Curtains

by Scott Nicholson

  Vincent had been so wrapped up in worrying about Joey Scattione that he hadn't considered falling victim to a less ruthless and much more random predator. His predicament hit him like a wrong-way cab. If he were forced to be Vincent Hartbarger, he wouldn't last a half a day in this city. Not with Joey's people on the hunt. And Vincent Hartbarger at the moment was broke, no way out, no standby plane ticket, no bulletproof vest. No gun.

  "Out of the way, dude," growled a kid with a skateboard under his arm. The kid shoved past Vincent, greasy black hair shining in the lights from a nearby shop window. Vincent moved against the glass, out of the main crush of foot traffic. He glanced at the passing faces, on the lookout for Joey's people.

  Calm down, take a breath. Think.

  Thinking brought the headache roaring back. Goon must have used a tire iron.

  He fumbled for a cigarette, then remembered that Robert Wells didn't smoke. But he wasn't Robert Wells anymore. He searched for the secret folds in his coat, the place where he'd kept his Vincent effects. Because he'd planned all along that, once he blew this town and shook the spooks, he'd return to being Vincent, at least until he could scrape together a new identity. He didn't have much faith in the Feds and their "witless protection program."

  But the worse got worser. His fingers came away empty. The mugger had taken his Vincent stash, along with the extra fifty he'd tucked back for hard times. Vincent closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, inhaling car exhaust as if the carbon monoxide would dull his headache.

  I'd rather be anywhere than right here, on Joey's turf, in Joey's town. Hell, I'd even take Muncie. At least in Muncie, the only thing I'd have to worry about would be dying of boredom. And I hear that takes YEARS…

  Voices to his right pulled him back to the morning street. Two people were shouting, pointing into the shop window. In New York, two people talking on the street either meant a drug deal, a sex solicitation, or the beginning of a murder. But these seemed like ordinary folks, the kind who talked to windows instead of invisible demons.

  Vincent looked into the storefront. It was a pawn shop, bars thick across the window, a bank of surveillance cameras eyeing the street like hookers on payday. A Sanyo television lit up the window, the flickering images reflected in the glass. It took Vincent a moment to register what he was seeing.

  A shot of the East River, a harried-looking reporter trying vainly to control her hair in the breeze, a cutaway to emergency response and fire vehicles, then a wide shot of Kennedy Airport. Back to the river, a small orange speck in the water. Zoom in. A torn life jacket.

  A computer graphic popped up in the corner of the screen, the station logo a leering eye. Underneath, in slanted red letters, "Flight 317 Crash."

  Poor bastards, Vincent thought. Imagine what kind of headache you get from dropping a mile-and-a-half from the sky.

  He was turning back to the street, his pity for the victims already fading, when the number "317" bounced back into his roaring head. He froze, got shoved by a balding man in a suit, yelled at by a package courier.

  317. Hadn't that been his flight? The one that was supposed to whisk Robert Wells to a new life?

  He went into the pawn shop. A bank of TVs filled one wall, half of them tuned to news coverage of the crash. The anchor had her hair in place now, must have snagged some hair spray during the cutaway. The computer graphic now read "Live!" under the station logo, in those same blood-red letters.

  "We're at the scene of the crash of NationAir Flight 317, which plummeted shortly after takeoff from Kennedy Airport this morning-"

  "What a mess, huh?" said a voice behind Vincent. He thought at first it was one of Joey's boys. But it was the pawn shop proprietor, a small man with glasses and a scar across one cheek. His nose looked like an unsuccessful prizefighter's.

  "Yu-yeah," Vincent agreed.

  "Took about a minute for it to hit the water," the shop owner said, leaning over a glass case of watches. "Just enough time for them to pray and crap their pants."

  The man starting laughing, the laugh spasmed into a coughing fit. The news anchor's voice fought with the racket of the man's lungs.

  "— no survivors have been found. The Boeing 747 was reported to be carrying a full contingent of 346 passengers, according to NationAir records. F.A.A. authorities are arriving on the scene-"

  "It was one of them Aye-rab bombs, I bet," said the shopkeeper. "Don't see why the rest of us got to suffer 'cause the kikes and the ragheads can't get along."

