Don't Blink

by James Patterson; Howard Roughan

  In front of him was a young and very pretty blonde on her knees. Needless to say, she wasn’t praying. I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was one of the PR ladies who had been with him on the deck.

  Panic flashed across Ferramore’s face, but amazingly, it vanished almost as fast as it had arrived. Apparently you don’t get to be a billionaire without being able to think quickly on your feet, even with your dick hanging out.

  “Get up, honey,” he said calmly to the young blonde. “Go enjoy the rest of the party.”

  She quickly buttoned her white blouse, dabbed at her lips, and hurried out the door. I suppose I couldn’t blame her, but not once did she look at me.

  Meanwhile, that’s all Ferramore could do. His dark eyes bored straight into mine. He was staring, unblinking. And of all goddamn things, he started to smile.

  “So, you caught me,” he said, the second we were alone. “Now what are you going to do about it? You have a plan of action yet?”

  The son of a bitch hadn’t even bothered to pull up his pants.

  “What do you think I’m going to do about it?” I shot back. “At your own engagement party? After what you said to Courtney up there?”

  He shook his head and laughed some more. “It’s your word against mine and your word is pretty drunk, isn’t it?”

  “Not so drunk that I’m blind, pal. I saw what I saw.”

  In fact, I suddenly felt as if I’d downed a dozen cups of coffee. Not quite sober as a judge, but the thoughts and words were forming just fine.

  “Do you even love Courtney?” I asked.

  “Does that even matter?”

  “It does to me.”

  He laughed again. “Yes, I know it does,” he said. “You love her madly, right? That’s probably why you felt it was okay to fuck her when you knew she was engaged to me.”

  That stopped me cold. How did he know that?

  “She told you?” I asked in disbelief.

  His laugh grew louder, a booming cackle now, and it dawned on me that there was another explanation.

  “Christ, you had her followed.”

  “I always look after my investments, Nick — force of habit. In a way, all it proves is that Courtney and I are meant for each other. In fact, for your sake, you should feel lucky I was okay with it.”

  “Tell you what, then,” I said. “Since you know about Courtney and me, why don’t we go tell her about what I just walked in on and she can decide for herself.”

  “You do that and you can kiss your sweet job at Citizen magazine good-bye.”

  “Yeah, but I’d sure be going out with a bang.”

  “Yes, you sure would. Too bad about Courtney, though. She’d be out of a job, too. You understand that, of course.”

  Checkmate! And he knew it, too. Citizen was Courtney’s baby, the joy of her life.

  Ferramore finally reached down and pulled up his trousers. “To show you there are no hard feelings, though, how about I cut you a check and we forget this whole thing ever happened.”

  Was this prick really trying to buy me off? That was the worst insult yet.

  “That depends,” I said. “What does your being caught getting a blow job go for these days?”

  “That’s a very good question,” came a trembling voice over my shoulder. “What does it go for, Tom?”

  Chapter 57

  I SPUN AROUND to see Courtney leaning against the doorway, her arms folded tightly, as if she was hugging herself for comfort. Her eyes were shooting so many sharpened daggers at Ferramore, I practically had to duck.

  No one had to ask how long she’d been standing there or how much she’d heard.

  She’d obviously heard enough.

  But there were no tears like she had had with me out on the deck. She wasn’t sad now, she was angry — mad as hell at Ferramore and even more pissed off at herself. I thought I knew what she was thinking: How could I have been so stupid?

  “So tell me, Tom, what did you have to pay your little French supermodel to change her story? How much was that check?” she demanded to know.

  I expected Ferramore to show at least a little remorse here. Maybe even a little class.

  Boy, was I ever wrong. The rich have such incredibly high opinions of themselves.

  The prick smirked. “Hell, she was cheap compared with that CEO of ParisJet. I actually had to buy his company.”

  All at once, Courtney yanked off her ten-carat diamond ring and threw a fastball at Ferramore’s chest.

  “C’mon, Nick, let’s go,” she said.

  It was the four most beautiful words she, or anybody, had ever said to me.

