by Barber, Tom
‘What do you think?’ Farrell asked.
Archer nodded. He knew nothing about cars, but feigned interest.
‘Not bad.’
The next two things Archer did were crucially uncharacteristic. He made two mistakes, mistakes he never normally made.
He dropped his guard for a split-second.
And he looked out the window to his left.
Farrell suddenly reached behind his back. Archer turned in the next instant, but Farrell had a head-start and jammed something into his neck.
It was a 9mm pistol.
Archer froze, looking at it pushed against his neck, then at Farrell.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘We’re on 110th and Lex,’’ Farrell said. ‘I want us in Herald Square in six minutes. If we’re a second late, I pull the trigger and you die, pal.’
Archer didn’t move, the gun still to his neck. Farrell stared straight at him, his finger tight on the trigger.
‘Are you kidding me?’
Farrell ignored him, lifting his other wrist, the weapon tight in his gun-hand, and checked his watch.
‘You’re wasting time. And I’m not joking. Five minutes and fifty five seconds, I pull this trigger. Move!’
Archer paused for one further moment.
Assessed his options.
Then he released the handbrake and pushed his foot down and the tires squealed as the car lunged forward.
They were on the north east corner of Central Park, on 110th and Lexington Avenue. Herald Square was 76 blocks away. Unless they had an airplane, Archer knew this was going to be close to impossible. But he floored the pedal anyway.
He didn’t have a choice.
The quickest way to get there would be Central Park West, but that was the other side of the Park. It all depended on luck. He needed to hit a series of green lights. If they were red, he would either have to run them or accept his fate and either scrap with Farrell or take the chance that he wouldn’t pull the trigger. But judging from what he had already learned about the man, the second outcome seemed unlikely.
The car sped forward. Farrell had lowered the gun and jammed it tight in his ribs, a constant reminder of what he was up against. There was no traffic in the road and he did a U turn in the street, swinging a hard left then turning another left to face west down 110th Street. He floored it, the car burning down the road, other cars honking and drivers shouting as Archer cut the car into the lanes. They were moving right to left, across the top of Central Park, and fast. Up here, it would be far easier to get across town. If he tried the same downtown, they’d get clogged up in traffic like a fly in a spider’s web and would never make it before his time ran out.
They zoomed along 110th, all the greenery of the Park flashing past Archer’s window on the left. Up ahead, he saw a cathedral fast approaching on their right, The Cathedral of St John the Divine, a sign told him. Farrell checked the clock on his watch, the pistol still tight in Archer’s ribs, uncomfortably so, as the car rushed forward.
‘Five –thirty to go,’ he said.
Archer was in luck with the green light, and there was no one on the crossing. He barely slowed as he turned down to face Central Park West, a sliding turn, the wheels skidding on the concrete as the car pulled its way around to face south.
The lights ahead were green and the car scorched forward, knocking off the streets. Alongside them, the sidewalks were dotted with the odd pedestrian or food stall, but Archer kept his eyes peeled for any cops or a squad car lurking in any of the streets they passed. He considered trying to attract their attention, getting them pulled over and the gun out of his ribs but he couldn’t risk screwing this up.
Farrell knew who killed his father.
And he needed to do this to find out who that person was.
They burnt it down the streets, the sidewalks flashing past. In New York City, the traffic lights system often lit up one after the other sequentially in order to try and alleviate traffic and Archer struck gold, the car torching it down Central Park West, the Park and all its trees flashing past on the left.
106th.
104th.
100th.
95th.
90th.
They flew all the way down to the early 80’s.
So far, so good, beating the clock.
But then his luck shifted. He hit his first red on 80th and was forced to slow to a halt, just as Farrell called out the time.
‘Four-minutes-thirty. Better move.’
Archer swore, willing the light to flick green, sensing each passing second tick away. When it did, the car leapt forward and turned right, speeding over the crossing and moving along 80th, taking another quick turn on the crossing on the next left and headed onto Columbus Avenue, which would turn into 9th Avenue in a few blocks. He hit another series of greens, and they roared on downtown.
