by Larry Crane
What about the limits of his imagination? Had he ever contemplated the extent to which these guys would go—could go—to get him? Assume the worst. Assume that Copeland was well organized and funded. Assume they’d be watching his house, tapping his phone. All of that was easy, wasn’t it? They’d be watching Buck’s office and phone, too, and any of the several places he might go for help. It was logical with the right assumptions; assumptions that were fatuous enough, ordinary enough, preposterous enough.
Lou got up slowly from the step. He limped across the sidewalk to the street and then, taking it slowly on his bad leg, cut diagonally across the corner toward the Stock Exchange.
“Look out!”
He whirled to face a car, a big dark one, bearing down on him at full speed. Horns blared. Screams came from the crowd on the sidewalk all around the intersection. As he crouched and leaned to push off on his good leg, the car bore off in the same direction. Lou shoved off hard, hit, and rolled.
The car didn’t slow or even apply brakes; its wheels missed him by a foot. The rear license plate was hidden by a cloth. Within seconds, the car peeled all the way to Pearl Street and disappeared around the corner. Ten people huddled around Lou.
“You ought to see a doctor about that leg, mister.”
“The son of a bitch coulda killed ya,” he heard.
“Did you see that maniac? Where the hell are the cops at a time like this? Are you all right?”
“Here, c’mon over here and sit down a while. Take it easy. You’re shaking like a leaf, man.”
They pulled him back to the steps of Federal Hall and sat him down.
“Christ, you can get killed around here.”
The crowd hung around for five minutes like that, talking and looking at him. No one called the police. He was surrounded by buildings—the Stock Exchange, Morgan Guaranty, Federal Hall,—and by the people on the street, the truck drivers, and the cars parked along the curb.
Lou got to his feet and blended into the flow of people moving up Wall toward Trinity Church. This time he sneaked out from between two parked cars and quickly crossed the street to the magazine stand on the other side. He picked up a House Beautiful and scanned it. This was more John Wayne on the Sands of Iwo Jima, but let them laugh; he would live. He put the magazine back on the pile, stealing a glance down the street. He turned the corner at Broadway.
He broke into a painful jog to the stairs of the Lexington Avenue Subway and kept running to the token window and through the turnstiles to the platform. No one came down the stairs. The train’s headlights waltzed again on the rails coming up from South Ferry. It stopped with the door right in front of him. About ten people came down the stairs all at once. Two of them—a schoolgirl in knee socks and plaid skirt, and a man in an Army parka—managed to get aboard before the door closed and the train jerked away from the platform.
It was an old type of car with the fan mounted on the ceiling. Lou sat in the middle of the car, on one of the long, center seats, between a fat woman with a shopping bag and a short man with beard, side curls, and a black hat. He kept his eyes up on a Joe Camel ad in Spanish above the handholds. The guy with the parka got off at 14th Street.
As the train started to pull away from the station, the door at the end of the car suddenly slammed open, yet no one stood in the opening. Lou heard the clank of metal; a rapping sound that diverted his eyes away from the glass down to the tiled floor. A fierce-looking man, down low, rapped a tin cup with an insistent, belligerent, angry jab that commanded everyone’s attention.
At first it looked as if the man was standing between the cars; that he had somehow slipped down between them so that only his torso showed. Lou almost ran to his aid before the train got rolling, but then saw that the man was resting on a wooden platform with casters. He was cut off at the waist. This torso—head and arms—was all there was of him.
The guy propelled himself down the center of the car using his hands on the floor. He had tremendous shoulder muscles, a thick-corded neck, and ferocious blue eyes that glowed in the center of his heavily bearded face. Lou dropped two quarters in the cup as the man pulled himself down the center aisle.
The man stared Lou straight in the face and mumbled a gruff “thanks” before moving on. He clanked down to the end of the car, wrenched open the door by reaching up high for the handle, and then disappeared.
At 42nd Street, Lou waited until the doors were sliding shut before he squeezed out. He limped across the platform to the Lex Local that was standing there, doors closed. The schoolgirl got on through another door to the same car. At 50th, Lou jumped out as soon as the doors opened. He ran up the stairs, across the platform, and down the stairs to the other side. Across two sets of tracks and girders that held up the street above, the girl was talking on a public telephone, her back to him.
Lou didn’t have long to wait before the downtown local roared into the station. He boarded and slumped down in a seat. The light from the station soon dissipated and they were in the darkness of the tunnel. His reflection in the windows across the aisle was distorted. His hair was obviously tousled and standing up on his head; Mag would have laughed. Mag. Where was she right now?
Back at 42nd Street, one stop on the downtown local, Lou swung out the door and climbed the stairs to the next level. The platform was empty, no one hanging around the token booth. He limped down the long tunnel under the sign pointing the way to the main floor of the Grand Central Station. No one following.
Up the stairs, out of the tunnel to the main floor, a row of telephone booths lined the far wall. It wasn’t crowded in the station, but he still had to thread his way through people moving in fifteen different directions on the cavernous floor. Light streamed in through the arched windows high on the wall.
