I was standing in the cold and dark on Forty-seventh Street about twenty meters east of Park Avenue. The building behind me was Two Seventy-seven Park Avenue. It used to be the headquarters of Chemical Bank before Chemical Bank disappeared into the maws of the larger and more voracious cross-town bank named after Mister Salmon P. Chase. I took a small piece of wood out of my pocket and wedged it into the bottom of the door so it couldn't lock. The sign on the door said: METRO NORTH
EMERGENCY EXIT
FIRE EXIT No. 3.
There was no moon. It was one of those New York nights that feels like snow is coming before too long. There were a lot of cars moving slowly in the evening rush and a lot of impatient horns honking. The wind was cold in my face. I turned up the collar of my overcoat and walked along Forty- seventh, then up Third and turned right on Forty-ninth until I got to my building, halfway between Second and Third on the south side of the street.
I changed out of my suit and tie into a sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers and a dark zip-up jacket. The .38 in the clip-on holster went on my belt. I shoved a handful of rounds into the front right pocket of the jeans. My heart was starting to pound the way it did before those goddam night patrols down that meatgrinder called the A Shau valley.
Mrs. Roderick was waiting for me at her apartment. She
was wearing a black wool dress and no jewelry. Her eyes
shone with a fierce intensity. There was no makeup on her
face but that made her classical features even more stark.
"Are you ready?" I asked her.
She nodded wordlessly.
It was only eight-twenty. We had another hour and a
half to wait.
"Let me see the money," I said.
She went to the hall closet and rolled out a big blue bag on one of those wheel carts with the bungee cords hooked on.
I lifted the bag. It was really heavy. "Are you going to be able to handle this?" I asked her.
"Do not worry," she said. "I can do whatever is necessary to get my husband back."
I nodded. She was an impressive female. I unzipped the bag and checked inside. If I was going to be tracking five million bucks I wanted to be able to visualize it. There in a jumble of neat piles held together with rubber bands was the answer to a lot of people's fantasies. The ticket to a world free of petty worries and inconveniences.
She answered my unasked question. "Yes, it is the correct amount, Mister Rogan."
I looked up at her. "No sticky-fingered clerks taking samples?"
"It has been properly counted by a responsible authority."
I couldn't picture the Czarina dirtying her fingers counting this filthy lucre. How long did it take to count five million dollars, I wondered. I zipped up the bag and shoved it back toward her. "You don't happen to have a beer?" I said.
She wrinkled up her nose. "I detest beer."
"That's what I thought," I said. "I just wanted to make sure."
CHAPTER XXIV
At nine forty-five, the Czarina buzzed the night doorman on the intercom and told him to hail a cab. We rolled the blue bag into the elevator and rode down without a word. If the elevator man thought this was unusual, he didn't give a sign.
It was starting to snow. The flakes were coming down in heavy swirls and sticking to the sidewalk. The taxi was waiting for us at the curb. Our friend the doorman opened the door for us and gave me a wink as I passed him. He was probably thinking about his brother's wife giving pleasure to half of the guys in the neighborhood and maybe even considering getting a taste of it himself.
The taxi driver popped the trunk from the driver's seat. I went around to the back of the cab and slammed the trunk shut.
"We'll take the bag inside," I said to the driver. He shrugged and turned his head to face forward. "OK, boss," he said. "You are the boss." He was from the subcontinent, maybe India or Pakistan. He had a full-face bushy black beard and he wore a turban with all the hair tucked up inside.
The Czarina got into the cab first. I lifted the bag and put it on the floor between us. A strong odor of Chana Batura with a hint of curry hit me as we climbed into the cab. "Grand Central," I told the driver.
"Yes, boss," he said. "We go down Fifth Avenue, boss?"
"Go down Park," I said. "It'll be faster."
"Yes, boss. You know best."
We took off like the starting line at the Indy 500 when the flag goes down. The force slammed us back against the seat. Mrs. Roderick looked at me with eyes wide open.
