"That's not fair," the young guy whined.
"It'll be fair," I said. "If I wanted to kill you all, I wouldn't be wearing this mask. Now, who likes little girls?" I asked all three of them.
No answer.
"Last chance," I said, not moving.
The fat guy's eyes shifted to his left. Just a flicker. I pinned the guy with the gold chains. "You keep magazines in a desk drawers' I asked him.
His face went white. "It's not what you think. I'm straight—you ask anyone."
I watched his face shake, waiting.
"It's not me! Ask Markie–ask him about where he was a couple a years ago!"
"That wasn't for anything violent." the young guy yelled, sweat popping out on his face. "I just liked to look."
"In windows" I asked him.
"I was—sick. But I'm okay now. I see a therapist and everything. Right, Uncle Manna Tell him!"
Manny nodded. "Markie wouldn't hurt anyone." Veins of contempt in his fat voice.
"How about you?"
"Me! What do I want with little girls? I take a nice massage right here in the office twice a week, you know what I mean?"
"You tell the cops about that?"
"You think it's a big deal to them? They're all on the pad–they know how it goes."
I turned to the young guy. "You like to look, Markie. Did she scream when you wanted to look too close?"
"It wasn't me! I didn't see her until—"
"It's okay, Markie. Until when"
"Louie did it!" he shouted, pointing at the guy with the gold chains. "He showed me. He made me help him take her down to the basement–"
"You lying little punk!" Louie muttered, nodding at Manny. "He always wanted me outa here. Never wanted a partner." Then he turned to face me. "Yeah, okay. I took her downstairs. But after this freak finished with her. It wasn't me. The cops know. Manny pays them regular."
"He said she came here looking for a job," Markie said, indicating Louie. "I guess she needed some money and––"
The fat man smiled, watching my eyes under the mask. "Look, you're a professional, right? Somebody paid you to do a job. Okay, I understand. Business is business. Markie's a relative. A nephew, you know what that means? The kid's a peeper, but he never killed anyone. Louie's the one you want. You got paid for a body, do what you have to do. Everybody's happy."
"Markie don't look like a relative of yours," I told the fat man.
"You look real close, you can always see the family resemblance," he said, the smile leaving his face, knowing how it was going to end.
I tightened my finger on the trigger. Reached up and pulled the mask off my face.
Hostage
I've got a gun! Aimed right at her head. See? Take a look for yourselves. You make one move to come in here, I'll blow her away!"
The man was on the top story of a three–family frame building in a middle–class section of Brooklyn. Standing at the front window, looking down at us. He was visible from the waist up, the silver revolver clear in his hand. We could only see the old lady's head and chest, the small body framed by the handles of the wheelchair. I felt a crowd surging behind us, held back by the uniformed cops. A TV camera crew was setting up to my left.
"I guess this one's yours, Walker."
I nodded agreement at the big detective. I'd seen him around before, at scenes like this one. Never could remember his name.
"How long's he been like that?" I asked.
"We got a call about six this morning, just around daybreak. Prowler. Radio car took it, found the kid in an alley, peeking in windows. They chased him, he made it to the back door of that house there. They start up the stairs after him, that's when he flashed the piece. He's been up there for hours."
"That's his house?"
"Yeah. How did you know?"
"He was just running in panic, he wouldn't have gone all the way to the top floor. I'll bet the gun was in the house all the time, probably didn't have it with him when he was outside."
"Yeah. He's even got a permit for it, all registered, nice and legal."
"What else you got?"
"His name's Mark Weston. Age twenty–three. Got two priors, indecent exposure and attempted B&E. Got probation both times. Sees a psychiatrist. Lives off his mother's Social Security check–that's her up there in the wheelchair."
"You think he'd blast his mother?"
The detective shrugged. "You're the expert," he said, just the trace of contempt in his voice.
