Having been in the hospital on multiple occasions, Jack had no trouble finding his way. Once in the emergency room he stepped out on the receiving dock and waited for a cab to bring in a patient. He didn’t have to wait long.
As soon as the patient got out of the cab, Jack got in. He told the cabdriver to take him to the Third Avenue entrance of Bloomingdale’s.
Bloomingdale’s was as crowded as Jack assumed it would be. Jack rapidly traversed the store’s main floor, emerging on Lexington where he caught a second cab. He had this taxi drop him off a block away from Positano.
To be a hundred percent certain he was safe, Jack stood within the entrance of a shoe store for another five minutes. The vehicular traffic on Madison Avenue was moderate, as was the number of pedestrians. In contrast to the area around the morgue, everyone was dressed nattily. Jack saw no one he would have thought was a gang member.
Feeling confident and patting himself on the back for his ingenuity, Jack set out for the restaurant. What he didn’t know was that two men sat waiting inside a shiny black Cadillac that had recently parked between the shoe store and Positano. As Jack walked past he couldn’t see inside because the windows were tinted dark enough to make them appear like mirrors.
Jack opened the door to the restaurant and entered a canvas tent of sorts designed to keep the winter chill away from the people seated near the entrance.
Pulling a canvas flap aside, Jack found himself in a warm, comfortable environment. To his left was a small mahogany bar. The dining tables were grouped to the right and they extended back into the depths of the restaurant. The walls and ceiling were covered with white lattice into which was woven silk ivy that looked astonishingly real. It was as if Jack had suddenly walked into a garden restaurant in Italy.
From the savory aroma that informed the place, Jack could tell that the chef had the same respect for garlic that he had. Earlier Jack had felt he wasn’t hungry. Now he was famished.
The restaurant was crowded but without the frenzied atmosphere of many New York restaurants. With the lattice on the ceiling the sounds of the patrons’ conversations and the clink of the china were muted. Jack assumed that the peacefulness of the place was what Terese had meant when she said it was un-New-Yorkish.
The maître d’ greeted Jack and asked if he could be of assistance. Jack said he was to meet a Ms. Hagen. The waiter bowed and gestured for Jack to follow him. He showed Jack to a table against the wall just beyond the bar.
Terese rose to give Jack a hug. When she saw his face, she paused.
“Oh, my!” she said. “Your face looks painful.”
“People have been saying that my whole life,” Jack quipped.
“Jack, please,” Terese said. “Don’t joke. I’m being serious. Are you really okay?”
“To tell you the honest truth,” Jack said, “I’d totally forgotten about my face.”
“It looks like it would be so tender,” Terese said. “I’d like to give you a kiss, but I’m afraid.”
“Nothing wrong with my lips,” Jack said.
Terese shook her head, smiled, and waved her hand at him. “You are too much,” she said. “I considered myself adept at repartee until I met you.”
They sat down.
“What do you think of the restaurant?” Terese asked as she repositioned her napkin and moved her work aside.
“I liked it immediately,” Jack said. “It’s cozy, and you can’t say that about too many restaurants in this city. I never would have known it was here. The sign outside is so subtle.”
“It’s one of my favorite places,” Terese said.
“Thanks for insisting I come out,” Jack said. “I hate to admit you were right, but you were. I’m starved.”
Over the next fifteen minutes they studied their respective menus, listened to a remarkably long list of special entrées from their waiter, and placed their orders.
“How about some wine?” Terese asked.
“Why not,” Jack said.
“Do you want to pick?” Terese asked, extending the wine list in his direction.
“I have a suspicion that you’ll know better than I what to order,” Jack said.
“Red or white?” Terese asked.
“I can go either way,” Jack said.
With the wine opened and two glasses poured, both Terese and Jack leaned back and tried to relax. Both were tense. In fact, Jack wondered if Terese wasn’t more tense than he. He caught her furtively glancing at her watch.
“I saw that,” Jack said.
“Saw what?” Terese asked innocently.
“I saw you looking at your watch,” Jack said. “I thought we were supposed to be relaxing. That’s why I’ve been purposefully avoiding asking about your day or telling you about mine.”
“I’m sorry,” Terese said. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be doing it. It’s just reflex. I know Colleen and the crew are still in the studio working, and I suppose I feel guilty being out here enjoying myself.”
“Should I ask how the campaign is going?” Jack asked.
“It’s going fine,” Terese said. “In fact, I got nervous today and called my contact over at National Health and had lunch with her. When I told her about the new campaign she was so excited she begged me to allow her to leak it to her CEO. She called back this afternoon to say that he liked it so much that he’s thinking of upping the advertising budget by another twenty percent.”
Jack made a mental calculation of what a twenty percent increase meant. It was millions, and it made him ill since he knew the money would essentially be coming from patientcare funds. But not wishing to spoil their evening, he did not let Terese know his thoughts. Instead, he congratulated her.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It hardly sounds like you had a bad day,” Jack commented.
“Well, hearing that the client likes the concept is just the beginning,” Terese said. “Now there is the reality of actually putting the presentation together and then actually doing the campaign itself. You have no idea of the problems that arise making a thirty-second TV spot.”