"Take it easy, fella," I said. "We have plenty of time. No need to beat the clock."
"Sorry, boss. It is my way. Sometimes I forget."
I checked out his license on the dashboard. His name looked like a dish on the menu in a restaurant called Punjab. I was starting to get hungry.
The snow was coming down so hard the driver had to turn on his wipers. We drove down Park Avenue until we hit Fifty-fifth Street. I told the driver to pull over to the west side of Park and wait. He slowed down and double parked in front of the Racquet Club. The traffic going by wasn't so heavy at this time of night.
I turned toward her. Her face was white in the reflected light of the club lobby. She bit her lower lip. "Is this where you get out?" she said. She sounded like a little girl.
I nodded and reached over and put my hand square on top of hers. It was the first time I'd touched her. Her hand was cold.
"Are you sure you can do it?" I said. "If you want me to, I can do it for you."
She smiled bravely and put her hand on mine. "Thank you, Mister Rogan, but this is something I must do. Just as you will do exactly as you must. Each one of us has his own task."
She was dead right about that.
***
The cab pulled away from the curb and headed south on Park. The whiteness of her hair was visible through the rear window. I hoped she'd be able to hold up her end.
It was ten-fourteen. We were on schedule. I crossed Park Avenue and walked through the snow on the east side of the avenue, past the Waldorf until I got to Forty-seventh. I made the left turn and walked the few steps to the fire door. It swung open without too much of an effort.
I stepped inside and looked around. There was an incandescent bulb in the ceiling that gave a little light. The door slammed behind me. I started down the staircase. Three flights and I was on the platform. There was no one in sight.
I jumped off the platform and started to the right over the tracks. The rats were surprised to see me. They were oversized and looked nasty, but they were decent enough to scurry out of my way without attacking an outsider who had invaded their territory. The main trick was to get from track seventeen to track thirty-two without frying myself on the third rails.
The only lights were widely-spaced incandescent bulbs. It was tough to move quickly over the gravel and the crossties. The shadows were treacherous because you couldn't see where you were stepping. There was the occasional rumble of a train moving and then the whole place started to vibrate. It smelled dank and musty like the grave.
I crossed track after track without falling. That in itself was an accomplishment. Track thirty-two was just ahead. But before I got there, I slipped in a puddle and went down on my elbows. I didn't move for a minute. Just looked around and surveyed the situation. It was quiet. No one around. I got up but stayed in a crouch and moved over to track thirty-two.
The only thing I was worried about right now was an incoming train. But then I told myself to forget about that. If these kidnappers were any good and had done their homework, there wouldn't be any incoming.
I was on time and in position. It was ten thirty-one. I was on the track at the end of the platform with a clear field of fire and a view of the dumpster and the entrance to the platform from the station. The lighting was fluorescent and a lot brighter than before. I stayed on the tracks and edged closer to the entrance, crouching below the level of the platform.
The butt of the gun jabbed into my ribcage. I pulled it out an
d held it in my right hand. Very slowly I moved closer. I raised my head a little and sighted down the platform.
Two men stood there. Their backs were toward me. They were watching the station. They weren't expecting anybody to come up behind them. One was just inside the entrance to the platform making believe he was talking on a pay phone. He was wearing a long dark overcoat with the collar turned up and a fedora pulled down over his eyes. The other guy was inside the station leaning against the gate. He was shorter than the first man. He wore a shearling coat and a navy blue knit cap. There was no one else around.
At ten thirty-five exactly, Mrs. Roderick appeared. Outstanding gal. She walked through the gate without looking at the men, pulling the cart behind her. She moved like a queen. Her head was held high and her back was straight. Carefully, regally, she stepped up to the dumpster. It looked like some kind of ritual disposal ceremony. She raised the top of the dumpster with some difficulty. Then she unhooked the bungee cords and picked up the blue bag. I could see she had trouble lifting the bag because she wedged it between her body and the side of the dumpster. She brought the bag up little by little until it reached the top. Then she gave a push and it fell into the dumpster. Most expensive garbage she ever tossed away. She reached up and slammed the cover down. It closed with a loud bang.
