Even

by Andrew Grant

  I had the same waiter as last time. He gave me the same table. And when Tanya’s apologetic text arrived he gave me the same half amused, half pitiful look you always get when you eat out alone.

  I ordered the same meal. The same wine. And I was staying in the same hotel, so I decided to complete the whole déjà vu experience by walking back the same way. Except that by the time I reached Raab’s alleyway, I had a strong feeling I was no longer on my own.

  Five people had left Fong’s around the same time as me. Two couples and one single male. I wasn’t too concerned about the couples. They’d been in the restaurant before I arrived, sitting together, and I watched them hang around at the edge of the sidewalk chatting for a few moments before they drifted off in the opposite direction. The guy was much more interesting, though. I hadn’t seen him inside, eating or working. He’d just appeared from the side of the building, near the staff entrance, and then loitered in the shadows until he saw which way I was headed. He set off in front of me and walked fast until he was twenty feet ahead. Then he slowed his pace to match mine, carefully keeping the gap between us roughly constant.

  At the first corner he turned right, the way I was planning to go. I followed him into the next street and found he’d stopped ten feet from the intersection and was standing sideways, looking toward me and laboriously trying to light a cigarette with a spluttering old Zippo. As soon as he saw me he snapped the lighter closed and moved off again in the same direction, quickly stretching the gap back out to twenty feet. The same thing happened at the next corner, except that this time he’d paused to fiddle with the heel of his right shoe. So, when I reached the mouth of the alley, I decided it was time for a test. Without breaking step I dodged sideways into the gloom and flattened myself against the wall.

  Nothing happened for half a minute. Then I heard footsteps coming back toward me. One set, fast and light. I looked down and scanned the layer of garbage on the alley floor until I spotted something suitable—a section of wooden banister rail, about four feet long. I crouched down, took a firm hold, and when the guy from Fong’s hurried into view I scythed it around in a low arc toward the street. It connected with his shins, halfway between his knees and ankles. He shrieked and cartwheeled forward, not quite bringing his arms up in time to save his face from plowing into the sidewalk.

  I stepped out of the alley and checked both ways, up and down the street. There were no pedestrians. No vehicles were moving. No windows overlooked us. No one had seen what happened. I leaned down to check the guy’s pulse and breathing. Both were fine. He was just stunned, so I moved on to his pockets. He had a wallet, cash, a cell phone, and two sets of keys. Nothing of any use. The only thing worth taking was a Browning Hi-Power 9 mm, which he’d tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

  The smart move at this point was clearly to dial 911 and walk away. I’d stood at this very spot two nights ago, and could hardly believe the trouble I’d brought on myself by getting involved in someone else’s problems. I took out my phone. It was the one Lesley had given me. Lesley, who’d left that glass jar with my name on at her house that morning. How had she been intending to fill it? I looked down at the guy on the sidewalk. I had no idea who he was. Where he had come from. Or why he was following me. Maybe Lesley had sent him? Because if she had, that changed everything. There was no way I could let that pass. I needed to be sure. And if I handed the guy to the police, the chances were I’d never find out.

  I reached down, grabbed the guy’s collar and dragged him into the alley. He was still pretty groggy so I took a moment to call up the main menu on my phone. I picked the option to create a new contact, typed Lesley (personal cell) and entered 917 followed by seven random digits. Then I put the phone away, sat the guy upright, propped him against the wall, and retrieved my piece of wooden banister.

  “Evening,” I said, when he looked as if he could focus again. “How are you feeling?”

  He grunted and wriggled forward, reaching for his gun and trying to stand up at the same time. I pushed him back down with my foot.

  “Move again, and I’ll hit you in the head with this,” I said, showing him the banister. “Understand?”

  He grunted again, but stayed still.

  “Good,” I said. “Now. What’s your name?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “OK,” I said. “No problem. To be honest, I don’t really care what your name is. What I really want to know is, why did Lesley send you after me?”

