As we walked, Bob kept alert. Northwood is a small, blue-collar section of Philadelphia, and it had definitely seen better years. But it was safe enough by daylight, and in the years I'd lived here, I had never had a problem beyond kids playing “bait the cripple” with my doorbell.
"This neighborhood is a dump,” Bob said. “You should find a better place to live."
"I don't like change."
"Those kids over there—” He nodded toward a boarded-up row house across the street where three teenagers in stocking caps watched us with predatory eyes. “They'd be happy to roll you for your cash."
"I think they're about to try it,” I said. All three had gotten up and begun to cross the street toward us.
"Keep walking,” Bob said. He turned to face the three. “I'll catch up in a minute."
"Do you need help?"
"I can take care of a couple of kids."
"Be careful.” My mind started racing, taking in every detail. “The one on the left has a weapon in his pocket."
"How do you know?” Bob demanded.
"He keeps touching it through his pants. I don't think the others are armed."
"Get going."
"But—"
"Move!"
Spoken like a true bodyguard. I wasn't about to argue.
Turning, I limped quickly up the street. Motion caught my eye as I reached the corner. I half turned as a dark-skinned man in a gray silk suit seized my arm and propelled me toward the street.
"Relax, Mr. Geller,” he said softly. “Mr. Smith wants to see you."
A white Lincoln Town Car roared up. Before it came to a stop, the back door popped open. My escort put his hand on the back of my head, pressing gently but firmly, and half guided, half pushed me into the lilac-scented back seat. Then he slid in next to me and slammed the door. We accelerated.
My abduction had taken less than five seconds. That had to be a record.
Twisting around, I gazed over my shoulder at the rapidly receding figure of my bodyguard. Those three kids skirted my bodyguard and continued up the block. When Bob turned to check on me, a priceless look of shock appeared on his face. I had vanished. He began to run toward the Frankford El.
Turning back, I made myself comfortable, wincing a little as I uncrimped my legs.
"Hello, Pit,” said a smooth voice beside me.
"Mr. Smith.” I nodded to him. With his salt-and-pepper hair swept back and his neatly manicured hands, he cut the perfect picture of a crime lord. As always, he wore an expensive Italian suit, blue this time, with a white carnation at the lapel. “If you wanted to talk to me,” I said, “a simple invitation would have sufficed."
"Not with your new, ah, friend looking on.” Smith smiled a predator's smile. Since our paths first crossed, he had developed quite an interest in me—due no doubt to my trick memory, which had dredged up his real name from a chance meeting many years before. Since then, I knew he had been researching my life—even going so far as bugging my phone.
"What brings you to my neighborhood?” I asked.
"I would like you to meet my associate, Mr. Jones."
"Jones?” I raised my eyebrows and turned to the dark-skinned man next to me. “You've got to be kidding.” Of African descent, with a diamond stud earring in his left ear, Mr. Jones seemed as fashionably well groomed as Mr. Smith.
"Jones is my birth name,” said Mr. Jones gravely. “Though I've been thinking of changing it to Tortelli to fit in better with the rest of the boys."
Mr. Smith gave a snort, then added, “Mr. Jones would not kid you about his name, Mr. Geller."
"Of course not.” I sighed. Why did things like this always happen to me?
Then Smith lifted his left hand to my eye level. He held a miniature tape recorder. With his thumb, he pressed play. Eleven beeps sounded—a phone being dialed. A moment later, I heard a woman answer:
"Hello?"
"Janice?” asked the voice of my bodyguard.
"Yeah."
"This is Bob. He went for it."
She laughed. “How fast can you get him to sign off on you?"
"A few days. God, he's depressing."
"Put a bullet in his head when you're done. Put him out of his misery. Can't have him talking to Hunt, anyway."
A chill went through me. Smith pressed the stop button and returned the recorder to his pocket. It felt like I'd been struck in the stomach by a sledgehammer. Thank God I hadn't bothered to remove the bug in my telephone. Bob Charles had completely taken me in.
"Mr. Jones is in charge of your neighborhood,” Smith said. “If you'd like your guest removed quietly, he will handle the extraction. As a personal favor to me, of course."