Not once did she flinch or make a misstep. Without a single unnecessary move, she turned sharply and strode out of view, taking the cart with her. I was really proud of her.
As soon as she was gone, the guy in the shearling stepped over to the dumpster, reached in and pulled the bag out. He nodded to the other man and they walked out into the station together, taking one last look around. They didn't see me.
It was lock and load time.
I pulled myself up onto the platform and went after them. I shoved the .38 back into the holster and zipped up the jacket as I ran. They were fifteen meters ahead of me. The shearling guy held the bag in his right hand and the fedora guy was on his right so the bag was between them.
They crossed the main waiting room, heading southeast toward Lexington Avenue. They moved at a good pace. The station was almost empty, except for the bums. It was too late for the commuters and too early for the theatergoers. The fedora guy had taps on his shoes and they made loud clicks on the stone floor.
I was twenty paces behind them, keeping my distance.
Shearling moved like the bag was heavy. He shifted the bag to his left hand. Fedora moved around to the other side so the bag stayed between them. They went down the southernmost passageway and exited out onto Lexington Avenue.
I followed them out of the station. Shearling climbed into the back seat of a dark Chevy that was double parked outside the entrance. He had the bag with him. There wasn't a cab in sight. I cursed under my breath. He slammed the door shut behind him and the car pulled into the flow of traffic. The car had New York plates. All I could catch was the last three figures-4MS. I was left standing there on the curb in a snowstorm while five million bucks drove away.
Fedora turned and walked south on Lex. There was no other option. I followed him.
CHAPTER XXV
The snow covered the ground. It was a good thing I was wearing sneakers because I could move quickly. It was easy to keep pace with Fedora. He walked slowly and kept looking around behind him. He still hadn't seen me, as far as I could tell.
He walked down Lex past the Cuban mission and the Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen's Club and went east on Thirty-sixth. His collar was turned up and his hat was pulled down, and he walked hunched over against the wind. I hadn't been able to get a good look at his face. All I could tell was that he had a thick dark goatee.
He walked along Thirty-sixth past Sniffen Court with those upscale little houses until he got to Third Avenue and then he turned right. He kept on going south on Third. I was half a block behind him on the other side of the avenue.
We were getting into the region of the hookers, the pushers and the all-night cafeterias. The neighborhood kept deteriorating with each block we passed. Fedora kept on walking to Twenty-fourth. Then he turned right on Twenty-fourth and walked a few steps to a car that was parked a couple of car lengths from the corner. He bent down and looked into the car. From where I stood it looked like a Lincoln Town Car. It was dark colored, probably black.
There was a man in the car. I couldn't see what he looked like. Fedora walked around the front of the car to the driver's side and stood there talking to the man.
I stepped back into the doorway of a three-story building, glad to get out of the snow. My feet were wet and cold. I stamped them to get the circulation going. So far it had been a long and unproductive night.
A girl came wandering down the street and hesitated when she saw me. She eyed me up and down. Then she stepped into the doorway with me. She was about seventeen or eighteen. Her hair was ratty under a kerchief. She was shivering and her nose was running from the cold. She was badly strung out.
"Hey, Mister," she said in a loud voice. "You wanna have some fun?" She looked into my eyes. "I'll suck the veins right out of your balls."
It didn't sound very appetizing. "Ordinarily, I'd love to, honey, but I just got circumcised and that's the last thing on my mind right now."
She hadn't heard that one before. She blinked a couple of times to make sure she got it right.
I gave her a twenty. "Get yourself some hot soup," I said. I knew she wouldn't.
She shoved the bill into her coat pocket. "Thanks, Mister. You're a prince. When your circumcision gets better, next time I'll give you a blowjob on the house."
