Like me, a Bombardier Beetle in love will not let anyone or anything get between him and his beloved without a fight to the death. And just as they are pugnacious and protective, I like to imagine they are sensitive and tender when it comes to romance. I can’t help but think these beetles are flowers, candlelight, and soft music kinds of bugs (“If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true, and help meeeeeeeee understand?”)
At any rate, I’ve strayed from whatever point I may have intended to make when I began this letter, and now I must return to my paper, and I’m sure you have more important things to do too.
Love, Bob.
P.S. I hope this letter isn’t overly romantic and mushy because I know that can sometimes be a turn-off this early in a relationship. I can’t wait to see you again.
As Mary folded the letter back into the envelope, she smiled and remembered fondly the early days of being in love with her funny little bug man. As she put the envelope back into the trunk, she also remembered why she fell in love and why she swore to be at his side forever.
Then, as she closed the trunk and locked it, she wondered why she wasn’t there.
Chapter Forty
Klaus woke in a good mood. The night before, Reggie Miller had gone off for 46 points and the Pacers had beaten the Knicks. Having bet heavily on the underdogs from the Hoosier State, Klaus won a substantial sum for the first time in a long while.
After breakfast Klaus headed for West Thirty-First Street and Sixth Avenue and his perch on the third-floor maintenance roof of the Atlantic Bank of New York. There he would wait.
Bob arrived exactly when the investigator had said he would. He was wearing a faded New York Yankees cap and jacket. Klaus looked at his watch. “You won’t live long being this predictable, my friend,” he said.
Through the binoculars Klaus glanced casually about the streets below looking for Ramon, his South American colleague. Ramon was there, parked in a loading zone on Thirty-Second Street, conducting surveillance from an obviously rented Dodge Spirit.
After Bob entered the old department store building, Klaus watched Ramon remove a length of heavy chain from the trunk of his car. He crossed Sixth Avenue to Bob’s building and chained the doors shut before crossing the street again and entering the Sixth Avenue Coffee Shop, almost directly beneath Klaus’ position. He took a booth by the window.
Bob wandered around the building waiting for Sy, who was supposed to meet him to see what had been done so far. “Mr. Silverstein? You here?” he yelled.
Klaus watched and wondered why Ramon hadn’t detonated the charges. “What are you waiting for? Just do it,” he thought.
And had it been up to him, Ramon would, indeed, have just done it. However, at that moment, inside the coffee shop, Ramon had been set upon by a particularly crusty old waitress.
“So what’ll it be, Pepe?” she snarled xenophobically. “The huevos rancheros or what? I ain’t got all day, ya know!”
Ramon gave her a stony look.
“Don’t look at me that way, Pedro! You hungry or not? This ain’t no place for a siesta! Whaddya want? Fish or cut bait!”
Outside on Thirty-Second Street, an efficient member of New York’s Parking Enforcement Bureau was interpreting the signs by Ramon’s Dodge Spirit. The car was clearly in violation, so she wrote a ticket and slipped it under the wiper before radioing the tow truck dispatcher.
Klaus, meanwhile, had reached the conclusion that either Ramon’s triggering device had failed or he had been mugged before he could activate the thing. It just went to show how hard it was to get good help these days. He watched Bob take off his Yankees jacket and cap and put them on a naked mannequin, then reach for the phone.
The phone on the sales desk rang twice before Bob got to it. “Hello?” Bob answered. “Yes, Mr. Silverstein. Yeah, I’m ready. Are you on your way?”
Sy was on his cell phone, calling from his booth at the deli across the street on the Broadway side of the building. “Listen, kid, it can wait a minute. I’m at the Broadway Deli having a sandwich. Why don’t you meet me over here?”
Meanwhile the surly waitress in the Sixth Avenue Coffee Shop forced a menu on Ramon. “C’mon, I ain’t got all day, Jose,” she snapped.
The sidewalk construction on the Broadway side of the old department store had resulted in some elaborate scaffolding and a covered walkway which completely obscured the door on that side of the building. Thus neither Klaus nor Ramon was aware the door even existed, much less that Bob had used it to exit the building and was now crossing the Great White Way.