Past the Dakota, where John Lennon was shot.
Past the Juilliard School.
Past the Lincoln and Time Warner Centres.
‘Three-forty-five. Better hurry,’ Farrell said.
Archer pushed his foot down and the car sped on faster.
They roared down 9th, boxing Columbus Circle and avoiding the traffic there. But there was a problem, Archer realised, his mind racing as fast as the four wheels on the car. Herald Square was on Sixth, so they needed to be three avenues over. Archer had to keep going down 9th though. If he tried to get across now, he’d hit all the traffic around Times Square and that would be the end of it.
He was forced to slow as a cop car passed the other way, but once it had passed Archer sped on.
50th.
49th.
48th.
Into Hell’s Kitchen, the streets suitably sunny and hot.
‘Two minutes,’ Farrell said, pushing the gun tighter into Archer’s ribs.
They hit another red on 47th. Archer swore. Some school-children moved over the crossing slowly, chewing up his time, laughing and playing together, no idea that a man’s life was at stake.
The clock ticked on.
‘Ninety seconds,’ Farrell said.
The light hit green and Archer sped down.
45th.
43rd.
41st.
They zoomed towards the Port Authority Bus Terminal and Archer got lucky. They should have been held up there by the buses moving in and out of the station, but they hit a gap in-between them. Eight blocks later, they hit a red at 34th, Madison Square Garden straight ahead and to the left.
‘One minute,’ Farrell said.
Archer willed people across the crossings, but there seemed be an endless stream of them.
‘Fifty seconds.’
The light turned green, and Archer pulled left.
Pedestrians were starting to cross here, but he roared through a gap, inches from a woman walking over the white-lined tarmac. She started shouting obscenities and flipped them off but Archer ignored her, the car burning down 34th.
They were three avenues away.
‘Thirty seconds!’ Farrell said.
Disaster struck.
They hit a red at 7th.
Archer could see Herald Square one avenue away, the giant building of Macy’s running the entire block to his left.
He was so close he could see faces of people in the Square ahead.
‘Fifteen seconds,’ Farrell said, pulling back the hammer on the pistol with a click. ‘You’re not going to make it.’
Archer couldn’t move.
It was a red and people were crossing.
But suddenly, a fire engine appeared from behind them, the lights blaring.
It was a gift from heaven. Cars parted, moving out of its way, but Archer waited, ready to pounce.
He took his shot.
As the truck moved forward, he tucked in behind it, crossing over the lights. There was more honking and shouting behind him, but he didn’t hear any of it.
He was a hundred yards from his destination.
> ‘Seven,’ Farrell said.
Archer floored it.
‘Six!’
‘Five!’
‘Four!’
‘Three!’
‘Two!’
‘One!’
The car skidded to a halt, both men jerked forward in the seat then falling back with the momentum as the car stopped, the pistol still jammed in Archer’s side.
They paused and looked around the car.
Macy’s was behind them.
Herald Square was in front of them.
They’d made it.
Archer held the wheel tight, panting, then released it slowly. He exhaled, sweat on his brow, taking deep breaths. Farrell looked around them through the windows, then lowered the pistol slowly and tucked it back into his waistband, not saying a word. Outside them on the streets, it was noisy, but the only sound inside the car was Archer catching his breath.
They sat there in silence.
Then Farrell turned to him, and nodded.
‘Congratulations. You’re our new driver,’ he said.
EIGHT
The next morning, Wednesday, Archer stepped out onto Steinway Street from the west entrance to the subway, and started walking north up 34th Avenue. The sun was beating down, with no cloud cover or protective shade from the tall buildings of Manhattan, and Archer felt the intense heat on the back of his neck and arms as he walked up the street. He wore his sunglasses to protect his eyes from the white glare of the sun off the pavement, but he saw others passing him squinting as it temporarily blinded them. Looking down, he saw that some tarmac filler that had been packed into cracks in the sidewalk had started to melt, black and sticky. That was the way it went in New York City. Freezing cold in the winter, roasting hot in the summer.
