by Andrew Kane
Later in the afternoon, Martin dialed for the third time that day the phone number for Jacob Lipton Associates. On his previous calls, he had asked for Cheryl and was immediately fed to her voice mail. He had chosen not to leave a message.
Once again, he got her voice mail, a simple outgoing message: Hi, this is Cheryl Manning. I am either away from my desk or on another line. Please leave a message, and I will return your call shortly. If you’d like to speak with the receptionist, please press the star key.
Martin held the receiver to his ear, looking out the window, wondering what to do, reluctant to respond.
Perhaps it was his insecurity, he reflected, the feeling that once he left a message he would relinquish control, giving her the opportunity to choose when to call back. But he knew it wasn’t that. On the contrary, he was fairly certain that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
Clueless to the cause of his reticence, he forced himself to get past it. “Hi Cheryl, it’s Marty. Give me a call as soon as you get a chance. Bye.”
chapter 28
Martha Benoît watched her husband stare out the window. They had been riding in the back of the limo for close to half an hour and he had barely uttered a word. She looked at her watch; it was 7:18. The fundraiser for the American Red Cross was scheduled for 7:30 at the Hilton on Sixth Avenue, and they were just nearing the Queens entrance to the Midtown Tunnel. They would be more than fashionably late at this point, a position that normally would have Jacques on edge, especially because he was one of the honorees. But he seemed oblivious, his mind elsewhere.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
“Yes, everything is fine,” he responded, still gazing out the window.
“Do you see anything interesting?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning to her. “I was just thinking about something.”
She decided not to intrude, though this had become more difficult since the suicide attempt. She was now the constant worrier, the very sort of wife she’d always sworn she’d never be. She’d tried convincing herself that things were okay, that he was in good hands with Dr. Rosen, but at times like this, she wondered.
“Don’t worry, dear,” he said, putting his hand on her lap and a smile on his face. “We are going to have a splendid evening.”
She returned the smile, pretending to be mollified. It was the best she could do at the moment. But she knew something was wrong.
The sound of footsteps behind Dan Gifford would have caught his attention earlier, had he not been so preoccupied. He had just left his office and was walking in the garage to his car. The first thing he noticed was that the steps sounded like there were two people; the pace and heaviness suggested males. If they were simply two other night owls heading toward a car, they would likely be chatting, which they weren’t. Hence his conclusion that they were there for him.
He reached into his blazer, removed his Glock from its shoulder holster and held the gun against his chest, out of sight from his pursuers. He felt anxious. It had been years since he’d been in a position like this. He took a deep breath and told himself he was prepared. This was turning out to be one hell of a day.
There was a time when he had believed he was finished with guns, before his promotion to major crimes and his dealings with criminals from whom the law offered little protection. Now, carrying a weapon was as ordinary as wearing his wristwatch, and while it felt familiar in his hand, he hadn’t actually needed to use one since his days in Vietnam.
The garage was dimly lit, with a few security cameras. But it was late and he was sure that whoever was at the other end of those cameras was either sleeping, on a break, or doing something other than watching. As far as he could tell, there was no one else in the garage except for him and the men following him.
He turned a corner and quickly slipped out of sight behind a row of cars. The pace of his pursuers hastened. He slouched down, both hands on the 9 mm, trying to get a glimpse of them without being seen. No one. He figured they split up and would try to surround him.
He was as good as blind now, so he used his ears, catching some movement at five o’ clock about twenty feet away. Then, a muffled click, more familiar to his instincts than his consciousness. He hit the ground just as the window directly above him exploded and the car alarm started blasting. They had his position and were using silencers. Definitely professionals.
He quickly removed his shoes and fired off three rounds in the direction of the shot, setting off two more car alarms. He began maneuvering between the cars, staying low for cover. It wouldn’t be long before help would come; meanwhile, he just had to stay alive. The noise from the alarms made it impossible for him to track them without using his eyes. He lifted his head slightly, and pulled down just in time to miss another bullet.
He knew he was trapped, that these guys weren’t apt to leave empty-handed. He needed to retreat toward a wall or partition. With two of them out there, he definitely had to have his back against a wall. He began crawling when, suddenly, a voice called out.
“Mr. Gifford?”
He noted the characteristics of the voice – deep, raspy, accented, definitely Spanish, most likely Colombian – but he didn’t respond. He wasn’t about to give up his position.
“You do not have to answer us, we know you are there. We are not here to kill you. Otherwise, you’d be dead already. We only want to talk to you about Roberto Alvarez. We will let you live and even pay you a sizeable sum of money if you tell us where he is.”
So that’s what this was about; they were Colombians. He wasn’t surprised. He had known that it would only be a matter of time before Miguel Domingo made a move against Alvarez. He let his silence be his answer.
“If that is how you want it, Mr. Gifford, we are sorry we cannot let you live. We have to send a message to Roberto, I am sure your wife and son will understand.”