  "They said the plane was full," Vincent said, half to himself.

  "Yep. You know how they are these days. Wedge 'em in with a crowbar. They interviewed the man who was first in line to go standby. Everybody showed, so he never got on. He was thanking God seven ways to Sunday."

  No standby passengers. But what about the ticket belonging to Robert Wells? Someone must have used it. Someone Vincent stumbled toward the street, his head reeling.

  "Hey, got a special today on handguns," the shopkeeper called after him. "No waiting."

  But Vincent was already out the door. He walked fast, fell into the New York rhythm, blind to everything.

  Someone must have used his ticket. Who?

  The mugger.

  The mugger must have checked in with the ticket, became "Robert Wells" himself, and grabbed a seat across the country. Maybe the mugger wanted out of this town so bad that he'd risk having the authorities waiting for him at LAX. And for his trouble, the idiot was probably now in a thousand pieces, feeding fish in Long Island Sound.

  If so, the creep had gotten what he deserved. Vincent touched his sore head to remind himself that everybody had to go sometime. Everybody had to pay that one big debt. The trick was to put it off as long as possible.

  As he turned the corner, another thought came to him. Unless the spooks had been watching, then they didn't know that Robert Wells a.k.a. Vincent never boarded the plane. They would get the list, see the name, go over the data on the terminal computer, and verify that indeed Robert Wells had met his end on Flight 317.

  A perfect bow-tie on their witness protection program. Case closed. The Fed's star witness against Joey Scattione was now utterly and forever safe from the mobster's long reach. Even Scattione couldn't finger a man in the afterlife.

  Vincent walked faster, excited, his pulse racing, red wires of pain shrieking through his temples. He realized that Scattione would also think him dead. Scattione was way sharper than the Feds, even though he'd been convicted on racketeering and drug charges. Thanks to Vincent, who'd been one of his best street lieutenants.

  But Vincent knew a good deal when he saw one. When the net tightened and the Feds needed a pigeon, Vincent did even better than squawk: he'd sung like a deflowered canary. After, of course, he’d elicited a long sheet of promises, including permanent immunity and protection. And a new identity.

  An identity that was dead.

  What he needed right now was his old friend Sid.

  Vincent turned into a bar, though it was scarcely ten o'clock. A man in drag who looked like he hadn't slept was slumped in one corner, holding a cigarette that was four inches of ash. Two cabbies were drinking off the effects of the third shift. The bartender kept his attention focused on the tiny black-and-white that hung in one corner. It was tuned to the same news coverage of the crash.

  "Help you, buddy?" the bartender said, without turning.

  "Scotch and water. A double."

  "Poor bastards," the bartender said, still watching the television as he reached for the stock behind him. "We think we got it bad, but at least we ain't been handed our wings."

  "Yeah," Vincent said. Catholic humor. Like everybody was an angel.

  The man poured from the Johnny Walker bottle as if dispensing liquid gold. The ice cubes were rattled into the glass before Vincent could complain about the weak mix. Then Vincent remembered he had no money. He acted as if reaching for his wallet, then said, "Excuse me, where's the rest room?"

  The man nodded toward
the rear, eyes still fixed on the set, where the field anchor was now interviewing a witness. As Vincent headed for the dark bowels of the bar, he overheard the witness talking about airline food. The news team was groping, fumbling to keep momentum, the tragedy already sliding toward ancient history. The transvestite winked as Vincent passed, and up close Vincent couldn't tell if she were a man dressed as a woman or vice versa.

  Sheesh, and I thought I had an identity problem.

  But maybe the she-male was onto something. In the bathroom, Vincent studied his own face in the mirror, trying to picture himself in lipstick. He shuddered. Better to take on Joey Scattione than to pluck his eyebrows and duct-tape his gut.

  He washed his hands and went out. The transvestite was waiting by the door. Vincent cleared his throat. "Say, you got change for a phone call?"

  The transvestite sneered and produced some coins, then dumped them into Vincent's palm as if afraid to catch a disease. Vincent mumbled thanks and stopped by the pay phone. He dialed a well-remembered number. As the phone rang, he watched to see which gender of bathroom the transvestite chose.