He had come from Times Square, having slept in the hotel, and had spent much of the night letting the break-neck drive through the city fully sink in. Archer and Farrell had sat there in the car at Herald Square for a few further moments, then Farrell had asked him to take them back to Queens.
Archer was pissed.
He’d needed to drop his guard in order to let Farrell test him out, but no one put a gun to his head and escaped the consequences. It had taken a hell of a lot of willpower not to retaliate. The journey had taken about twenty minutes and Archer had pulled to a halt on the corner of 30th Avenue, under the subway line. They’d sat there for a moment, Archer trying to stay cool, thinking of the bigger picture, breathing slowly.
‘I own a gym,’ Farrell said, turning to him. ‘It’s on 38th Street, just past 34th Avenue. Meet me there tomorrow morning. 11 o’clock.’
Archer looked over at him. Farrell saw his expression.
‘Sorry about the gun, man. I needed to see how you were under pressure. You were good.’
Archer didn’t react. He didn’t move.
‘Eleven am. Trust me, you’ll want to be there. I’ll make all this worth your while.’
Archer had held his gaze, then stepped out. Farrell did the same and moved around the car. He climbed into the front seat and shut the door.
‘Eleven am,’ he’d repeated, through the wound-down window. ‘Don’t be late.’
And the car had sped off towards Ditmars Boulevard, disappearing out of sight.
The first thing Archer did next was go straight to his father’s apartment and get the 9mm Sig Sauer pistol. He couldn’t be shooting people, seeing as he was an English and not an American cop, but he needed a security measure, a bargaining tool, something to level the odds. He was angry at himself. Farrell had got the drop on him. He’d had to play along in order to gain their trust and get inside, but he hated being passive and was furious at himself for dropping his guard. But worst of all, he hated someone putting a gun to his head. That sure as hell wasn’t going to happen again.
He’d grabbed the Sig from its home in the nightstand and pulled the top-slide back an inch, seeing a bullet there in the chamber, confirming the weapon was loaded. He instantly felt calmer. Not all men were created equal, but Samuel Colt and his revolvers had made them so. He’d sat on the bed and breathed a sigh of relief, the gun in his hand.
Everything was OK. He’d passed the test.
He was in.
But it had been close. Razor-close. Way too close. If they’d hit one more red light or a pedestrian had decided to jaywalk, Archer would be with his father right now. The fire engine passing by had been a lucky break. He couldn’t count on getting that lucky again.
Regaining his composure, he’d grabbed a bag from the closet and tucked the Sig and two spare mags inside. He whipped around the apartment, grabbing anything that he figured he or his sister would want to keep, then walked out, locking the apartment and leaving for the last time. He wouldn’t come back here again. Farrell and his team now knew where this place was, and he didn’t fancy any more unexpected visits. He’d walked left and fast for the R train on Steinway and headed to the Marriott Hotel in Times Square, staying there for the rest of the day and all night, high up in his hotel room, the 9mm Sig hardly leaving his hand.
But the next day, having cleaned up and calmed down, Archer turned the corner on 34th Avenue and walked left down 38th Street, the same street as his father’s apartment but three and a bit avenues west. He saw the sign to Farrell’s gym fifty yards up ahead, white lettering over a blue background. Astoria Sports Complex. Simple, and to the point. He approached the entrance and pulling open the door, ducked inside.
As he walked in, the air-conditioning blasted refreshing, frosty air into his face, cooling him and ruffling his hair. It was a couple of seconds of pure bliss, a brief moment’s escape from the baking heat outside; he moved through the cold air and walked into the gym. From where he was standing in the reception area, Archer could see straight away that the place was well-maintained. Straight ahead, he saw a swimming pool behind the windows of the reception desk. To the right of the pool were a series of separate designated lanes where swimmers were doing laps, and in the left corner some kids were playing in the water together with their parents. Behind them was another smaller pool, or maybe a Jacuzzi. Several people were in there, arms resting on the tiles, relaxing and chatting, taking a break from the merciless city heat.
