I accompanied Fay to the office of the Social Work Department. I got an envelope, sealed the stub inside, and handed it to her.
"Hold on to this, and don't open it until you hear from me."
Fay nodded like an obedient schoolgirl. "I'll be waiting for you. Don't forget!" she said, handing me a piece of paper with her phone number on it.
I left the building. I was pulled up short by all the police cars in the street. Then I remembered. The cops' night classes had just let out. I wished one of them could join me the next day for my second visit to John, my favorite security guard.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When I got back to Motti Pizza, I threw myself into the routine chores of any normal evening - frying, waiting on tables, clearing, cleaning, and then doing it all over again. But then the phone rang.
"It's for you," Nissim said. "Sounds like your aunt." I didn't even attempt a smile.
"David," Allie greeted me from Boston. She must have gotten the number out of Danny. "David," she repeated, sounding very serious. "I got a call from Canada."
I gripped the phone and waited for her to go on, but she chose to keep silent.
"Where in Canada?" I finally said in a whisper.
"Hampton Court," she replied reluctantly. I still didn't understand, but I felt the blood draining from my face. "Your mother got a call from the Israeli embassy in Ottawa. They said they'd been asked to inform her, as your next of kin, that you had disappeared and asked very politely where and when she had last heard from you. She called me," Allie added, managing to sound both baffled and derisive. "Didn't offer a word of apology, as if we had spoken only yesterday. I was surprised she remembered my phone number, and I didn't think she'd remember that you and I were close. But I realized a long time ago that the world is full of surprises. In fact, sometimes I think I'm the only one in charge of the normality department."
"What did she want?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice as steady as possible.
"She's really worried. She wanted to find out everything I knew. Of course, I didn't tell her anything." Allie fell silent, waiting for my approval.
"Did she say anything about herself?" I asked.
"Not much, but she sounded sober and stable. She just said her life is better now."
I thanked Allie and hung up, feeling smug that she hadn't gotten much out of me.
I dialed Danny's number in Boston. Eleven at night was a good time to catch him in the garage. He was thrilled to hear my voice. Maybe he even hoped I'd invite him down for a visit.
"I just spoke to Allie," I said.
"I'm sorry. Really sorry. The sorriest. But it's your fault. How did she know about me? How did she know I know you?"
"Allie's just like you - she knows without asking."
"That's not quite true. Diplomacy wouldn't be the right word to describe her method of interrogation."
"She leaned on you?"
"She sat on me - threw her whole weight into it. Threatened to have the garage closed down, and when that didn't do the trick, she assured me she could have me deported."
"And when that didn't work?"
"The truth?"Danny sounded a little embarrassed. "She swore it was for your own good - some message she had to get to you and couldn't tell me. I gave her your number on condition that she didn't pass it on to anyone else. She swore she wouldn't."
I smiled. I would have given a lot to watch Danny make Allie swear. "Forget it," I said. "I need you."
Danny let out a squeal. "Finally, someone in this world needs me! The only question is, what took you so long," he added, lowering his voice.
I let that go. "A three-hour drive north of the Canadian border, there's a small town called Hampton Court. I plan to be there soon, with a little luck, maybe even settle down there. I want you to go there now, tomorrow morning at the latest."
"No shit." Danny wasn't thrilled at my request.
I went on as if he hadn't spoken. "There are two things I need. First, I have to set up a base there. Find me jobs for a couple, in a motel if possible - reception clerk and chambermaid, or bookkeeper and cook, or any other combination that's available."
"Bouncer and exotic dancer?" Danny suggested gleefully.
"Aside from that," I continued, "I want you to locate a woman named Sarah."
"Piece of cake."
"Shut up and pay attention. She's in her early fifties, probably lives in a trailer park, or something on that level. She must be the only Israeli in town."
"You want to explain?"
"No big deal. She's my mother."
*
Fay had helped me put things in some sort of order. I had the briefcase, more or less, but to get any benefit from it, I had to wait for the other side - and I didn't know exactly who that was - to make the next move. Waiting like a sitting duck for the first shot to be fired was a crummy idea. I remembered the feeling from the lobby of the consulate in Boston. Fay had suggested finding out who had commissioned the cleanup of Kate's apartment, and what seemed clear to me now was that all roads led to the hi-tech Chippendale cabinet in the bonding warehouse on the pier. The shipment was going somewhere, and the customer had to leave some trace. Who? Where? The answers had to be in the warehouse. I realized there was no other choice than the conclusion I had already reached the night before: another visit to John. The shots fired at me that night still rang in my head, and I knew the security guard was no longer a member of my fan club, but if he still had his job, his fondness for George Hamilton might just overcome his distaste for me.
When it got dark, my legs carried me, seemingly of their accord, back to the piers on the west side of Manhattan by the river.
"John!" I called, taking advantage of the shadows cast by the ruins of the building in the lot beside the guard's attachment.
This time he came out of the annex itself.
"Who's there?"
"Your friend from last night. I still owe you."
He took a step back, startled.