Gifford had to admit, these guys spooked him. And that’s exactly what they were trying to do, psych him into something stupid. Suddenly, he heard the sound of screeching tires, a car entering the garage one flight up. Could be cops, or reinforcements for the goons. Either way, he was staying put. Let them come to him. However this was going to end, he wasn’t going out alone.
More screeching as the car turned a corner. Red flashing lights. The good guys. Gifford felt pangs of relief, until all at once a barrage of car windows started shattering around him. Glass flew in every direction. The silencers letting loose.
He then heard standard gunfire, someone else in on the action. The silencers still firing, but no longer in his direction.
He crawled away from the wall, toward the end of the row of cars, stuck his head out from behind the rear wheel of a car and saw a brown Chevy with a flashing red bubble on the dash, blown out windows, abandoned. Bobby Marcus’ car.
What was Marcus doing here?
The gunfire subsided.
Was Marcus injured?
“Bobby?” Gifford yelled, no longer caring about revealing his position.
No response.
Gifford swallowed hard, thinking that Marcus was either down or reconnoitering.
“Your friend is dead, Mr. Gifford, but you still have a chance to get out of this alive,” the Spanish voice said.
“Fuck you!” Gifford yelled.
“Have it your way.”
Suddenly, loud gunfire rang out. Gifford looked again and saw Marcus crouched, moving between cars, approaching the goons, a gun in each hand. It was time for him to go on the offensive as well.
He eased out, under cover from Marcus’ shots, and began firing in the same direction. The two of them gave each other cover as they closed in on the Colombians. Luckily, no one hit a gas tank. Yet.
Gifford caught up with Marcus when, abruptly, his Glock emptied. They both ducked behind a car. Marcus handed Gifford his second piece and an extra
magazine. The silencers began returning fire.
“Something’s going to blow up,” Gifford said nervously.
“Not a bad idea,” Marcus responded.
“Are you crazy? You’ll kill us all!”
“It’s better than letting them win, don’t you think?”
Gifford looked at him, expressionless.
“It’s your call,” Marcus said as he dropped out his empty magazine and slid in a new one. “You’re the boss.”
“Go for it.”
Marcus took the low, picking off two shots at the tank of the car shielding the goons. Gifford went from above, firing in the same direction. They heard sirens from afar, reinforcements on the way.
The silencers stopped. The Colombians were yelling, this time in Spanish.
“Speak Spanish?” Marcus asked.
“Not a word.”
“Me neither. Bet they can’t believe what we’re doing. Probably think we’re suicidal.”
“They’re right. They also know that our guys are coming. They’re running out of time. Now let’s see what they’re made of.” He raised his voice, and said, “Drop your guns and give it up, or we’re all going out together!”
He knew they wouldn’t comply; in their world, that would be suicide. But it was obvious that their plan had failed. Men like this were always used to easy targets, and never prepared for the unexpected. They were desperate; it was only a matter of seconds before they would do something stupid. He picked off another shot at the tank, just to raise the ante.
The Colombians emerged from their cover, firing their silencers, trying to make a break for it.
“Let’s get them,” Marcus said.
“Let them go! The blue and whites will get them.”
“Sorry, boss, can’t do that,” Marcus said as he darted in pursuit.
Gifford had no choice now, he couldn’t let Marcus go it alone. He followed behind, firing at the Colombians. The Colombians returned fire, but out in the open they were no match. Within seconds, they were down.
Marcus and Gifford walked over to the bodies. Marcus bent down and felt their pulses.
“Dead?” Gifford asked.
“As doornails.”
The two men looked at each other. Gifford didn’t know what to feel. Marcus had defied his directive but had also saved his life.
“What’s with the two guns?” Gifford asked. Carrying more than one gun was against departmental regulations.
“It always pays to be careful.”
“Ballistics will figure it out when they analyze all the shells.”
“Ballistics won’t be analyzing shit here. With your story, these creeps dead, and us alive, no one’s gonna spend the time or the money. This isn’t even gonna make the papers.” He looked back down at the bodies. “Assholes won’t be missed by anyone.”
Marcus had a point, Gifford reflected, however disturbing it may have been. The two of them walked away from the bodies toward Marcus’ car.
“What were you doing here anyway?” Gifford asked.
“I came by to update you on the Schwartz thing, was just pulling up in front of the building when I heard shots from the garage.” He reached into the glove compartment, took out a pack of cigarettes and held it out for Gifford.
“No thanks. Thought you quit?”
“I did. Always keep a pack around for emergencies though.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, as if for his last breath.
“It’s a good thing you were around,” Gifford said.
“I’ll say.”
“I wonder where security was.”
Marcus looked at him sardonically. “The square badge? Probably called the cops then sat and waited.”