"Removed?” I said. “Extraction?"
"It is a specialty of mine.” Mr. Jones smiled, showing beautiful white teeth.
"That won't be necessary,” I said with a slight shudder. “I'd prefer to handle him myself."
Smith nodded. Mr. Jones passed me an ivory-colored business card with gold-embossed type. It said simply jones & associates and gave a phone number with a local exchange.
"If you need help, call me day or night,” Jones said. “Any friend of Mr. Smith's is a friend of mine."
"Thank you.” I pocketed his card. Not that I ever intended to call, but it would have been rude to refuse, and I thought it prudent to be very polite and very respectful to Mr. Jones.
Our Town Car glided to a stop in front of my apartment building. Mr. Jones got out, and awkwardly I did the same.
"Thank you,” I said to Mr. Smith. “I owe you one."
"Yes, you do,” he said.
Mr. Jones slipped back into the car, and they drove off together. I watched until they disappeared around the corner.
Suddenly, my life had gotten a lot more complicated.
Bob returned to my apartment half an hour later, looking cold and annoyed. I let him in and deadbolted the door. Then I looked him over. Hard to believe he planned to kill me. I had always considered myself a pretty good judge of character, and he had fooled me completely. Damn it, I had actually begun to like him, with his goofy gung-ho act.
"No black eyes,” I said, “and no bullet wounds, punctures, scuffs, or scrapes. Those boys must not have been much trouble after all."
"They knew enough to steer clear of me."
"See why I don't leave my apartment?” I limped back toward the kitchen. “It's an unpleasant world. And it's much too tiring."
"What happened to you?” Bob demanded, following. “I couldn't find you anywhere!"
"Oh, a friend gave me a lift home. I ordered a pizza. I hope you like pepperoni. It's the only topping that goes well with scotch."
I sagged into a well-padded kitchen chair and took a slice from the take-out box. Sal's Pizza & Hoagies had dropped it off five minutes ago. I had already poured myself a large drink—mostly soda water, with just a splash of booze to give it the right smell, mostly for Bob's benefit. I couldn't appear to change my alcoholic behavior lest it tip him off that I knew too much.
"Pepperoni is fine.” He got a beer from the fridge.
"Better stick with water,” I told him, wagging a finger. “Bodyguards never drink on duty. Hazard of the trade."
Silently he put it back. I could tell it annoyed him, though. One point for me.
After lunch, I announced my plans to visit the Free Library of Philadelphia ... not our local branch, which specialized more in popular fiction than world-class research materials, but the large one on Vine Street in Center City. A plan had begun to form in the back of my mind ... layers of deception, baited with promises of fast and easy money.
"The library? Can't you use the Internet?” Bob asked. “Everything's online now."
"Not the material I'm looking for. And anyway, I'd still have to go to the library. I don't own a computer."
I didn't add that I blamed computers in part for the information overload that had led to my nervous breakdown.
On our second try, we reached t
he Frankford El without difficulty. I bought tokens; slowly we climbed up to the platform. Fortunately the train came quickly.
We sat in a nearly empty car, and I focused my attention on the floor, analyzing stains and scuff marks, trying not to look out the windows. Too much scenery, too much color and motion, tended to bring on anxiety attacks. I felt a rising sense of panic from Mr. Smith's warning. What would my fake bodyguard do if I suddenly curled into a fetal ball on the floor?
"If we get separated,” Bob said suddenly, “we need a plan. A place to regroup."
I looked at his face. “My apartment?"
"That will do if we're in this area. I meant someplace downtown, while we're out today."
"There's a House of Coffee at 20th and Vine. That's half a block from the library."
He nodded. “Good."
I went back to studying the floor. We rode in silence until we reached Race Street, and there we got out.
Shoppers bustled on the sidewalk, carrying bags and boxes, hurrying on holiday errands. Street vendors hawked caps and scarves and bric-a-brac. Brakes squealed and horns blared from the street. A bus rumbled past, spewing exhaust and carbon dioxide.