I'd been a cop a long time. Ever since I came home from the killing floor in Southeast Asia. It seemed like the natural thing to do. My first assignment was vice, but I got kicked back into uniform when some dirtbag pimp complained I'd roughed him up during a bust. Then I worked narcotics. The first week on the job I killed a dealer in a gunfight. He was shot in the back. The Review Team cleared me–he'd shot first and I nailed him going for the window.
I got a commendation, but they put me back on the beat. That was okay for a while. The people in the community knew me, we got along. I caught two guys coming out of a bodega, stocking masks over their heads, one had a shotgun. I cut them both down. Turned out one was thirteen years old. How was I supposed to know?
They sent me to the department shrink. Nice guy. Gave me a lot of tests, asked a lot of questions. Never said much.
The shrink's office was in Manhattan. The locks were a joke. I went back there one night and pulled my file. It made interesting reading. Post–Traumatic Stress Disorder, fundamental lack of empathy, blunted affect, addicted risk–taker.
I'd been a sniper in Nam, so they tried me on the SWAT Team. When I did what they hired me to do, they pulled me off the job. Took away my gun.
Then they gave me a choice. I could take early retirement, go out on disability. Emotionally unsuited to law enforcement, that kind of thing. Or I could learn hostage negotiation work. Go to this special school they have. The boss said I'd be real good at it–I always stayed calm, and I could talk pretty sweet when I wanted to.
But I couldn't carry a gun. My job was to talk. The boss said if I proved myself, I could go back on a regular job someday.
Okay.
I lit a cigarette, thinking it through. "You got a telephone link?" I asked.
"There's a number listed. We haven't tried it yet. Waiting on you. You can try it from the truck."
I walked over to the blue–and–white truck, introduced myself. Sat down at the console and dialed the number.
It rang a half–dozen times before he picked it up.
"Who is this?"
"My name is Walker, Mark. I want to talk to you. About this situation, see if we can't work something out, okay?"
"Are you a cop?"
"No," I said, my voice soft, starting the lies. "I'm a psychologist. The police figured you'd rather talk to me. Is that okay?"
"Make them go away!"
"Okay, Mark. Take it easy, son. There's nothing to get upset about. You didn't do anything."
"Make them go away, I said. I'll kill her, I swear I will."
"Sure, I understand. Give me a few minutes, okay? You'll do that, won't you Mark. I can't just snap my fingers, make them disappear. I have to talk to them. Like I'm talking to you, okay?"
"I…"
"I'll call you back. In a few minutes, okay? Just relax, I'm going to fix everything."
I stepped out of the truck, feeling his eyes on me. The big detective was rooted to the same spot.
"Can we move everyone backs Just out of the sight–line from his window?"
"Procedure…"
"Procedure is we don't let him walk away, we don't give him weapons, and we don't set him off, right? Just pull back, okay? What's the big dealer You can keep the perimeter tight. Anyway, it's a good idea to clear the area…what if he starts firing out the window?"
The big detective gave me a steady gaze, not giving anything away. "It's your show, pal," he said.
In five minutes, the street was empty. I went back
to the truck, made my call.
"Okay, Mark? Just like I promised. Nobody's going to hurt you."
"I'm sorry for what I did. Can't I…"
"Mark, I did something for you, right? Now it's time for you to do something for me. Like good faith, okay?"
"Wha…what do you want?"
"What I want is to talk to you, Mark. Face–to–face."
"I'm not coming out!"
"Of course not, Mark. I wouldn't want you to do that. I'll come in, okay? And we'll talk."
"If this is a trick…"
"It's no trick, Mark. Why would I trick you? I'm on your side. We're working together on this. Tell you what: I'll take off my shirt, so you can see I'm not carrying a gun, okay' I'll walk up the stairs, you can watch every step. And you can keep your gun on me all the time. Fair enough?"
"I'll think about it."
"There isn't much time, Mark. The cops, you know how they are. I got them to listen to me because I told them we had a relationship. That we could get along, you and me. If they think we can't talk, you know what they'll do."
"I'll kill her!"