  Neither. The transvestite went out the back door. The line clicked as the connection was made. "Hello," came the welcome though nasal voice.

  "Sid, hey, it's me. Vincent."

  "Vincent? Like I know any Vincent?"

  "Hartbarger. You know."

  "Afraid not, friend."

  "Jesus, Sid. Vincent Hartbarger. You sold me the damned name yourself, for crying out loud. Driver's license, Rotary Club membership, credit cards."

  "I don't know from Hartbargers."

  Vincent sighed and remembered he’d used a fake identity to get his fake identity. "It's Charlie Ehle."

  "Charlie? Why the hell didn't you say so? You expect me to remember every job or something?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Listen, I need another one. Like pronto."

  "Rush jobs cost extra, my man. But for you, I can have you set up by five o'clock."

  Vincent nodded into the phone. Sid always got chummy when he smelled green. For a document man, Sid had enough smarm to work every side of the fence: green cards, counter check scams, fake IDs, forgery, bogus lottery tickets, anything that involved paper or photographs. But Sid liked cash, lots of it, payable when services were rendered.

  "Can't you do better than five? I'm kind of in a jam."

  "Oh, the Scattione thing."

  The Scattione thing. Damn those Feds. Vincent's testimony was delivered in closed court, the records sealed. Sure, Vincent expected stoolies in the judicial branch to leak to the Mafia. This was America, after all. But when even the criminal fringes such as Sid knew the score, that meant the clock was ticking down twice per second on Vincent's remaining life span.

  "Fix me up, what do you say, pal? Just the basics."

  Sid let out a slow whistle. "It don't pay to cross Scattione. But I guess you already know that, huh?"

  "I can give you five grand."

  That shut up the weasel. For a moment. Then the shrewd voice came across the wires. "How come the spooks didn't set you up? Figured you'd be a family man from Des Moines by now."

  "We decided to part company," Vincent said. "You think I could hide from Scattione while some of them secret agent types were guarding me?"

  "Suppose not. So, what are you in the mood for? Irish? Got some McGinnitys all ready to roll off the press."

  "With my coloring? You got to be kidding." He glanced at the bartender, who was watching the news as if it were a boxing match. The transvestite entered through the back door, ignoring Vincent.

  "Okay, okay, already. Where you at?"

  "Just off Van Wyck."

  "Meet me at Naomi's Deli on Greenway. Five o'clock."

  "You need a recent photo?" Vincent asked out of habit. He knew Sid kept files on all his old customers. You never knew when blackmail might come in handy.

  "No. And let's make it six grand. I got two kids to put through college." The phone clicked and then hummed. Vincent hung up and went back to the bar. He thought about asking the transvestite to pay for his drink, but that would be pushing it. Instead, he walked past the bar, hurried out the door, and was lost in the crowd before the bartender could react.

  He walked for a while, ten blocks, until his feet were sore. He didn't know if Joey's people could find him more easily if he kept moving, or if he tried to hole up. Eventually, fatigue and the dull ache in his head sent him to a bench in one of those half-acre dirt patches that the city called a public park. The two trees clung stubbornly to their oxygen-starved leaves.

  Someone had stuffed an afternoon edition, the Daily News Express, in the trash can. Vincent fished it out. More crash coverage filled the front page, photos of the obligatory grieving survivors, bits of wreckage, FAA talking suits. On page seven was a list of those believed to have been on board NationAir Flight 317.

  Vincent ran his finger down near the bottom of the list. Wells, Robert.

  So far, so good. Wells was officially presumed dead.

  And Scattione, with his resources, would know that Vincent Hartbarger had become Wells. Scattione would get the word in his Sing Sing cell, his lips would veer to the right in churlish anger, and he'd pound his fist against the hard mattress. Nothing could tick Scattione off more than revenge denied. Vincent had to smile.

  But not laugh.

  He couldn't laugh until later, when Vincent Hartbarger was officially laid to rest, along with Charlie Ehle and the half-dozen other identities that Vincent had adopted over the years. Fingerprints were no problem, really. All he had to do was build up the kitty, turn a few deals, and grease a few palms. Everywhere a record was kept, there was a human recorder who had access to it. All Vincent needed was access to the recorder.