I felt a crawling sensation all over. Nervous jitters, just nervous jitters. Too many people and too much noise.
"Are you all right?” Bob asked.
I blinked rapidly, trying to stay focused. “I feel overwhelmed—"
"Come on.” He grabbed my arm and propelled me forward. With his help, I managed to cross the street, and we headed toward Vine. I kept my gaze fixed on the sidewalk.
"Clear the way!” Bob bellowed. “Sick man coming through!"
To my surprise, people actually moved for him—shoppers, businessmen, kids, even a pair of nuns—and we made rapid progress. Finally we passed through the double doors and into the sanctuary of the Free Library. A soothing silence washed over me. Better, better, so much better here. I closed my eyes, just breathing, and felt muscles starting to uncoil.
Bob said softly, “If you need to go home—"
"I'll be fine. The outside world is ... difficult sometimes. I shouldn't go into crowds on holidays.” I swallowed. “I'm feeling better now. Really."
The card catalog of my youth had been replaced by computer terminals. I eased into a hard wooden chair, stretched my legs out as far as I could, and began my search for books on New York City banks.
Bob, with the occasional bored yawn, kept watch over my shoulder. I began jotting down titles and Dewey Decimal System numbers. When I had ten books selected, Bob took the list.
"I'll find them,” he said.
Within twenty minutes, he returned with eight of the ten volumes. Not a bad average—he made a fair research assistant.
The Manhattan Federal Trust sounded like a good choice. After suffering a series of financial losses in the late 1960's, it merged with Third Continental Loan, forming the Manhattan Third Federal Loan and Trust. It suffered a huge loss in 1973 when one of its armored cars had been hijacked. A half dozen name changes, mergers, and acquisitions later, I lost the trail in a 1991 savings and loan collapse. There didn't seem to be a surviving corporate entity.
I sat back. Yes, it would do nicely.
"Why do you care about this particular bank?” Bob asked suddenly.
"My father did some work there a long time ago,” I said. “Can you find microfilm of back issues of the New York Times? I need to see July, 1973."
"The whole month?"
"Yes. And maybe part of August."
"You're the boss.” Shrugging, he went to find a librarian.
Meanwhile, I returned to the computerized card catalog and began looking up volumes on the U.S. legal system—choosing more for titles than content. I had no intention of reading them if I could avoid it.
"You're in luck,” Bob announced when he finally returned. “They have the New York Times going back over a hundred years on microfiche. A lady is setting up the viewer now. They have a private room you can use, too."
"Excellent!” I beamed, as I handed over my new list. “When I'm done, I'll need these books. Can you find them?"
"Sure."
When he glanced at the titles, his eyes widened. Volumes like Circumventing the American Tax System, Overseas Tax Havens, and Criminal Statutes of Limitations: A State by State Guide must have caught him by surprise.
"What are you planning?” he asked.
"Bodyguards aren't supposed to ask questions,” I said with a wink. “I'm doing some research."
"If this is illegal, I want to know. I might be held responsible as an accomplice."
I laughed. “Since when is research a criminal act? I'm thinking of writing a book."
He frowned, clearly unsatisfied. But I offered no more explanations.
"Where do I go for the Times?” I asked.
"Over here.” Turning, he led the way to a small room at the back of the library. An elderly woman had a machine set up for me, and while Bob went off to find my legal books, I began to skim newspaper headlines. Minutes ticked by. My bodyguard returned with a stack of hardbacks, then settled into the chair next to mine.
Finally I found what I wanted: an article dated July 19, 1973. Five men made off with an estimated half million dollars in cash by hijacking an armored truck on the Brooklyn Bridge in broad daylight. It had been a daring robbery, ably executed.
"Way to go, Dad!” I muttered just loud enough for Bob to hear. Never mind that I hadn't been born yet when the robbery took place—thanks to my accident, I looked thirty years older than my actual age.
I printed out the article, folded it up, and stuck it in my shirt pocket. Bait. The library charged thirty cents for the printout, and I paid the lady happily.
"That's all I needed from the Times,” I said as I limped out of the room. I found an empty reading table and pretended to study tax evasion and statutes of limitations for the next half hour. The volumes seemed interminable.