Terese took a sip of her wine. As she set her glass back on the table she again glanced at her watch.
“Terese!” Jack said with mock anger. “You did it again!”
“You’re right!” Terese said, slapping a hand to her forehead. “What am I going to do with myself. I’m an impossible workaholic. I admit it. But wait! I do know what I can do. I can take the damn thing off!” She unbuckled her wristwatch and slipped it into her purse. “How’s that?” she asked.
“Much better,” Jack said.
“The trouble is this dude is probably thinking he’s some kind of superman or something,” Twin said. “He’s probably saying those brothers don’t know what the hell they are doing. I mean, it’s all pissing me off. You know what I’m saying?”
“So why don’t you do this yourself?” Phil asked. “Why me?” Dots of perspiration stood out like cabochon diamonds along his hairline.
Twin was draped over the steering wheel of his Cadillac. Slowly he turned his head to regard his heir apparent in the half-light of the car’s interior. Headlights of the passing vehicles alternately illuminated Phil’s face.
“Be cool,” Twin warned. “You know I can’t walk in there. The doc would recognize me right off and the game would be over. The element of surprise is important.”
“But I was there in the doc’s apartment too,” Phil complained.
“But the mother wasn’t looking you in the eye,” Twin said. “Nor did you tag him with a sucker punch. He won’t remember you. Trust me.”
“But why me,” Phil whined. “BJ wanted to do it, especially after things got screwed up in the drugstore. He wants another chance.”
“After the drugstore the doc might recognize BJ,” Twin said. “Besides, it’s an opportunity for you. Some of the brothers have been complaining that you’ve never done anything like this and that you shouldn’t be next in line in the gang. Trust me,
I know what I’m doing.”
“But I’m not good at this stuff,” Phil complained. “I’ve never shot anyone.”
“Hey, it’s easy,” Twin said. “First time maybe you wonder, but it’s easy. Pop! It’s over. In a way it’s kinda a letdown, because you get yourself all keyed up.”
“I’m keyed up, all right,” Phil admitted.
“Relax, kid,” Twin said. “All you have to do is walk in there and not say a word to anyone. Keep the gun in your pocket and don’t take it out until you are standing right in front of the doc. Then draw it out and pop! Then get your black ass outta there and away we go. It’s that easy.”
“What if the doc runs?” Phil asked.
“He won’t run,” Twin said. “He’ll be so surprised he won’t lift a finger. If a dude thinks he might be knocked off he has a chance, but if it comes out of the blue like a sucker punch, there’s no way. Nobody moves. I’ve seen it done ten times.”
“I’m nervous, though,” Phil admitted.
“Okay, so you’re a little nervous,” Twin said. “Let me look at you.” Twin reached over and pushed Phil’s shoulder back. “How’s your tie?”
Phil reached up and felt the knot in his tie. “I think it’s okay,” he said.
“You look great,” Twin said. “Looks like you’re on your way to church, man. You look like a damn banker or lawyer.” Twin laughed and slapped Phil repeatedly on the back.
Phil winced as he absorbed the blows. He hated this. It was the worst thing he’d ever done, and he wondered if it was worth it. Yet at this point he knew he didn’t have much choice. It was like going on the roller coaster and clanking up that first hill.
“Okay, man, it’s time to blow the mother away,” Twin said. He gave Phil a final pat, then reached in front of him to open the passenger-side door.
Phil got out onto rubbery legs.
“Phil,” Twin called.
Phil bent down and looked into the car.
“Remember,” Twin said. “Thirty seconds from the time you go in the door, I’ll be pulling up to the restaurant. You get out of there fast and into the car. Got it?”
“I guess so,” Phil said.
Phil straightened up and began walking toward the restaurant. He could feel the pistol bumping up against his thigh. He had it in his right hip pocket.
When Jack had first met Terese he’d had the impression that she was so goal oriented, she’d be incapable of small talk. But he had to admit he’d been wrong. When he’d started to tease her unmercifully about her inability to leave her work behind, she’d not only borne the brunt of the gibes with equanimity but had been able to dish out as good as he gave. By their second glasses of wine they had each other laughing heartily.
“I certainly didn’t think I’d be laughing like this earlier today,” Jack said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Terese said.
“And indeed you should,” Jack said.
“Excuse me,” Terese said as she folded her napkin. “I imagine our entrées will be out momentarily. If you don’t mind, I’d like to use the ladies’ room before they get here.”
“By all means,” Jack said. He grasped the edge of the table and pulled it toward him to give Terese more room to get out. There was not much space between tables.
“I’ll be right back,” Terese said. She gave Jack’s shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t go away,” she teased.
Jack watched her approach the maître d’, who listened to her and then pointed toward the rear of the restaurant. Jack continued to watch her as she gracefully weaved her way down the length of the room. As usual, she was wearing a simple, tailored suit that limned her slim, athletic body. It wasn’t hard for Jack to imagine that she approached physical exercise with the same dogged determination she devoted to her career.