As he stood there with his hands deep in his pockets, a woman came up to him, tucked a ten-dollar bill into an opening in his shirt, and hurried off.
“Take this, and good luck,” she said.
Three days ago he was born to wear Brooks Brothers. Now...
He dialed at one of the public phones.
“Hello?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Jory? What are you doing at grammy’s house? Listen, tell grandma to come to the phone... I know... I wish I could’ve seen you too... You were a hobo? How about Kirky, what was he? I’ll bet you do. Don’t eat it all in one day now. No no... I can’t talk to Kirky... Tell him I’m sorry, okay?”
“Hello?”
“Mag, it’s me.”
“Lou! Hello darling. You sound out of breath.
“I just climbed some stairs. Are you baby-sitting the boys?”
“Yes, the boys. Still on schedule to windup the training today, I trust.”
“No, Mag. I’m in the city.”
“The city?”
“Yes. At headquarters. We’ve sort of switched venues here. I’m... I’m going to try to get home just as soon as I can, but I have a couple of things I need to clear up first.”
“In the city. I see. Lou, I got a call from a car rental place. You forgot to collect your deposit when you returned the car.”
Oh shit. The car. Just hold on. Don’t unravel now. Mag knows about the car. Wait, wait, wait. What else does she know? What is she saying? Saying really?
“How could I have forgotten that? My brain is turning to cornmeal mush, Mag.”
“Well... extended junkets will do that to you. It’s been a week now. Non-stop schmoozing and boozing. You’ll be another week drying out. I’ll help you.”
A week? What’s that? How the hell did the car get back to the rental agency? If the cops found it, they’d have traced it to him. They would’ve contacted Maggie. But she didn’t say anything about cops.
“Oh hell, Mag. It hasn’t been that bad, but I’ve been really busy with a lot of bullshit classes and stuff. Yes, for a whole week. It’s a brain cell killer.”
“You’re missing out on all the exciting news. Terrorists on Bear Mountain Bridge.
”
“I heard about it. Crazy, huh?”
“Right up there where you were.”
“Did they catch anybody yet?”
“Two of them, I guess; a couple they killed on the bridge.”
“Who are they?”
“Some kind of American Army or something.”
“What’s next, huh?”
“Can I expect you back home soon?”
If only he could just hop in a cab and go home. He would gladly spill his guts to her, all over the floor, if it were just that easy. But maybe she didn’t need to have him do any of that. What was she really saying?
“Well, things are coming to a head, Mag, but still up in the air some. I’m running out of clothes.”
There was only one person other than himself who knew where the car was parked before they went on the operation. Only one even knew he had a car and what it looked like. He’d picked her up on the way, under the viaduct.
“It’s a good thing you caught me at home. Finally cut my visit short in Fort Montgomery. I just couldn’t handle any more of Delores Fishbein’s prying.”
What? Fort Montgomery? Delores Fish... Who?
“My head’s spinning, trying to keep this all straight, Mag.”
“I guess you could call it human nature. People just do whatever’s necessary to find out what’s none of their business.”
For a while, he forgot where he was; he was unaware of the people moving in all directions on the expanse of floor in front of him. But now the noise of the place was beginning to register: the shuffling of hundreds of feet, the loudspeaker echo reverberating in the vaulted ceiling, and the rumble of trains below.
He spoke to whoever sat at the end of the wiretap; and though she seemed to know everything, he hated himself for using Mag like this.
“Mag, I need a change of clothes. I’m not going to be able to come home to get them. I want you to get my solid blue suit and a clean shirt. Send them out to me in a limo. Have them deliver it out here to me, understand?”
“I know it sounds weird, but I want to meet the driver at the parking lot next to Battery Park, right beside the firehouse. Seven o’clock tonight.”
“Do you really think he’s going to be able to find you, Lou? I mean...”
“He’ll find me. Just have him come to the right spot. Or I’ll find him.”
“I’ll do what you said. And we’ll talk about it some more when you get home.”
“Good girl,” he said, turning to face the people swirling all around. “When I finish with this business, we’re going to get away from here. Completely away.”
On the far side of the floor, he saw her standing beside a handbag kiosk: thick black hair to the shoulder, open face with too-heavy eyebrows, slim, standing with one hip cocked, looking all around the floor. It registered, but not fully. He turned to face the wall.
“I love you.”
“Mag, I’m sorry, I have to take off now. I’ll be back in touch as soon as I can, okay?”
“I wish you could tell me more. But I know that’s not possible right now.”
The girl was tall, lean. She raised her eyebrows, wrinkled her forehead, and squinted, looking all around the floor.
“Gotta go,” he said.
“Goodbye, Lou.”
Straight beige skirt, starchy tan raincoat, collar pulled up around her neck. She wore heels. No more jeans and boots of a day ago. She was looking for him.