"What? What are you, some kind of idiot? A nut? You like getting shot at?" He raised his gun and aimed it at the shadow where I was huddling.
"No, I just hate not paying my debts."
"You -”
"Look," I cut in, "I didn't take anything. If I had, do you think I'd come back?"
"You didn't take anything, eh? There are some people who think you did." If he had been trying to set a trap for me, he wouldn't have said that.
"No, I just lost my balance and I couldn't clap for a couple of minutes, that's all."
I came out in the weak light, holding up my empty hands. He looked at me and nodded.
"You’re crazy," he pronounced. "I think you did take something. They asked me a lot of questions last night. The manager called twice to make sure everything was okay in Q-16, but I wormed my way out of it."
I kept silent. We stared at one another, each trying to gauge the other's intentions.
"Did you bring that Hamilton?" he finally asked.
"Yup, and a few more of his kind, if you give me some information."
"What, for instance?"
"When are they picking up the stuff in Q-16?"
"First, settle that debt."
I took out a ten dollar bill. He grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket. "Now we can start today's negotiations."
I had two bills left. I gave him five dollars.
"It's a good thing you remembered to ask about the shipment," he remembered suddenly. "It's leaving here tomorrow."
My pocket now held the last of my money, a fifty dollar bill. I tore it down the middle and handed him half. I saw it in the movies.
"I'll be here tomorrow at noon," I said. "Tell me who took it and where it went and you'll get the other half." John remained impassive, and I didn't wait for his answer and beat a speedy retreat.
*
The next morning, I threw myself into my work at Motti Pizza. I scrubbed the counter again, wiped down the tables, and assaulted every customer, begging them
to let me serve them - doing everything I knew to fight the nerves bedeviling me from within. The hours crawled by until noon. I tore off the apron from around my waist and rushed out to grab a cab to the pier. It sped noisily over the potholes and in less than fifteen minutes pulled up at a place I knew very well by now.
"Wait for me," I said to the driver, and hurried over to the gate. A sad-faced, elderly security guard stopped me with open suspicion.
"Where's John?"
"Roosevelt Hospital." I almost choked up. "He annoyed a couple of customers. Asked too many questions and got himself beat up."
I didn't allow myself to think. I ran back to the cab, and barked at the driver even before climbing in, "Roosevelt Hospital - and make it fast!"
I found John in the ER. His face looked like a peeled red potato. His eyes were closed and his breathing raspy.
"My uncle," I explained to the doctor on duty, and in response he assured me there was no risk to his life.
"They said he made somebody very mad," he added.
I leaned over John. "Hi," I whispered. "I brought youth other half of the bill." Tears spilled from his closed eyes.
"In the hand," he said.
I didn't understand. "Hand?"
His fingers began fluttering as if he was playing a guitar. I placed the half bill in his hand. He rolled it through his fingers, trying to feel out the torn edge. Moving very slowly, he brought it up to his face and was apparently persuaded that it was, indeed, the second half of the bill he had earned at such a heavy price. Carefully, he stuck it into his pants.
"U...S...D...O...D," he muttered with some difficulty.
It took me a second to figure out what he was saying, and then it hit me: US Department of Defense.
"Wash...ing...ton DC," he added.
I was stunned. The thread I thought I had found turned out to be a big knot. I felt as if I were holding a bomb and had no idea how to defuse it. The whole affair seemed too big for me to handle. Gadi and the others were wrong. Kate was right. The story was not only above me. It was out of their league too. They all had to listen to her warnings.
"A name," I said. "Give me a name!"
"Go," he whispered brokenly. "Get outta here, quick. They asked about you. You're next. And when they get their hands on you, they'll finish you off!"
*
I left the hospital and wandered around aimlessly. A light snow started falling and a cold wind blew off the river. I zipped up my jacket and turned the collar up. And then, on Central Park West, I saw her.
I couldn't move. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again. She was still there, walking away from me at a quick pace.
It was her, no question about it: the tight jeans and heavy white sweater we'd bought on Cape Cod and a new woolen cap I didn't recognize. I couldn't mistake that gentle body and easy stride. Kate, Kay Be, Kate Beaver. She was more than a block away when I started running after her. The sidewalk was crowded. Three women pushing strollers blocked the pavement as they turned to enter the park. They held me up a second too long. By the time I got to 66th St., I realized I'd lost her again.
I looked in every direction, refusing to accept it. This time I was determined not to give up. Her cap was white with a bright blue stripe around the border. I spotted it on the path leading into the park and raced toward it. She was walking along the footpath parallel to the park road, and then turned onto the grass. Even now, from a distance of some three hundred yards, she still looked lighthearted and happy. My heart was pounding at an increasingly frenzied rate. I started running, struggling to force enough oxygen into my lungs. She was heading for the skating rink where she disappeared into the crowd. I reached it just behind her - and stopped. My fingers gripping the fence separating the rink from the onlookers, I checked out the skaters one by one.