To the right were two levels. Downstairs was the weight-room, lots of barbells, dumbbells and mirrors. He could see a load of guys in there working out, lifting weights, dance music pounding from speakers mounted on the walls around them. Upstairs, he could just see the tops of some people’s heads as they pedalled away on bikes. The machine room, he guessed, the two floors designed to separate the cardio bunnies and the meatheads. The place was clean and industrious, not the glamorous and expensive type of gym one would get in the city, but then again not the gritty and chalky basements you got at the other end of the scale. It was a legit business, a solid cover for Farrell, and Archer guessed it made him look good when he had to fill out his taxes.
The guy on the front desk had been sizing Archer up from the moment he walked in. He was in his mid-twenties, gelled-back hair, a diamond earring in his right earlobe and a tan that looked a little too golden to be real. He was wearing a white vest that was a size too small, making a statement, trying to show off the endeavours of his work in the room next door. He flashed a customary smile as Archer approached the desk, showing polished white teeth.
‘Looking to join?’ he asked.
Archer shook his head.
‘I’m looking for Farrell.’
The guy’s eyes narrowed. His courteous manner disappeared.
‘Who are you?’
‘A friend.’
Before the man could reply, Farrell appeared at the top of the stairs from the cardio room. He whistled down to the guy behind the counter and nodded. The guy with the earring saw this and pressed a button, looking back at Archer suspiciously. The turnstile to Archer’s right clicked, unlocking, and ignoring the guy behind the desk, Archer turned and passed through the turnstile, walking up the stairs to the second flo
or. When he reached the top of the stairs, Farrell didn’t bother with a greeting. He just turned, and walked off, Archer following him.
‘Gimme five more minutes,’ Farrell said, turning to him. ‘We’re just finishing up her workout.’
Looking around the level, Archer had guessed right. Up here there were lines of cycling and elliptical machines and stair-climbers, people in sports-wear on a few of them, working hard as they watched televisions mounted on the wall ahead. The air-conditioning was on full blast up here too, keeping the temperature nice and cool.
Past the lines of exercise equipment, Archer saw a martial arts cage had been set up across the level towards the wall. He saw Ortiz inside, gasping for air, drenched in sweat, her hands on her hips as she prowled around the black-fenced cage like an animal in captivity. She was wearing a black t-shirt, the sleeves jaggedly cut off, and white shorts, her feet bare, black four-ounce gloves on her hands. She paced around in large circles, recovering, but Archer saw her stop and stare at him when she realised he was here. Her face was cold. Another corner-man was standing beside her, an older guy with grey hair, grizzled and sinewy, looking like a former fighter who had been defeated by Father Time and had stepped outside the ring to corner up-and-comers instead. He was holding a bottle of water and he lifted it, Ortiz tipping her head to take a drink. She swilled and spat the liquid back out to the floor, still glaring at Archer. He got the message.
Farrell may have extended trust towards him, but she sure as hell hadn’t yet.
Farrell stepped back inside the cage, scooping up some red striking pads that had been left on the ground and hooking them over his forearms. The older guy with the water stepped outside the cage and moved to a timer, pressing a button. It beeped.
‘Let’s go!’ he said.
Farrell had the pads up, and Ortiz went to work.
Archer was expecting a spectacle, but she was truly vicious. From where he was standing he was surprised the pads didn’t burst considering the force she was hitting them with. She was exhaling sharply with every shot, so each strike was accompanied with a yell that made it more intimidating. Bambambam. She was working combos, firing elbows and kicks and fast punch sequences that were crisp, technical and brutally powerful. Farrell was knocked back every now and then by a blow that was really clean, especially her kicks where she torqued her hip and her shin crushed into the pad. Archer watched her work, and his memory flashed back to the street-fight on Monday night. He wondered if the guy she’d clinched and kneed in the face had woken up yet. He was probably still unconscious.