  He didn’t speak, but a flicker of recognition showed in his eyes.

  “Actually, don’t worry about that, either,” I said. “I already know why she sent you. I double-crossed her, killed one of her guys, and now she wants to pay me back.”

  “Right,” the guy said, at last.

  “She wants to give me her special treatment. Just like Cyril.”

  “Right again.”

  “I thought as much. So, here’s my real question. What were you supposed to do once you caught me?”

  “Like I’m going to tell you. Go ahead. Hit me with that thing. No way am I talking.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. An adult human has 206 bones. I doubt I’d have to break more than five percent of yours before you were singing like a canary. But hey. It’s late, and I’m tired. Let’s cut out the middleman. Why don’t we just call Lesley and ask her?”

  I took out my phone.

  “You’re shitting me, now,” he said. “No one knows her number.”

  I showed him the contact entry I’d just created.

  “I used to be her partner, remember?” I said. “Of course I know her number. Now before I call, here’s one last question. Her special treatment? Remind me. Does she save it for people who betray her? Or do people who fail her get it, too?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “OK,” I said. “I’m calling her now. And I’ll be sure to mention that you’re right here, helping me.”

  “Please,” he said. “Don’t.”

  “So, what were you supposed to do when you caught me?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to catch you. Only tail you. In case you didn’t go back to your hotel.”

  “People are waiting there?”

  “Yes. Two in the lobby. Two in your room.”

  “How did they know where I was staying?”

  “Lesley’s contacts. In the feds. And the police. Someone told her.”

  “What about Fong’s? No feds or police knew I was eating there.”

  “You don’t get it. She owns people, everywhere. Cab drivers. Limos. Bars. Hotels. Restaurants. And she’s generous. Someone’ll be buying a new car off calling you in to her, minimum.”

  “And the guys at my hotel. What are they supposed to do with me?”

  “Take you someplace.”

  “Where?”

  “An old building. In the basement, there. A couple of blocks away. Lesley owns it.”

  “You know the address?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what?”

  “Beep her. So she can come down and do the you-know-what. Turn you from David to Davina.”

  “Tonight?”

  “As soon as we could lay hands on you.”

  “Good,” I said. “Now shut up.”

  I dialed Varley’s number.

  There was no answer.

  I tried Lavine’s.

  It was switched off.

  Weston’s.

  No answer.

  I tried Tanya’s, to get the details for Rosser and Breuer.

  Her line was busy.

  I knew I couldn’t trust anyone else in the bureau or the NYPD, so that left me with three choices. Hang around the alley hoping someone would answer their phone before a cop car came by. Handle Lesley myself. Or walk away.

  “Who knows Lesley’s beeper number?” I said to the guy on the ground. “Just the guys at the hotel?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve got it, too.”

  “Good,” I said, handing him the phone. “Now. Cal
l your buddies. Tell them tonight is a trap. Lesley is going to dish out some special treatment, all right, but not just for me. To all four of them, as well. Tell them to run for their lives. And then take me to this old house.”

  Lesley’s guy took me to a side street tucked away off Canal Street, three blocks to the east. It had no visible name. He paused for a moment then led me right to the far end, moving slowly as both the remaining streetlights had been broken. We stopped in front of an old tenement building—the last structure standing on the right-hand side. It was a complete ruin. The steps up to the entrance were chipped and pitted. The doors were boarded up. All the windows were smashed. Every inch of the walls was daubed with graffiti and a tide of empty cardboard cartons and plastic bags had drifted several feet deep along the frontage.

  The guy tugged my sleeve and set off down a narrow flight of steps to the left of the main set. They led to a recessed door. It was made of steel. I guessed it was new because it hadn’t been vandalized yet. I waited while the guy fished for one of his sets of keys and used them to work the lock. He pushed the door and it swung back, silently. I followed him inside. He hit the lights and I saw we were in a long, rectangular room. It was easily forty feet by twenty-five. The floor and walls were covered in shiny white tiles, and the ceiling was divided into a series of sloping red-brick vaults.