At last, just when I couldn't take it any more, my stomach growled, announcing dinner time. Another chance to gouge my assassin-bodyguard? I'd see how far I could run up his credit cards before letting him off the hook.
"I don't think Davy would mind springing for dinner instead of breakfast,” I told Bob, closing Offshore Flight: Where and How to Take Your Money.
"Probably not,” he said.
"There's a little seafood house around the corner called Charley's Red. Supposed to be pretty good too."
He perked up. “I could go for some surf and turf."
"You won't be disappointed."
How could he be? It was a four-star restaurant with a wine list to die for.
Dinner was sublime. I ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon Rosé 1988 with my caviar-and-truffle-stuffed lobster á lá Charley. As I kept telling Bob throughout the meal, “Don't worry, it's on Davy."
Bob could only grin and nod. Finally, after a delightful chocolate soufflé followed by a glass of aged port, I could eat no more. I leaned back and patted my too-full belly.
Bob received the check and blanched. Dinner for the two of us came to almost seven hundred and fifty dollars, I saw. Not including tip.
"They expect a twenty-five percent gratuity,” I told him, feeling generous: service had been exceptional.
"I ... I'm afraid I can't, sir.” He gulped. “There's only a couple of hundred left on my credit card. David was going to reimburse me!"
"Oh.” So much for running up Bob's credit cards. The possibility that my bodyguard might be broke had never occurred to me. “I'll handle it, then."
I pulled out my Amex. At least I knew Bob's finances now. Could I somehow use that to my advantage? I would have to think on it.
After I signed the credit card receipt, I found I could barely stand. So much for keeping my head clear. I had no choice but to agree to a taxi, which Bob said he would pay for, to make up for dinner. We rode in warmth and comfort back to my apartment.
There, I set my trap. I accidentally “forgot” to remove the
robbery article when I tossed my shirt into the bathroom hamper. I carefully left the lid up and the article in plain sight. Neat freak that he was, I knew Bob would rush to close the hamper's lid, and when he did, he would spot the printout.
If he didn't conclude that my father had been in on the armored car heist, he was dumber than he looked. That, plus the research on offshore tax havens, painted me as a criminal at work ... something he could try to turn to his advantage.
"Good night!” I said, heading to my bedroom with a fresh bottle of whiskey. I carried it mostly for show; I had no intention of clouding my mind further tonight. “Oh, I'll be up early—we have to go to Atlantic City tomorrow."
"Want me to drive?” he offered.
"No need. Casinos return your bus fare in quarters when you get there, plus they sometimes throw in coupons for lunch and other freebies.” I had a drawer full of Golden Nugget T-shirts to prove it.
* * * *
As I lay in bed, thoughts racing, I mentally reviewed the recording Mr. Smith had played for me—and realized I had made a huge mistake.
Every button on a telephone keypad has a different sound. Since I remembered each tone on Mr. Smith's recording perfectly, it was a simple matter to match them up to numbers. Two seconds later, I had Janice's phone number. If I'd thought of it in time, I could have used a reverse directory at the library to look up her name and address.
Calling myself a drunken idiot, I picked up my phone's receiver, punched number 4 so the dial tone went away, and said in a low voice: “Please tell Mr. Smith I'm going to the Azteca Casino on the nine o'clock bus tomorrow morning. When I get there, I'd like my bodyguard's complimentary drink spiked—something that will tie him up in the bathroom for an hour or so. I'm going to win a million dollars at the blackjack tables. Don't worry, I'll give it back. If Mr. Smith is willing to help, I'll owe him another favor. If not—well, I'll manage on my own."
I hung up. Then I opened my night table's drawer and removed four pens from the neat row inside, along with an unused pocket notebook. In tiny, cribbed lettering, I began making lists of fictional transactions using several different colors of ink and alternating between sloppy and neat handwriting. First came dates, then names of various casinos and amounts I had won. At the bottom of each page, I noted the anonymous Swiss or Brazilian bank account into which the money had been wired. My fictional net worth climbed rapidly into the millions.
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