When Terese disappeared from view Jack turned his attention back to the table. He picked up his wine and took a sip. Someplace he’d read that red wine was capable of killing viruses. That thought made him think of something he hadn’t considered but perhaps should have. He’d been exposed to influenza, and while he felt confident given the measures he was taking regarding his health, he certainly didn’t want to expose anyone else to it, particularly not Terese.
Thinking about the possibility, Jack reasoned that since he didn’t have any symptoms, he could not be manufacturing virus. Therefore, he could not be infective. At least he hoped that to be the case. Thinking of influenza reminded him of his rimantadine. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the plastic vial, extracted one of the orange tablets, and took it with a swallow of water.
After putting the drug away, Jack let his eyes roam around the restaurant. He was impressed that every table was occupied, yet the waiters seemed to maintain a leisurely pace. Jack attributed it to good planning and training.
Looking to the right, Jack saw that there were a few couples and single men having drinks at the bar, possibly waiting for tables. Just then, he noticed that the canvas curtain at the entrance was thrown aside as a smartly dressed, young, African-American man stepped into the restaurant.
Jack wasn’t sure why the individual caught his attention. At first he thought it might have been because the man was tall and thin; he reminded Jack of several of the men he played ball with. But whatever the reason was, Jack continued to watch the man as he hesitated at the door, then began to walk down the central aisle, apparently searching for friends.
The gait wasn’t the high-stepping, springy, jaunty playground walk. It was more of a shuffle, as if the man were carrying a load on his back. His right hand was thrust into his trouser pocket while his left hung down stiffly at his side. Jack couldn’t help but notice the left arm didn’t swing. It was as if it were a prosthesis instead of a real arm.
Captivated by the individual, Jack watched as the man’s head swung from side to side. The man had advanced twenty feet when the maître d’ intercepted him, and they had a conversation.
The conversation was short. The maître d’ bowed and gestured into the restaurant. The man started forward once again, continuing his search.
Jack lifted his wineglass to his lips and took a sip. As he did so the man’s eyes locked onto his. To Jack’s surprise the man headed directly for him. Jack slowly put his wineglass down. The man came up to the table.
As if in a dream Jack saw the man start to raise his right hand. In it was a gun. Before Jack could even take a breath the barrel was aimed straight at him.
Within the confines of the narrow restaurant the sound of a pistol seemed deafening. By reflex Jack’s hands had grasped the tablecloth and pulled it toward him as if he could hide behind it. In the process he knocked the wineglasses and the wine bottle to the floor, where they shattered.
The concussion of the gunshot and the shattering of glass was followed by stunned silence. A moment later, the body fell forward onto the table. The gun clattered to the floor.
“Police,” a voice called out. A man rushed to the center of the room, holding a police badge aloft. In his other hand he held a .38 detective special. “No one move. Do not panic!”
With a sense of disgust Jack pushed the table away. It was pinning him against the wall. When he did so the man rolled off the side and fell heavily to the floor.
The policeman holstered his gun and pocketed his badge before quickly kneeling at the side of the body. He felt for a pulse, then barked an order for someone to call 911 for an ambulance.
Only then did the restaurant erupt with screams and sobs. Terrified diners began to stand up. A few in the front of the restaurant fled out the door.
“Stay in your seats,” the policeman commanded to those remaining. “Everything is under control.”
Some people followed his orders and sat. Others stood immobilized, their eyes wide.
Having regained a semblance of composure, Jack squatted beside the policeman.
“I’m a doctor,” Jack said.
“Yeah, I know,” the policeman said. “Give a check.
I’m afraid he’s a goner.”
Jack felt for a pulse while wondering how the policeman knew he was a doctor. There was no pulse.
“I didn’t have a lot of choice,” the policeman said defensively. “It happened so fast and with so many people around, I shot him in the left side of his chest. I must have hit the heart.”
Jack and the policeman stood up.
The policeman looked Jack up and down. “Are you all right?” he asked.
In shocked disbelief, Jack examined himself. He could have been shot without having felt it. “I guess so,” he said.
The policeman shook his head. “That was a close one,” he said. “I never expected anything to happen to you in here.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked.
“If there was to be trouble, I expected it to be after you left the restaurant,” the policeman said.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Jack said. “But I’m awfully glad you happened to be here.”
“Don’t thank me,” the policeman said. “Thank Lou Soldano.”
Terese came out of the rest room, confused as to what was going on. She hurried back to the table. When she saw the body her hands flew to her face to cover her mouth. Aghast, she looked at Jack.
“What happened?” she asked. “You’re as white as a ghost.”
“At least I’m alive,” Jack said. “Thanks to this policeman.”
In confusion Terese turned to the policeman for an explanation, but the sound of multiple sirens could be heard converging on the restaurant, and the policeman began moving people out of the way and urging them to sit down.
30
TUESDAY, 8:45 P.M., MARCH 26, 1996
Jack looked out the window of the speeding car and watched the night-time scenery flash by with unseeing eyes. Jack was in the front passenger seat of Shawn Magoginal’s unmarked car as it cruised south on the FDR Drive. Shawn was the plainclothes policeman who had mysteriously materialized at the crucial moment to save Jack from sure death.