  “I hope you two are extremely happy together,” chirped Ferramore as he buckled his trousers. “Oh, and by the way, you’re both fired! Good luck finding new jobs.”

  “Don’t worry, we will,” Courtney shot back. “You see, I get to start over. But you? You’ll always be a scumbag!”

  Brava, Courtney!

  She turned and walked off, and I was about to follow in her steps, but I just couldn’t help myself. The moment was too good; I wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

  “By the way, Ferramore,” I said, glancing down at his ridiculous white jacket, “Captain Stubing from The Love Boat called. He wants his uniform back.”

  Chapter 58

  IN THE MOVIES, Courtney and I would have made mad, passionate love all night long to the tune of a saxophone sound track. Then we would’ve blissfully woken up in each other’s arms without a single hair out of place.

  So much for the movies, which don’t seem to get it right very often anyway.

  I didn’t have Courtney in my arms or anywhere else in my apartment the next morning. What I did have, however, was a terrific hangover and a severe case of bed head that would’ve scared Lyle Lovett.

  As upset as Courtney had been as she’d stormed off Ferramore’s yacht, she’d known better than to engage in any “Sweet Revenge” scenarios with me. And as drunk as I had been, I really hadn’t been looking for anything more than a kiss on the cheek. Maybe. After all, I had been beyond obnoxious at the party, and I’d broken my promise to her.

  “We’ll be making two stops,” Courtney had told the cab driver. “First his apartment, and then mine.” But she held my hand for the entire ride and indeed gave me that kiss on the cheek when we rolled up to my place. And that’s how the night ended.

  At least, I’m fairly sure that’s how it ended. It was all still fuzzy in the a.m. In fact, it wasn’t until I’d taken in some hot, über-strong coffee and a cold shower that I managed my first lucid thought.

  According to Thomas Ferramore I was no longer employed by Citizen magazine. Just like that, I was suddenly out of a great job, probably the best one I’d ever had. Pink-slipped. Canned for doing the right thing.

  But I still had work to do. I had my mission impossible to try to accomplish.

  Armed with an address and some ugly mug shot photos courtesy of Hoodie Brown, I headed out to the South Bronx in search of Sam Tagaletto. Ironically, he lived less than six blocks from Yankee Stadium. Was that how he’d first met Dwayne?

  Tagaletto’s home was on the second floor of a decrepit corner brownstone, the bricks of which looked to be literally crumbling when not outright missing. This guy apparently didn’t care much about curb appeal.

  Or, for that matter, who wandered into his building off the street.

  Not only was there no buzzer system, the front door was actually propped open with — what else? — one of the bricks from the building’s façade.

  My plan once inside was fairly simple. So simple, in fact, any eight-year-old could have done it and probably had. Ring and run!

  After climbing the stairs, I rapped my knuckles hard against the door of apartment 2-B before dashing up to the third floor. I needed a glimpse of Tagaletto to make sure it was really him — assuming he was home.

  He was.

  After the sharp snap! of a turning dead bolt, the door to his apartment opened as wid
e as its chain lock would let it. That’s when I saw him — tall, skinny, and with a narrow, mottled face not even a mother could love. Hell, this guy looked worse in real life than in his terrible mug shots.

  I stole another peek down through the third-floor railing as Tagaletto glanced left and right with his dark, deep-set eyes. Then, like a turtle, he retreated back into his apartment.

  I settled in for the wait.

  Hopefully, the guy would soon have places to go and people to see, any one of which could be the break I was looking for. I needed to get lucky. Then again, with my luck the guy would turn out to be a hermit. Sam Tagaletto, the agoraphobic bookie of the South Bronx …

  Great, just great.

  Less than half an hour later, though, I heard it once again — the sound of a turning dead bolt.

  Yes! Sam Tagaletto was leaving his apartment. Now, where was he going? And could I follow him without being spotted and getting the shit kicked out of me?

  Chapter 59

  I COULD COUNT on one hand how many times in my life I’d ever “tailed” someone. And I’d still have five fingers left over.