Bob joined Sy at the Broadway Deli and watched as he stuffed the last bits of a tasty pastry down his gullet. After paying the tab, they headed back out to the street.
At the Sixth Avenue Coffee Shop, Ramon pointed randomly at the menu. The waitress said, “What’re you pointing at, for God’s sake? The Spanish omelet? I shoulda guessed.” She snatched the menu. “It’s about damn time,” she muttered as she huffed away.
Unable to see what Ramon was doing, Klaus surveyed the 16-story building as he waited for Bob to return to view. All he could see was the mannequin dressed like a baseball player.
Bob and Sy, meanwhile, were waiting for a break in traffic before crossing Broadway. With Sy, you needed a big break.
Finally free of the pesky waitress, Ramon hurriedly focused his binoculars on the department store windows looking for Bob. When he saw the back of the Yankee cap and jacket he smiled. “Damn Yanquis,” he muttered.
He surreptitiously placed his briefcase on the seat beside him, close to the window. He opened the case, turned on his signal transmitter, and flipped the switch.
The readout flashed “armed” and beeped.
A moment later he gently depressed the detonate button.
As they waited for a break in traffic, Bob spoke to Sy, “Mr. Silverstein, I’ve got a really good feeling about this.”
About that time, a low rumbling noise began. Bob and Sy paused when they heard the odd sound, but before either could comment, the entire 16-story building imploded and gracefully caved in on itself as neatly as if a professional demolition company had done the job.
Bob stared in disbelief. Sy’s look was one of composed fascination. Klaus watched impassively and wondered what had taken so long.
Stunned, Bob watched as his dream rode the wild dust cloud mushrooming skyward. Sy took a long, thoughtful pull on his cigar and exhaled a small cloud of his own.
After a moment, Bob began stammering, “I…uh…this isn’t… I didn’t…”
Sy waved his big belvedere philosophically. “Listen, kid, I don’t doubt the effectiveness of your method, but I was under the impression the building would remain standing.”
Unable to manage subject, verb, and direct object, Bob just sputtered, “But…I…it…”
Sy tried to encourage Bob. “Alright, so look, maybe it was termites. I still think you’re onto something with this idea. And don’t worry, it’s insured.” Sy looked at his watch. “Listen, I gotta go.”
“But… it… I…”
Few of the diners in the Sixth Avenue Coffee Shop seemed to notice that the 16-story building across the street had just collapsed; the city had been decaying all around them for years. Ramon closed his briefcase just as the waitress threw his omelet and tab down in front of him.
“Enjoy, Gomez,” she said.
As Sy’s limo disappeared up Broadway, Bob stood on the sidewalk staring across the street as if his life were being projected onto a giant screen. It was turning out to be a reel of bloopers.
Finally he managed to summon the motor skills to cross the street, oblivious to the screeching tires and cursing hacks. Spellbound, he weaved his way slowly toward the massive pile of rubble that had been a 16-story building moments earlier. He stopped and gawked at the debris. A
n arm from one of the homeless mannequins reached out for help. With his right foot, Bob poked forlornly at the rubble and was distressed to see several cockroaches scurry for cover.
So much for Strain Two, he thought. The presence of so many roaches indicated his assassin bugs had failed, but why? He lifted a few more bricks, attempting to find some of his hybrids, hoping to find a clue. But with each stone turned, he found only more roaches. His hybrids were nowhere to be seen, and without them he would never know what had gone wrong.
Bob tried to think it through: Strain Two was the Masked Hunter/Wheel Bug hybrid, which, in hindsight, Bob admitted was never his favorite. It was a stubborn little son of a bitch, a trait he initially hoped would make it a tenacious hunter but on reflection could just as easily have made it determined not to expand beyond the limited wall space where it found itself.
It was possible this obstinate hybrid hadn’t even bothered to populate the entire building, opting for small communities governed by what amounted to a zero-population-growth policy.