  I moved farther into the room, toward a rusty industrial-sized boiler that sat in the far corner. It clearly wasn’t working—the place was freezing—but a maze of pipes still led out from the top and meandered their way through a series of holes in the walls and ceiling. Four piles of clothes were neatly folded on the floor in front of it. They were all men’s. Next to those lay the remains of a bed mattress—just the springs and frame, no material or stuffing. The only other thing I could see was attached to the wall on the other side of the boiler. It was a metal ring, four inches in diameter, eight feet from the ground. Two lengths of chain were hanging from it. And there was a shackle at the end of each one.

  “Hospitable kind of place,” I said.

  The guy didn’t answer.

  “Let’s not waste any more time,” I said. “Lesley’s pager number. What is it?”

  He told me, and I made the call.

  “OK,” I said. “I’ve whistled. Let’s see if she comes running. How long should she be?”

  “Don’t know,” the guy said. “I don’t know where she’s coming from.”

  “Better get ready then, in case she’s around the corner. You get in the boiler, where the coal would go, and keep your head down. I’ll stay out here.”

  “You’re not going to . . . ?”

  “I’m not going to do anything. To you, anyway. Unless you come out before Lesley gets here. Then I’ll shoot you in the head. If you come out after Lesley gets here, or make any kind of noise, you know what she’ll do. But if you wait quietly till we’ve gone, you’re free to walk away. You’ve played your part. I’ve got no axe to grind with you.”

  Lesley must have been holed up somewhere nearby because it only took her twenty minutes to arrive in the cellar. She made no sound creeping down the outside steps. She just appeared in the doorway, paused for a moment with one hand leaning on the frame, then launched herself into the room like a model strutting down a catwalk. Her eyes were fixed on me. I was in the corner next to the boiler, arms behind my back, leaning slightly forward to keep a realistic tension on the heavy chains. She stopped in the center of the room, leering at me, then suddenly the smile disappeared from her face.

  “Where are my people?” she said. “They should be here.”

  “The reception committee from my hotel?” I said. “They decided not to hang around.”

  “Why? I told them to wait.”

  “I guess they heard about Cyril. Thought you might be planning another demonstration.”

  “The fools. There’ll be no more demonstrations. Tonight it’s your turn. I was going to let them watch.”

  “Really? Maybe we should postpone, then. Wait till you’ve got a big enough audience?”

  “No. It’s happening tonight. But don’t worry. People will still see it. George is going to tape the whole thing. Maybe I’ll have him put it on the Internet. Then everyone can enjoy it, all over the world.”

  I heard a shuffling sound from outside and then George stumbled into the room. He was moving backward, helping the tall guy from Lesley’s house to carry a bright yellow hand truck. They set it down inside the doorway and the tall guy wheeled it toward the remains of the mattress. There were two things on it. A vehicle battery—heavy duty, probably from a truck or an SUV—and a polished mahogany box. It was ten inches wide, eight deep, and eight tall. On the front there was a rotating switch and a round, brass-edged dial. Two long thick cables snaked out from the side and lay in a coil on top of the box. One was attached to a large crocodile clip. The other was fixed to a wooden handle, twelve inches long, with a pointed bronze tip.

  The two men wouldn’t catch my eye but Lesley moved over until she was almost close enough to touch me. She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the bolt-cutter device she’d brandished in front of Cyril, and started into her routine of opening and closing its jaws.

  “Remember my burdizzo?” she said. “What it does?”

  “I remember,” I said. “But it’s only fair to warn you. There’s no way on earth I’m going to let you use that thing on me.”

  “David, don’t worry. I have no intention of using it on you. There’s no need. Because you’re going to use it on yourself.”

  “On myself? I don’t think so. On the scale of unlikely things that’s pretty much off the chart.”