  This was a new feeling, all right, including the relentless pounding of my heart as I fell in line behind Tagaletto out on the street. How close is too close?

  Best not to find out, I decided. I kept a safe distance for the first few blocks, nearly losing him once when he turned a corner at a busy intersection. In fact, were it not for Tagaletto’s nicotine habit I would’ve lost him for sure along the crowded sidewalk. All I had to do was keep my eye on the gray cloud hovering over his head. The guy smoked more than a chimney in the wintertime.

  Lean and scraggly, Tagaletto wasn’t exactly the physically imposing type. But somehow, some way, he still managed to look menacing. Maybe it was the “don’t fuck with me” walk. He definitely had that down pat.

  For another few blocks I kept right in line behind him. Until, finally, he made another turn, disappearing from view in a maze of storefronts.

  Immediately I began to sprint. Tagaletto had gone down a narrow alley next to a pizza parlor, its red neon sign glowing in the window: SLICE OF HEAVEN.

  “Shit, where is he?” I mumbled, reaching the alley and peering around the corner. Out of breath, all I could see were piles of garbage lining both sides and no one in between. Slowly, I started to walk. Where the hell did he go?

  I saw the most probable answer halfway down. It was a metallic door, the only one. If I had to bet, it led into the kitchen of Slice of Heaven, but that’s as close as I wanted to get. My nose was telling me this was a bad place to be, and it had nothing to do with the smell of pepperoni and onions in the air.

  I was about to turn around and get the hell out of there, when I heard the door in the alley begin to open, the sound of rusted hinges ricocheting off the walls. I quickly moved behind a Dumpster that reeked so badly I put my sleeve over my nose.

  There were maybe two inches of daylight between the piled garbage and the wall, just enough to catch a glimpse of Tagaletto stepping back outside.

  He was lighting a cigarette. And he wasn’t alone.

  Holy shit.

  I recognized the other guy right away. How could I not? He was Carmine Zambratta, a.k.a. the Zamboni.

  There was never a more fitting nickname for a mob guy. Zambratta not only looked like a Zamboni — the machine that smooths the ice at hockey rinks — he acted like one. From what I knew, he was a fixer, the kind of guy used when there was a “rough patch” that needed smoothing over. All of New York knew his face. Countless times his mug had graced the covers of the city’s tabloids — and each time the headline was a variation on the same theme. Not guilty!

  Zambratta’s ability to escape conviction was rivaled by only one other mob figure. That would be Eddie “The Prince” Pinero.

  So why was I so surprised to see Zambratta?

  Possibly because he didn’t report to Eddie Pinero. Just the opposite. The Zamboni worked for a rival boss by the name of Joseph D’zorio.

  It took me a few seconds to do anything besides stare at the two mob guys. Then I reached for my pocket. Looking down, I searched for the camera application on my iPhone. Raising the phone, I eyed the screen to center Tagaletto and Zambratta in the picture I was about to take.

  Shit. Now what had happened?

  Zambratta was gone. Where the hell had he disappeared to?

  “I’m right here, cocksucker,” I suddenly heard as the nose of a gun hit my cheek.

  Chapter 60

  “DO I KNOW YOU?” Zambratta asked, his tone already anticipating my expected answer.

  “No,” I said, trying not to shake. God only knows what my tone sounded like. Scared shitless, probably. Out of my league, out of my element, out of my mind?

  “You’re right, I don’t know you,” he said. “So how do you know me?”

  “I don’t.”

  Zambratta cocked his gun, the click! echoing in my ear. “Don’t bullshit me,” he said. “Everybody knows me. I’m a legend.”

  I tried to breathe normally but it was becoming next to impossible. “I know who you are,” I corrected myself. “What I meant was, I didn’t know you’d be here.” What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  I turned slightly, my eyes meeting his for a split second.

  He was very intense and focused, and I saw enough to know that he was trying to decide what to do with me.

  “Sam!” he called out.

  Tagaletto walked over to the Dumpster, his latest cigarette dangling from his thin lips. “What a stink,” he said. Then he shrugged. “Who is he?”