  Vincent had learned that it wasn't a question of whether integrity could be bought and sold. It was only a question of price.

  He managed to nap a couple of hours, keeping the newspaper over his face. Scattione had probably passed out a hundred photos. Vincent could change his name, but he was stuck with those same recognizable features. At least until he got to Cayman, where he knew a decent plastic surgeon. First things first, he needed to live long enough to get his new identity.

  The walk downtown took longer than he expected. When he entered the deli, Sid gave him the once-over. Vincent's suit was rumpled, the knees dirty from being rolled by the mugger. He hadn't shaved, either.

  "How the mighty have fallen," Sid said, as Vincent slid into the booth opposite him.

  "I haven't fallen yet," Vincent said.

  Sid was eating a Reuben, and though Vincent hadn't eaten all day, the smell of the sauerkraut curdled his stomach. Vincent checked the door. Sid wasn't known as a double-crosser. He couldn't afford to be, in his line of work. But, with Scattione in the mix, everything was subject to change.

  Sid brought out a large envelope, put it beside his plate. "Hello, Mister Raymond Highwater," he said.

  "Highwater? What sort of name is that? It's so phony, I won't make it to Jersey."

  "I stole it out of the phone book. That's what you get when you ask for a rush job." A piece of corned beef was stuck between Sid's teeth.

  "Listen, I got to ask you for a favor."

  Sid patted the table. "Pay for the last one, then we can talk."

  Vincent leaned over the table. A group of Hassidic Jews were across the room, two women were chatting over coffee, a college-aged kid, probably a film student from Columbia, was reading a magazine at the counter. None of them looked like Scattione's people. But in this city, the walls had ears, eyes, and sometimes a. 45 automatic.

  "I'm short at the moment," Vincent said. In the ensuing silence, he heard a bus honk outside, and somebody in the kitchen dropped a pan.

  Sid stopped in mid-bite, took a slow chew, and then began working his jaws like a ferret. "Short," he said, spraying rye crumbs across the table.

  "Listen, I can make it good." Vincent's words came fast, like bullets from a clip. "You know me. I c
an have it for you tomorrow. And-what say we make it ten big ones? All I need is a little time as this Highwater guy."

  Sid wiped at his mouth with a paper napkin. Then he put one hand on the envelope, and in a smooth motion, slid it back inside his jacket.

  "Come on, Sid," Vincent said, checking the door again. "We've done business for years."

  "Always cash on delivery."

  Vincent tugged at his collar, sweat ringing his forehead. He knew the window of opportunity was small. Even though Scattione thought "Robert Wells" was dead, at least one person knew that Vincent was still breathing. Sid.

  With a fake credit card, Vincent might still be able to get out of the city. All he needed was a name. He'd already died once today, he'd killed off a dozen other identities in his time, but he'd always been the one to deep-six himself. By choice. "I can deliver, Sid. I know you got skills, but it only takes you an hour to crank out a set of documents."

  Sid shook his head. "It's not about the money. It's about pride and reputation."

  Same with Scattione. What sort of rep could a Mafiaso have if the man who'd fingered him was walking around as free as sin?

  "Nobody will know, Sid. I promise. I'll deliver, then you'll never see my ugly mug again. I'm thinking Cozumel, maybe Rio."

  Sid sat back and pushed his plate away. The group of Hassidic Jews continued chattering. The college kid set down his magazine and ordered something. Vincent looked at the clock.

  "Please, Sid."

  Sid pursed his lips. Then he stood, dropped some bills on the table to cover the cost of the sandwich, and brought out the envelope. Except this one had come from a different pocket. He dropped the package in front of Vincent and shrugged. "Joey pays twenty, and this is who he wants you to be."

  The bell rang as Sid went out the door. Vincent stooped, picked up the envelope, and tore it open. Who was he this time? Not that it mattered. He'd even be a damned McGinnity if he had to.

  He stared at the driver's license.

  It didn't make sense. It was his face, all right. But this license was gone, floating somewhere in the East River. He read the name slowly, his lips shaping the syllables.