The music of a spirited waltz came stronger and fainter with the changes of the wind. Old folks out of a different era skated in Viennese magnificence alongside black youngsters nimbly twisting and turning. There were a lot of people on the rink, and I went on scrutinizing each of the women. She wasn't there. Suddenly, I caught sight of the white cap on the path leading down to the cross-town road. She was walking toward the bridge. From where I was standing, I could see four punks starting across the bridge from the other side. After all, I'd been trained to identify goons with evil intentions. One was carrying a short bat, two were in battledress, and the fourth - an oversized gorilla - couldn't have pure thoughts on his mind. They were getting closer to her. It didn't take much to predict what was about to happen.
I didn't dare to scream her name out loud. She didn't stop. I raced after her, running as fast as my legs could carry me and reached her just before she got to the bridge.
Two mounted policemen reined their horses in alongside us. The animals snorted and began pawing the ground. At the sight of the cops, the four punks split into two pairs, one turning on their heels and going back the way they had come, and the other heading east toward the zoo. Kate spun around and my heart fell.
It wasn't her. The heavy white sweater was different too. Now, it was a pale-colored windbreaker. Opposite me was a strange American girl, glaring at me in rage.
"This man has been following me for the last half an hour," she declared to the policemen in an arrogant tone. Her words thundered in my ears. I was stunned.
"Hey, Bud!" ordered one of the cops from his lordly seat. "Take off before we're forced to subdue you."
"A short vacation at the public's expense might do you some good," the second officer chimed in.
The woman thanked the policemen and walked off. I watched as she moved further away. I wasn't sure if she was the same girl I had first seen at the corner of Central Park West. Nor could I be sure it was her the four punks had been after. Maybe John's last words to me were right.
*
Around five o'clock, when the salad started running low, I went down to the storeroom to get some more vegetables. I looked for my way around in the dark, my mind still on the events of the night before. Fay's warm smile swam up before my eyes. I had no intention of calling her. I didn't want to drag her into the whole mess, and had no need to. I was sure the briefcase was a valuable enough ticket to buy Kate back from whoever it was who had her in their clutches. Defense Department or otherwise, there was no doubt I would soon discover their identity. The DOD was trying to retrieve the documents that had been passed on to the Israelis, even though federal investigations were the business of the Justice Department, through its own agency, the FBI. Were the two departments cooperating or were they competing? I guessed they did both.
I opened a few potato sacks with a kitchen knife and started transferring them from the metal locker onto a trolley. My mind was so preoccupied that I didn't hear the two men enter the storeroom. One of them slammed the door shut behind him and switched on the light. The other threw me onto the trolley where I landed on top of the produce sacks. Instinctively, I flipped onto my back, blood dripping from my forehead where it had hit the metal edge of the trolley. The man placed a heavy boot on my chest and aimed a 9mm Beretta at me from close range.
"Don't move," he spat in the Hebrew of a native Israeli.
"You have something that belongs to us," the other one said.
The man with the gun looked very intimidating. His shaved head sported an earring. He was wearing a black T-shirt and the tattoo of an eagle spread its wings on his arm, over the words "I LOVE MAMA." If it weren't for his obvious Israeli accent, I might have mistaken him for a Puerto Rican pimp or some such. Either his cover was very good or, which seemed more likely, he was just an Israeli thug in New York who was recruited for the occasion. His companion was undoubtedly an Israeli agent. He was dressed conservatively in black office shoes and a broad striped tie that looked ridiculous even for New York. I'd never seen him before and I kept silent. His style was equally typical: "Listen up," he said. "Five minutes from now you're going to tell me where the briefcase is. We can do it the easy way
or the hard way, it's up to you. Make up your mind."
I didn't say a thing. The trickle of blood from my forehead dried up. We were being choked by the dust rising from the sacks of produce. The agent signaled the thug with a gesture of his head. The big guy moved quickly, pressing the gun to my throat. With a demonic grin on his face, he warned, "Make a sound and you're dead." He grabbed the pinkie on my left hand and bent it backward until we heard a crack. The pain was terrible. I strangled back a scream and grunted, "Bastards." It came out more like a weird groan.
"I want the woman," I managed to force out.
"Sure," the suit promised gravely, "any woman you want. Give me the briefcase and I'll take care of it." I realized he wasn't in a talkative mood, and I knew I couldn't drag things out any longer. My left hand was throbbing agonizingly, but I had to make my move. I knew the storeroom, my new home, better than they did. With my right hand, I felt around among the sacks for the kitchen knife I used before. I clutched it with all my strength and in the same motion thrust it into the gun arm of the tattoo, forcing it downward. He let out a yelp of surprise and pain and fired at random. The sound of breaking glass told me he had hit the wine cupboard. As I rose to my feet, I grasped the edge of the produce locker and brought it down on the suit. I grabbed the baseball bat off its hook on the wall and in an upward arching movement struck the thug's wrist as he tried to steady his hand. The gun flew up to the ceiling and I heard the sound of cracking bones. I completed the arc, hitting the light fixture and throwing the room into darkness.