So Strain Two was a failure, that much he knew. And while discouraging, the information was useful. Even without knowing why Strain Two failed, simply knowing that it failed told Bob the combination of Masked Hunter/Wheel Bug traits were incompatible or at least inadequate to the task.
But what the hell caused the building to implode? Bob knew zip about structural engineering and besides, he couldn’t afford to waste much time thinking about such things. He still had to install Strains Three and Four and then go back and check all the buildings. Bob walked slowly down Broadway and turned on Thirty-First, heading for Sixth Avenue. He stopped occasionally to poke at the rubble, only to find more roaches. Realizing there was nothing more to do there, he headed for the subway.
As he stepped onto Sixth Avenue, against the light, the tow truck pulling Ramon’s rented Dodge nearly ran him over.
Klaus was satisfied that whoever the hell Bob was, he was no longer a problem. He was also pleased that he didn’t have to do the deed himself. That, plus the money he had won, made Klaus happier than he’d been in quite a while, and as he descended to the street, he began to sing, “Start spreading the news…”
Ramon, meanwhile, stuffed a limp piece of buttered toast into his mouth along with some omelet. He chewed viciously as he looked across the street at his handiwork, a self-satisfied smile revealing bits of egg and bell pepper between his teeth.
However, when Bob walked past the Coffee Shop—right in front of Ramon—the South American assassin did a double take and blew wet bits of Spanish omelet all over the window.
Bob, still fazed, didn’t notice.
But the waitress did. She hurried over and started smacking Ramon with her towel. “The hell’s the matter with you, Poncho? Spitting omelet all over the goddamn window! Clean that shit up, you stupid spic!”
Ramon tried to push the waitress aside, but she was a tough old coot and she forced him back into the booth.
“Hey, Paco, you ain’t goin’ nowhere until you clean up that goddamn mess, you wetback son of a bitch.”
He quickly wiped it up and started for the door, but the waitress tripped him and hopped on his back like a weasel in heat. “Umphfff!” Ramon wheezed as the stout waitress put the sum of her weight on his chest.
“Listen here, you stupid greaser, I frown on that dine and dash routine!”
As the waitress groped Ramon’s pockets, he wiggled uselessly, rather like the larva of a Mexican Bean Beetle (Epilachna varivestis) emerging from its eggshell. She finally found a wad of bills.
“Whaddya say there, Carlos, you a big tipper?”
She helped herself to about $50 and let Ramon up. He nearly shattered the glass door on the way out, skidding comically to a stop on the sidewalk and almost knocking over a street vendor’s pretzel stand.
Ramon looked up the sidewalk, but Bob was nowhere in sight. He had vanished. Dematerialized. Evaporated, just like that. And then, just as magically, Bob reappeared, emerging from behind two rolling racks of dubious-looking stretch lace calf-length gowns with faux pearl buttons which were making their way east from the Garment District. Bob was just past Thirty-Fourth Street, across from Macy’s, when Ramon pulled a gun from his jacket and raced after his target. Klaus emerged onto Sixth Avenue just in time to be brushed by the fleet-footed Ramon charging up the street
“Hey, watch where you are going, friend,” Klaus said, not realizing whom he was addressing. Then the disfigured face registered—it was Ramon with his gun pulled and a wild look in his eye. That could mean only that Bob had somehow survived the explosion and Ramon was trying to clean up his mess.
Klaus looked for Bob among the thick swarm of tough, damaged people who crowded the sidewalk. He couldn’t spot him, so he followed Ramon, who, he assumed, knew where Bob was. As he raced up the sidewalk, Klaus wondered who the hell this Bob Dillon was and how on earth had he gotten out of that building alive?
Ahead, Ramon looked for an angle to shoot Bob, but the sidewalk was too crowded to get a clean shot. Frustrated, Ramon stepped into the street, leveled his gun, and got a bead on Bob. As Ramon was about to squeeze the trigger, he was hit by a frantic bike messenger peddling maniacally up the avenue trying to get an important contract to the offices of BBC Worldwide America.