Which house was that, I wondered. The House of the Rising Sun? I smiled at her. "Thanks, honey. I'll save that one in my hope chest."
She turned and shuffled back the way she'd come. Either she wasn't going anywhere or she'd forgotten where she was heading.
I looked back to where the two men were talking. The snow made it tough to see very well. The street was quiet and there weren't any pedestrians. Most people were warm and dry indoors, except for those fools who chose to be outdoors in this foul weather.
The men continued talking for a few minutes. This wasn't very interesting. And it wasn't very helpful. I looked away and checked the surroundings. But when I looked back, the guy with the fedora had a gun out and was pointing it at the man in the car.
The smack of adrenaline hit me and woke me up. I yelled, "Hey, look out!"
It was too late. Fedora pumped out four shots, each one illuminated by a muzzle flash, then turned to look at me. Our eyes locked. For the first time I had a good look at his face. He fired one shot in my direction. I went back against the wall out of his line of fire. I pulled the .38 and got one off at him. He turned and ran.
I ducked low behind the parked cars and started after him. As I ran, I passed the car with the man in it and looked in. The driver's window was shattered and the guy was slumped back against the seat. His face was a bloody mess. I reached in and felt his carotid. My hand was shaking. I tried to steady it.
Nothing. He'd gone to his reward, whatever that was.
Fedora was halfway down the block on the other side. I stayed on my side of the street and ran in a crouch. As he rounded Lex he lost his balance and went down.
I was gasping for breath. The cold air hurt my lungs as I sucked it in. I stopped and put the .38 on the roof of a car and waited for him to get up and back into view. When he stood his head was bare. He'd lost the hat. He was standing in the flashing lights of a porno store. In that half-second before he started running again, I lined up the shot and squeezed.
The old stand-by Smith & Wesson was not half bad. I must have hit him in the left upper arm or shoulder because he jerked around with his right hand to grab his arm.
I went after him, staying low. I got to the corner of Lex and looked up the avenue. He wasn't there. He wasn't on this side or the other side of the avenue. He wasn't anywhere in sight.
His hat was on the ground. I picked it up. He must have been l
ike Little Black Sambo, that character who just melted into the ground. I looked into the porno shop. There were a couple of guys in there, but not him.
I crossed Lex and looked up and down, keeping an eye on the door of the porno store. Still no luck. I put away the gun and crossed back to the other side of Lex and went into the store. Maybe he was in one of those little private viewing booths.
The man behind the counter didn't look directly at me. He looked at the hat in my hand. "Help you?" he said.
"You see a guy come in here holding his arm?" I said.
His gaze went to my face but he didn't look at my eyes. "Listen, you. No fags in here. You want fag business, you go to the next block. You get my drift?"
I shrugged. No use explaining to him. I walked to the back of the store, past the racks of magazines and videos arranged by orifice preferences. I stopped and looked into each one of the private viewing booths, that curious modern institution that engages the energies of the men who film the loops, the people who perform in them, the men who go into the booths and the men who clean up after.
All the booths were empty.
Another strikeout.
I left the store and walked back to the car with the dead man. There wasn't a person in sight. I knew people had heard the shots, but nobody seemed to give a damn. The most somebody would do was call 911.
I reached in and opened the driver's door from the inside. There was blood all over the dash, the inside of the windshield and the seat. It looked like a scene from a Chicago slaughterhouse during National Beef Week. Without moving the body or getting blood on me, I checked out the corpse and lifted the wallet from his rear pants pocket.
I wanted to take a look at the car's registration but I knew there wasn't going to be much time. Any second now a blue and white was going to be rounding the corner. I pushed the electric door lock and unlocked all the doors. Then I went around to the passenger door, opened it and reached in and popped open the glove compartment. I rooted around until I found the registration. I should have left it for the boys in blue, but they would know who the car was registered to and I wouldn't. The way I figured it, I needed it more than they did.
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