  “I understand, David. Most people in your position think that way, to start with. But their views always change. Yours will, too.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. See my wooden box? Can you guess what it’s for?”

  “Making coffee? That would be useful, about now.”

  “It’s for changing people’s minds.”

  “It won’t change mine.”

  “You know what I might do, that would be funny? Get you to go on tape right now, swearing you’ll never use the burdizzo on yourself. Then, in a few minutes, when you’re begging me to hand it you, that’ll make an amusing contrast, don’t you think? Before and after?”

  “Doesn’t strike me as funny. But why not bring your box over here and we’ll find out?”

  “Oh, no. It doesn’t come to you. You go to it. First I’m going to cut off all your clothes. Slowly, one by one. Then John and George are going to strap you to the mattress. Naked, obviously. That’s when I fire up the box. The clip goes—well, you can imagine where. The probe goes wherever I choose. And you go to hell on earth.”

  “Are you sure? Because I hate it when people overpromise and underdeliver.”

  “See the switch? That controls the power. It’s set to minimum, right now. Sixteen thousand volts. That’s where we’ll start.”

  “And?”

  “It goes right up to thirty-two thousand.”

  “Is that a lot? I never paid much attention in science class.”

  “It’s more than a lot. I can’t wait to show you. But you know the best thing? The current. One-thousandth of an amp.”

  “Means nothing to me. Physics was never my strong suit.”

  “It means there’s no danger of accidentally killing you. We can keep going for hours. All night. As long as I want.”

  “I see. That must be the benefit of understanding all these little details. The control it gives you. Is it important, would you say? Knowing all the relevant facts?”

  Lesley slipped the burdizzo back into her coat pocket and swapped it for a pair of dressmaker’s scissors.

  “Because I think there’s one fact you don’t know,” I said. “One that’s more important than everything else you’ve told me.”

  “So come on,” she said, stepping in close and pulling my shirt tight, ready to cut. “Share.”

/>   “I could,” I said. “But I have a better idea. Remember at your other place, with Cyril? How you thought showing was better than telling? That idea stayed with me.”

  I dropped the chains and grabbed her right hand tight, crushing her fingers into the scissors so she couldn’t stab me or release them. Then without letting go I spun her around, whipping my elbow over her head and forcing her arm up until she was pushing the scissor blades into her own throat. At the same time I grabbed the Browning from my waistband and looked across at George and the tall guy. Neither had moved.

  “On the floor,” I said. “Both of you. Right now.”

  George was the first to respond. He went for his inside pocket, trying to draw his old Army Colt. I fired twice. Both bullets hit him in the chest, throwing him backward and leaving a bright crimson smear on the tiles where he slid. The tall guy reacted a moment later, springing toward me, arms outstretched. I fired again, hitting him in the head and shoulder. I felt Lesley’s body tense and press back harder against mine as he went down. I spun her around and shoved her away from me. She staggered but steadied herself after four steps. Her chin was up, shoulders back, eyes blazing. The scissors were still in her hand. I willed her to use them, but she stayed stock-still. She wasn’t going to give me an easy excuse.

  I lifted the gun and lined it up between her eyes. Her lackeys were on the floor, but she was the one who deserved the bullets. There was no doubt where the blame lay. My finger began to squeeze the trigger. A fraction of an ounce more pressure and she would be dispatched, too. I imagined her lying on her back, dead. As Raab had been when I found him. But then I thought back to the scene in the alley, earlier. There was nothing left to mark the spot where he’d fallen. Not even a vague impression in the trash. It was like a fresh tide of garbage had swept in and scoured away every last trace of his death, and wiped the slate clean for Lesley’s successors. If she disappeared, too, there would be nothing to stop them from dumping more helpless victims in similar places, all over the city, wherever they chose. Ten million dollars a year is plenty of incentive to keep the machine running. Unless Lesley was around to help the FBI dismantle it.