Ramon’s gun discharged when he hit the pavement.
BAM!
No one on the sidewalk batted an eye, but half a block ahead a pigeon shit white on the green head of Horace Greely’s statue in the square that honored his name.
Bob shook his own head when he heard the shot but, like the rest of the natives, he kept moving since he knew he hadn’t been hit.
Ramon struggled to his feet and ran to where he had parked his Dodge. Seeing it was gone, he began screaming obscenities and shaking his fist at the sky.
Klaus watched with amusement as the inept Bolivian struggled to regain some semblance of composure and make his next move. A cab dropped off a fare nearby and Ramon seized the moment. He yanked the driver from behind the wheel, hopped in, and floored it up the avenue.
It appeared that Ramon was simply going to run Bob down on the sidewalk ahead. Messy, but effective. He accelerated, swerving wildly to avoid the other cars.
A block or so north of Ramon, Bob strolled past Herald Square, oblivious to what was going on behind him. He was trying to decide whether to put his Strain Three hybrid in the SoHo building or the warehouse in Queens.
He stepped into the crosswalk to traverse Thirty-Fifth Street.
Ramon’s cab picked up speed and hurtled recklessly across two lanes of traffic. He was bearing down on Bob when suddenly—out of nowhere—another cab cut him off, screeching to a halt halfway into the crosswalk.
Bob neatly dodged the second cab, and, in his best Ratso Rizzo imitation, pounded on the hood, yelling. “Hey, watch it, asshole! I’m walkin’ here. You trying to kill me or something?”
Ramon cursed wildly at the cabbie that had cut him off. The cabbie responded with his own stream of scatological references and a colorful native hand gesture.
And that did it. In that instant, unable to endure any more of the madness that was indigenous to Manhattan, Ramon snapped. He pulled out his gun and fired at the cabbie. A shot rang out. He missed.
In one swift and natural movement, the cabbie pulled a .45 automatic from under his seat and fired back, nailing Ramon right between the eyes. The Bolivian assassin slumped onto the horn of his cab.
The fare sitting behind the gun-wielding cabbie never looked up from his Spy magazine. He just urged his driver on. “C’mon, pal, step on it. I’ve got an appointment.” The cab drove off.
Klaus watched in awe as this fantastic sequence of events unfolded before him.
Intent on catching the Broadway local at Seventh, Bob continued west on Thirty-Fifth Street, still oblivious to what had tra
nspired behind his back.
Klaus thought something was very wrong with this picture. Bob was like no killer he had ever seen. His movements were dangerously predictable, and even after someone had tried to blow him up in a building and shoot him on the streets, he never so much as flinched. He either had Freon in his veins or he was stupid and lucky beyond repair. Perhaps the puzzle was missing a piece—a piece the sloe-eyed man had failed to find—a piece Klaus would have to find himself.
As Bob descended to the subway, he muttered to himself, “God, I hate this city.”
Klaus decided to return to his hotel and review Bob’s file.
Just then, the first police arrived at the scene. Eventually, the street was choked with cop cars, the coroner’s van, and murmuring bystanders.
A social critic on the scene commented to his friend, “Life’s cheap in this town.”
His friend agreed, “Yeah, and death’s usually on sale too.”
And he was right. According to NYPD figures, a contract killing could be had in Brooklyn for a mere $500. More often than not, though, people in New York were killed for free.
A plainclothes detective poked through Ramon’s effects: two state-of-the-art handguns, a few detonator caps, three passports. Not exactly typical, even for New York.
The detective turned to his partner. “This guy’s carryin’ fake passports and enough weapons to be a flippin’ arms dealer. And he’s drivin’ a boosted hack. Some weird shit if you ask me.”
“Nobody’s asking you,” a patronizing voice replied.
A hand attached to the voice snatched the passports from the detective, the other hand flashed an ID. The hands, voice, and ID belonged to a man behind a pair of sunglasses. “Parker,” he said, “CIA. We’ll be taking over now.”
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