"Why would they care, Mark? You know how the cops are. Another old lady gets killed in New York, so what? Besides, if I come up there, you'd have two hostages, right? Even more insurance."
"How come…"
"Mark, I'm coming up now. I want you to watch me, okay. Watch what I do. You'll see I'm on your side, son."
I hung up the phone, stepped out of the truck. I saw him at the window, watching. I waved. Took off my jacket, laid it on the ground like a blanket. I dropped my shirt on top. Took of my undershirt and added it to the pile. I unlaced my shoes, took them off, peeled off my socks and put them inside. Rolled up the cuffs of my pants to mid–calf. Turned one complete spin, my hands high in the air.
Then I started for the stairs. On the second flight, I heard a door open.
"It's me, Mark," I called out.
The door was open at the top of the stairs. I stepped inside. He was standing next to his mother, the gun leveled at my chest.
"Hello, Mark," I said, reaching out to shake hands.
He didn't go for it, the pistol trembling in his hands.
"Okay if I sit down?" I asked, not waiting for an answer.
He stood silent, watching me. The old lady's eyes were ugly and evil, measuring me. She didn't look afraid.
"Mark, do you smoke?"
"Why?"
"I didn't want to bring my cigarettes with me. Didn't want you to be suspicious. But I'd sure like one now."
"She doesn't let me smoke in the house," he said.
The old lady's expression didn't change, but her eyes flickered triumph. The pistol wasn't cocked.
"Okay, no big deal. Let's talk now, you and me."
"About what?"
"About how you're going to get out of this, okay?"
"The probation officer, she said if I messed up again, I was going to jail. I can't go to jail."
"You're not going to jail, Mark. Why should you go to jails Your mother, she's not going to press charges against you, right?"
He looked down at her. She nodded agreement.
"See?" I told him. "What we have to do, now, is bargain with them. Make a deal, you know?"
"What kind of deal?"
"The only trouble you're in, near as I can see, is maybe running away from the cops this morning. That's nothing, that's not even a crime. But you know how judges are…so we have to give them something, make you look good. Like a hero, okay?"
"A hero?"
"Sure! What we do is, we let your mother go. We let her go outside. You still have me as a hostage. But first, I call the cops. And I make them promise, if you let her go, then they'll drop the charges. Then, you and me, we walk out of here together. Okay?"
"What if…?"
"How does your mother get around, Marks I mean, how does that wheelchair get outsider'
"She can walk. If she had some help. I used to…"
"Okay, here's how we'll do it. I'll help your mother downstairs, right to the door, okay' That wheelchair, it folds up, right?"
"Yes."
"Okay. I'll help her downstairs. You're right behind me, with the gun. Then you and me, we'll go back upstairs and talk. After a while, we walk out. And that's it."
"You promise?"
"Just watch me," I said, reaching for the phone. I dialed the truck. "This is Walker," I told them. "Mark and I have had a discussion about this situation and here's what we have to offer. He's going to let his mother come out, okay' In exchange, we want you to drop the charges against him. You do that, and he and I will come out together. But remember, the deal has to be no jail for Mark, you understand?"
Mark stood next to me, the pistol inches from my face. I held the receiver so he could hear the cop in the truck tell me they agreed to my terms, no problem. So long as he sent the old lady out first.
It took a long time to wrestle the old lady down the stairs, her gnarled hands on my arm. I wasn't surprised at the strength of her grip. I snapped the wheelchair open and she sat down. I gently pushed her out into the sunlight. Climbed back the stairs, Mark right behind me.
We both sat down. "You can smoke now," I told him. "She's gone."
His smile was tentative, but he produced a pack. Handed it to me. We lit up, smoked in silence.
Then he told me his story. They all have a story. He was a change–of–life baby. His father left soon after his birth, and the old lady raised him alone. Hard. He showed me the discolored skin on his right hand where she'd burned him when she caught him with dirty magazines. The whip marks on his back. From an electrical cord. He dropped out of school when he was a teenager. Never had a friend. Lonely, scared, sad. Scarred.