  “You tell me,” said Zambratta. “You’re the one brought him here.”

  “I’ve never seen him before. No idea who this idiot is.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “What’s your name?” Zambratta asked me.

  My first thought was to make one up. Thankfully, my second, somewhat more rational thought prevailed. “Nick Daniels,” I answered.

  “Turn and face the wall, Nick,” said Zambratta, backing up a few steps. I’d barely heard the words before Tagaletto stepped in and gave me some help — courtesy of a hard shove. As soon as my palms slammed against the bricks, he frisked me.

  Out came my wallet.

  “Hey,” I said instinctively, but then I shut myself up.

  “Turn back around,” ordered Zambratta. “But keep your hands nice and high.”

  When I did, I saw Tagaletto checking my driver’s license. He gave Zambratta a nod. I was telling the truth. Did that count for something with mob guys? Probably not.

  “So who the hell are you, Nick Daniels?”

  “I’m a journalist.”

  “Ahhh. So were you following Sam?”

  So much for the truth. It was time to lie. C’mon, Nick, think fast!

  Faster!

  “I’m doing a story,” I answered. “It’s about bookies. Actually, it’s about New Yorkers who are ruined by their gambling habits.” That was pretty good, under the circumstances.

  “You expect me to believe that total crock of shit?”

  I nodded at Tagaletto. “He’s a bookie, isn’t he?”

  “So what does that make me?” asked Zambratta. “Am I going to be in your story now, too?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure this was a bad idea for a story. A really bad idea, I now realize. So I’m out of here. All right if I slowly lower my hands?”

  Zambratta chuckled. I’d become his court jester and that was fine by me. Just so long as I wasn’t his next victim.

  “What should we do with him, Sam?” asked Zambratta. “Any brilliant ideas?”

  Tagaletto shrugged again, flicking the butt of his cigarette against the wall. “The guy obviously knows some things he shouldn’t,” he said.

  “You’re saying we should kill him?”

  “It’s your call. But I would.”

  Zambratta nodded. “So go ahead,”
he said, tossing Tagaletto his gun. “Kill him.”

  Chapter 61

  I SWEAR THE gun traveled in slow motion from Zambratta to Tagaletto. That’s how it felt, at least. A stub-nose piece of metal floating through the air, and my life hanging in the balance.

  I watched as the bookie fumbled, then nearly dropped the gun. He did drop his cigarette. His hands were clearly as surprised as the rest of him. Are you serious? said the look on his face.

  Zambratta seemed pretty damn serious to me.

  “Please,” I said. “Don’t do this!” I’m in love with a terrific woman, and I need to work it out before I die.

  “Shut up!” barked Zambratta.

  I stared back at Tagaletto with a whole lot of irony cruising around in my brain. He was holding a gun, but there was no longer anything menacing about him. The truth was, he looked nervous, almost as scared as I was, and he wasn’t the one with the death sentence here.

  He can’t do it! He doesn’t have it in him!

  “What’s the matter, Sam? What are you waiting for?” asked Zambratta. “Kill him.”

  Tagaletto didn’t say a word. He couldn’t even look at Zambratta. Or me. His head was down, his eyes trained on the filthy ground of the alley.

  “There’s no need to do this,” I tried again. “I’m no threat to either of you. You let me leave and it’s like this never happened.”

  “I said, SHUT UP!” barked Zambratta again, the veins in his tree stump of a neck bulging above the collar of his brown leather jacket.

  Then he turned back to Tagaletto. “We don’t have all day here, Sam. If you don’t have the stones for this, let me know.”

  Christ! Zambratta was goading him to commit murder — my murder!

  I watched in horror as Tagaletto started to look up from the ground. His eyes stared directly into mine. Next he raised his arm, the gun aimed straight for my chest.

  Do something, Nick! Lunge for him! Anything!

  I saw that Tagaletto’s hand was beginning to tremble. He steadied it with his other hand. He was steeling his nerve. This was his first time, wasn’t it?