“Maggie darling, there’s a lot of noise and confusion, but listen to me. Listen to what I’m saying. I’m sorry for all the bad stuff lately. But all the good stuff we have is what counts.”
“Yes, of course, always, Lou. Now, don’t worry about that. Just concentrate on what you’re doing.”
“Goodbye, Maggie baby.”
He turned to look at her again. She was standing on her toes, straining to see the subway entrance to the left of him, pointing in his direction. Then he saw Stanfield, tall, dark. Lou headed for the doors at the end of the hall.
Now the crowd was in his way. He tried to run. The leg cooperated, but the people were bunched. He dodged and barged his way ahead. He couldn’t see Stanfield or anyone else, but he felt pressure at his back. It was impossible to breathe. It had happened so suddenly. Adrenalin was pumping. A lump of panic rose in his throat. They would never take him while he had the strength to fight. He would not go easily or with honor. He’d claw and bite.
“Stop that man!” he heard behind him. Not that far behind. “Stop him! Stop! Thief!”
The doors swung dead ahead. He heaved against the push bar and careened outside. People all over were stopping, turning, pointing. His leg throbbed. There was no place to hide. A police car sat at the corner, pale blue and white, a rack of lights on the roof, the uniformed cop looking straight ahead.
Lou stumbled to the trashcan at the curb, yanked off the plastic lid, and ran with it toward the police car. Then he whirled and flung it at the cruiser’s window.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Maggie stood still in the kitchen long after she’d hung up the phone. It was Lou she was just talking to; but from the way he spoke, it might as well have been Dan Rather. She sensed almost immediately that it didn’t matter what she said to him because he wasn’t listening, as though he was reading from a teleprompter. She could visualize the gears turning behind his eyes, calculating how much she knew and how much he should say to her.
She’d thrown out the business about the terrorists on the bridge as a means of picking up on some indication that he might give, some hint or something. But he’d slid right over it. And though she knew her instincts were almost always right on, this time she wasn’t sure. At least now she knew he was alive and somewhere in the city. The calmness that had grown inside her this morning was still there.
The boys were in the living room, wreaking havoc on her houseplants. She went to the front window, and lightly pushed the curtain aside. She saw the white van parked exactly where it had been before. She herded Jory and Kirk up the stairs to the bedroom. They ran to the bed and immediately turned it into a trampoline. She flicked on the closet light and combed the row of business suits for Lou’s dark blue, the one he wore to all client meetings in combination with a white shirt and striped tie.
“Find your toy box in the hall closet, Jory. You and Kirky go play in your bedroom now.” The boys jumped down from the bed and ran for the toys.
Mag laid the suit on the crumpled bedspread. Did Lou mean it when he talked about going away from this place? Why did she have this feeling that he was talking in some kind of code? What did he really mean? He had never talked about moving before. Why now? She glanced out the window at the van, bit on the knuckle of her index finger, and narrowed her eyes.
What else would Lou need along with the suit? A shirt, tie, socks, underwear? What in heaven’s name was the reason for meeting the limo in Battery Park of all places? Maybe she’d just take the things to him herself. But if he’d wanted that... No, he didn’t want that.
She pulled a red-striped tie from the rack and tucked it into the side pocket of the suit. She tossed underwear in the general direction of the bed and was rustling in his sock drawer for a good pair when her hand touched something hard. What was this?
She picked up the videotape that was nestled in the middle of Lou’s jumble of socks. The label read: “Halloween 1991 Attn: Bill Severence.”
She broke into a trot in the hallway and crushed under foot a plastic brontosaurus that had skittered out of the boys’ bedroom just as she was passing. She nearly fell headlong down the stairs. She plucked the remote control for the television from the lamp stand by her reading chair, powered up the TV, pushed the tape into the slot on the VCR, and pressed the Play button. Then she fell to her knees in front of the set.
Static filled the screen. Then Lou appeared, holding a New York Times. The camera zoomed in to find the front-page headline and the date. Lou’s full form filled the screen again before the camera gradually mo
ved to his face. He spoke slowly and clearly.
“My name is Louis Christopher. I live in Glen Rock, New Jersey, and work for Pierson Browne, the brokerage firm. I’m now at a hideout in New York. I have just finished a reconnaissance of the Bear Mountain Bridge, which I intend to attack with napalm tomorrow, October 30, as the leader of a mock-terrorist group. I was told that the purpose of the attack is to provide the president of the United States, Jordan Bliss, an opportunity to rekindle America’s admiration of him as the architect of Operation Desert Storm and protector of the nation. The target was chosen for its proximity to New York and the media opportunities that it presents just before Election Day. The president is supposed to board a helicopter and fly up to the bridge, like the cavalry coming over the hill, just in time to stop the attack. Patricia Buck of Pierson Browne, who is a presidential campaign consultant, recruited me. Also involved are men known to me as Stanfield and Copeland. I have made a copy of this tape and have arranged to have it sent to a major political correspondent in the event that I, or any member of my family or friends, come to harm.”