“Probably.” Gifford looked back at the bodies. Regardless of who they were, he felt nauseated. It had been years since he’d killed anyone. “So, what’d you find out about Schwartz?” he asked, trying to collect himself.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Seems this Schwartz fellow works with a small team, no one talks, and he reports directly to the top.”
“The top?”
“Deputy director.”
“No leaks?”
“Not a one. Would you believe it? We oughta have this guy work for us.”
“You wouldn’t like him.”
“Probably not. I don’t like anybody.” He drew on his cigarette. “Let me ask you something. Why go worrying about this Schwartz character? You don’t got enough on your plate with this thing here?”
Gifford nodded.
“You got the biggest trial of your career in three weeks and a bunch of Colombian badasses after you. Who gives a shit about some Nazi thing on Long Island?”
“Point well taken,” Gifford said, though he knew it was contrary to his nature to give up like that. He was tired and didn’t want to justify himself to anyone right now.
They heard the sirens of police cars entering the garage above.
“Come,” said Marcus, placing his hand on Gifford’s shoulder, “let’s go meet the cavalry.”
chapter 29
Dan Gifford found himself flustered by the inquisitive expression of the bartender.
“Haven’t seen you for quite a while,” the man said, waiting for Gifford to say something.
Gifford eyed the selection. Gin had always been his drink of choice, usually some cheap house brand, but on special occasions Beefeater or Tanqueray. He wondered what this particular evening called for.
“Need a minute?” the bartender asked.
Gifford nodded, staring at the bottles as if he were alone. The bartender took the cue and wandered away.
Gifford’s thoughts were racing. From the moment he had stopped drinking, he suspected that he would never be completely beyond this. And now it was clear.
The bartender returned with a shot of gin and a chaser of club soda.
“I didn’t ask for that,” Gifford said.
“It’s a gift from Marjorie.”
Gifford shifted his gaze to the other side of the bar, and there sat Marjorie Phillips, one of his old drinking cronies. She was as thin as ever – the product of years of drinking her meals – and her face was encased in makeup to hide its wear. Her blouse was tight, her nails bright red, and her hair bleached glistening blond. Sadly enough, at that moment she looked tempting.
She smiled and held up a glass to toast, as if to say, “Welcome back, Danny boy.” He lifted his shot glass, painted on a polite grin, then sat the glass back down on the bar. He knew he had but a few moments before she walked over and offered to sit with him, and the next thing he would remember would be waking up beside her in that shoddy SRO she called home. It scared the shit out of him that he could even consider this.
He thought about Martin Rosen. Boy, he really screwed up that one. Maybe he should follow Bobby Marcus’ advice: just forget this Schwartz thing, erase it from his mind. If he did, then he could return to Rosen and get his life back on track.
He felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Hi, Dan,” Marjorie said as she eased onto the stool beside him.
“Marj,” he responded. The power of her perfume was enough to make him wish he had a facemask.
“Long time no see.”
“A while,” he said. “Thanks for the drink.”
She ran her nails down his neckline, onto his chest. “I see you haven’t touched it.”
He looked at the shot glass.
“Shame to let good booze go to waste.”
He nodded.
“So, where you been?”
“Here and there.” He wasn’t being evasive. She was asking for the hell of it and any answer was fine.
“Really? I’ve been there too,” she said.
He feigned another smile.
<
br /> “So, you gonna drink or what?”
“I haven’t decided.”
She moved her hand down to his lap, then up the inside of his thigh. “Wish you would.”
He swallowed. “I bet.”
She stroked a little harder and felt him rise. “Nice to know you’re still healthy.”
“You always do it for me, Marj.”
“Then why not let old Marjie take care of you now?”
No response.
She rose from the stool, pressed her body close to his. “You know I can,” she whispered. No one in the bar seemed to notice.
He took a deep breath, moved her back a bit, and looked into her bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry, Marj. I just can’t.”
Her mouth was open. It was hard for him to tell if she was angry or stunned. But he decided he wasn’t going to stick around long enough to find out. “Thanks again for the drink,” he said as he turned on his heel and left.
He put the key in the ignition and sat in his car, staring at the door to the bar, wondering if he should go back in. He knew that even when he got home and was lying in bed, the temptation to get dressed and return would still be with him. Marj would still be there, she would always be there. And never with hard feelings or resentment, at least none that couldn’t be washed away with a drink or two.
He pounded the dashboard with his fist. Would it always be this hard, he wondered. Would he ever be able to make a clean break, and never be tempted again? Dr. Rosen had assured him it would get better with time, lots of time, and hard work. In AA, they had touted the same line. But he had become a mite too negligent these past few weeks, and had eased up on the meetings. Rosen had brought this up a few times, and Gifford had promised to go back. He just hadn’t gotten around to it. Now he was on his own.
He reached into his pocket, took out his phone and dialed. Depending on one’s perspective, it was either late in the evening or early in the morning. He didn’t care. He had to make the call.
A woman’s voice came on the line. “Hello?”