. I'm trying to concentrate on keeping us both alive." He walked to the kitchen-

  -a sharp needle stabbed into his brain making him wince and drop to his knees.

  The beer bottle crashed to the hardwood floor.

  "Jesus!"

  Frank rolled on the floor. Images rushed at him behind closed eyes. A face. A man. A large hall. A gun. Blood. Lots of blood. And suddenly the vision cleared.

  "Frank!"

  He opened his eyes. Gia knelt over him. "My God, what happened?"

  He sucked wind, lungs working like a bellows. Sweat poured from his face. "I don't know. The same damned thing happened last night. It happened today in the reception area at your office, too."

  "What is it - a headache?"

  "I don't know," said Frank. "I get this blinding pain and then IÉsee things, I guess."

  "What kinds of things?"

  "Last night I saw a dead man in some apartment complex. This morning I saw an airplane coming across the ocean."

  "And just now?"

  "A man. I saw a man. His face was clear to me, but I've never seen him before. There was a lot of blood."

  "Maybe you should play the lottery."

  Frank looked up at her. "I'm not joking here, Gia. This is pissing me off. I don't get headaches. I don't get migraines and I've never hadÉvisions, either."

  "And all of a sudden you are."

  "Three times now, yeah."

  "You think they're connected to Patrisi at all?"

  "I doubt it. I don't know what the hell they're related to. Maybe nothing. Maybe nothing yet."

  The doorbell rang.

  "Shit." Frank got to his feet. He shoved Gia toward the bedroom. "Get in the closet and hide."

  "Why? It might not be anybody-"

  "Gia! Just do what I fucking say, all right?" He grabbed her coat and purse. "And take those with you."

  Frank looked around making sure everything looked all right. He couldn't do anything about the beer bottle glass on the floor. There wasn't time.

  He hit the intercom button. "Yeah?"

  "It's Bobby, Mr. Jolino."

  Shit. What the hell was the punk doing here? "What d
o you want?"

  "Got something for you from Don Patrisi. He said it was urgent."

  Frank sighed. "Fifth floor." He pushed the door release and then patted his back right hip for the pistol he wore. He pulled the hammer back and then put the gun's safety back on. All he'd have to do was take the safety off and squeeze the trigger. Good to go.

  He unlocked his door.

  Bobby's footsteps thudded up toward him. Frank steeled himself. Bobby's head came up the steps. "Hiya Mr. Jolino."

  "What's up?"

  Bobby held a bag out in front of him. "Got something here for you."

  Frank put a hand out for the bag keeping his right hand back by his leg. He could draw and shoot faster than Bobby could blink.

  "What is it?"

  "Chicken soup," said Bobby. "Boss says you didn't look so well last night when you left. Said something about you having a killer headache."

  "He got that right."

  "Yeah, well anyway, he sent me over here with this soup. He says it's supposed to make anyone feeling like shit feel better."

  I could use a lot of that, thought Frank. "Okay, well, thanks." He started to close the door. Bobby looked past his shoulder. "You drop something?"

  "Huh? Oh, yeah. I dropped a beer bottle. Fucking glass spilled everywhere."

  "How'd you drop the bottle?"

  Frank sniffed. "Would you believe another headache?"

  "Jesus, really?"

  "Yeah."

  "That sucks, Mr. Jolino. Good thing I brought that soup over, huh? You know, I could warm it up for you. Get it nice and hot and then serve you up some."

  Frank grinned. "I can handle that myself, Bobby. Thanks anyway."

  "You know, it's just that I was kinda hoping to talk to you."

  "About what?"

  "Last night."

  "Now probably isn't the best time, Bobby. Tell you what, I'll come down to the club tomorrow night and we'll have a beer and talk about it some, if that's what you want, okay? Right now, I was just getting ready to lie down for a while and try to shake this damned headache. I've been out most of the day."

  "Nice tie," said Bobby.

  "Tomorrow night?" asked Frank.

  Bobby brightened. "Yeah, okay, that's cool. Thanks a lot Mr. Jolino."

  "Thanks for the soup, kid. And tell Don Patrisi I said thanks, too."

  "Will do." Bobby turned to leave. Frank shut the door.