In another hour he was crying
I got up, went to him. Put my arms around him. Took the gun gently from his hand. Patted his back, talking softly to him. Telling him he was gong to a better place. Where nobody could ever hurt him again.
I stepped away from him. Turned and brought up the pistol. His face froze. I put two rounds into his chest. Footsteps pounded on the stairs.
Self–defense.
Maybe now they'll give me my gun back.
It's a Hard World
I pulled into the parking lot at La Guardia around noon and sat in the car running my fingers over the newly tightened skin on my face, trying to think through my next move. I couldn't count on the plastic surgery to do the job. I had to get out of New York at least long enough to see if DellaCroce's people still were looking for me.
I sat there for an hour or so thinking it through, but nothing came to me. Time to move. I left the car where it was–let Hertz pick it up in a week or so when I didn't turn it in.
The Delta terminal was all by itself in a corner of the airport. I had a ticket for Augusta, Georgia, by way of Atlanta. Canada was where I had to go if I wanted to get out of the country, but Atlanta gave me a lot of options. The airport there is the size of a small city; it picks up traffic from all over the country.
I waited until the last minute to board, but it was quiet and peaceful. They didn't have anybody on the plane with me. Plenty of time to think; maybe too much time. A running man sticks out too much. I had to find a way out of this soon or DellaCroce would nail me when I ran out of places to hide.
Atlanta Airport was the usual mess: travelers running through the tunnels, locals selling everything from shoeshines to salvation. I had a couple of hours until the connecting Right to Augusta, so I found a pay phone and called the Blind Man in New York.
"What's the story?" I asked, not identifying myself.
"Good news and bad news, pal," came back the Blind Man's harsh whisper. He'd spent so much time in solitary back when we did time together that his eyes were bad and his voice had rusted from lack of practice. "They got the name that's on your ticket, but no pictures."
"Damn! How did they get on the ticket so fast?"
"What's the difference, pal? Dump the tick
et and get the hell out of there."
"And do what?"
"You got me, brother. But be quick or be dead," said the Blind Man, breaking the connection.
The first thing I did was get out of the Delta area. I went to the United counter and booked a flight to Chicago, leaving in three hours. You have to stay away from borders when you're paying cash for an airline ticket, but I didn't see any obvious DEA agents lurking around and, anyway, I wasn't carrying luggage.
With the Chicago ticket tucked safely away in my pocket, I drifted slowly back toward the boarding area for the Augusta flight. It was getting near to departure time. I found myself a seat in the waiting area, lit a cigarette, and kept an eye on the people at the ticketing desk. There was a short walkway to the plane, with a pretty little blonde standing there checking off the boarding passes. Still peaceful, the silence routinely interrupted by the usual airport announcements, but no tension. It felt right to me. Maybe I'd try for Augusta after all; I hate Chicago when it's cold.
And then I spotted the hunters: two fiat-faced men sitting in a corner of the waiting area. Sitting so close their shoulders were touching, they both had their eyes pinned on the little blonde, not sweeping the room like I would have expected. But I knew who they were. You don't survive a dozen years behind the walls if you can't tell the hunters from the herd.
They wouldn't be carrying; bringing handguns into an airport was too much of a risk. Besides, their job was to point the finger, not pull the trigger. I saw how they planned to work it; they had the walkway boxed in. But I didn't see what good it would do them if they couldn't put a face on their target.
The desk man announced the boarding of Flight 884 to Augusta. I sat there like it was none of my business, not moving. One by one, the passengers filed into the narrow area. The sweet Southern voice of the blonde piped up, "Pleased to have you with us today, Mr. Wilson," and my eyes flashed over to the hunters. Sure enough, they were riveted to the blonde's voice. She called off the name of each male passenger as he filed past her. If the women passengers felt slighted at the lack of recognition, they kept quiet about it. A perfect trap: if I put my body through that walkway, the little blonde would brand the name they already had to my new face, and I'd be dead meat as soon as the plane landed.
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