Washing down my egg and toast with more coffee, I read the letter from PCK III again, and again, and one last time for good measure. The words don’t change no matter how many times I read it.
Folding it back up, I stuff it back into the pocket of my bush jacket and think. Why would this PCK III character want me to meet him at the airport? Why not meet at a restaurant or bar like civilized people? Shit, why not call or email? What if I simply ignore him and don’t do anything?
Certainly, judging from the expensive stationery and the name snazzily printed on it, Mr. Keogh is civilized enough. He also assumes that me being me, I’ll be curious enough not to blow him or his invitation off. But then, I get the feeling he’s not your everyday kind of average Joe either. In fact, if I listen to my gut, it seems to keep on repeating the same words over and over again: Mr. PCK III is richer than Jesus. And maybe even as important. In certain circles, that is.
“Well, one thing’s for sure, Mr. Keogh,” I say, out loud, “you’ve piqued my interest much more than the home fries have.”
“Excuse me?” says the waitress.
“Oh,” I say, holding out my coffee cup, “you mind warming this up for me, pretty lady?”
She comes back over with the pot of coffee.
“Who you callin’ pretty?” she says, pouring more coffee into my cup.
“Term of endearment,” I say.
“Tell that to my girlfriend.” Then, “How them home fries treatin’ ya?”
“They’re free,” I say. “No complaints.”
“You’re right,” she says before walking away. “Home fries suck.”
4.
Coming out of the diner, I make a check on the time.
It’s already half past one in the afternoon. I have just enough time to get home, get cleaned up, and think about hiring a driver to take me out to JFK for four o’clock. So much for seeing my little princess as soon as school lets out. I hope ol’ PCK III won’t mind reimbursing me for the cost. Making my way to the street corner, I hail a taxi to take me the rest of the way downtown.
Opening the back door, I go to step in when somebody shoves up against me.
“Excuse me, my friend,” he says. “But are we not heading the same direction? Perhaps we should cut our expenses in two and share this cab.”
I’m a resident of two cities. Florence, Italy, and New York City. In Florence, the taxi cabs are white Mercedes Benz wagons. Oftentimes a driver might be a well-dressed gentleman whose extended family has, for generations, devoted themselves to the noble pursuit of driving. Sometimes the drivers are even women, beautifully and expensively attired. When hailing one of these drivers, under no circumstances would another customer be rude enough to jump in front of you suggesting you share the ride.
But in New York City, where most of the cab drivers don’t speak English, it’s not all that uncommon for a man or woman to jump in front of you, hop in, shut the door, and steal the cab ride altogether. I’ll say it again: in NYC, anything goes. Most anything anyway. The fact that this little, neatly dressed, bald-headed man suggested we share the ride proves at least a semblance of good manners. I decide to reward him with a monotone, “Okay.”
We both get in.
“Corner of Prince and Houston,” I say to the driver.
“That’s fine with me,” confirms the little man.
Like I said, he’s bald, but neatly kept. He’s wearing a lightweight baby blue suit that looks like it came from Brooks Brothers, and loafers with no socks. The knot on his red and white necktie is perfect, his pink oxford impeccably pressed. I peg him for late thirties, but he’s so small and boyish looking, he could easily be ten years older or younger.
“Wish I could have a cigarette,” he says in a voice that’s neither masculine nor feminine, but somewhere in between. The accent is not American. At least, not US, but Latin American. Which country it originates from I can’t be sure, however.
“Was a time not too long ago,” I say, “a blue cloud of cigarette smoke hung over Manhattan.”
“Filthy disgusting habit anyway.” The Peter Lorre look-alike smiles, looking up at me with big, dark, round bulbs for eyes. “My mother died from the big, grotesque tumors that formed on her lungs from a three pack a day habit. She was a sweet woman, my mother. Died far too young.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, focusing my attention out the window onto the fenced-in Gramercy Park where my princess resides, feeling the pangs of missing her like stones in my stomach. “Maybe you should quit too, before the same fate awaits your lungs.”
I’m not entirely sure why I’m engaging in a conversation about life or death with this man, but somehow, it seems like it would take more effort to ignore it.
He goes on, “Oh, but I have a plan should that eventuality raise its ugly head.”
I turn back to him.
“A plan.” It’s a question.
“Did you know that there are doctors in South America and other parts of the world who can cure tumors with their hands?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Oh, but it’s true. Just last month a team of three medical doctors in Beijing were able to cure a woman’s breast cancer by placing their hands on her body for a period of an hour. The entire procedure was recorded with an MRI. Do you have any idea how long it took her multiple tumors to disappear?”
“No idea, pal.”
“Less than three minutes.”
I laugh. “Listen, little friend, don’t you think if something that miraculous were to truly have occurred that it would gain top billing in the world news?”
He nods, emphatically.
“Precisely,” he explains. “But here in the West, we have trouble believing that one man’s positive healing energy can be transferred into another sicker individual just through something as simple as touching. Yet the ancients have known about this secret for millennia. The mainstream media refuses to report on these miracles simply because they fear for their credibility.”
“And how did the ancients come to know about this healing energy you speak of?”
“It is possible the ancient astronauts taught us.”
“Astronauts from ancient times.” I snicker. Okay, maybe I’m laughing at the concept of ancient astronauts, but I’m not about to discount the possibility of their existence either. After all, who in the past has gone in search of God and aliens and uncovered enough evidence to back the existence of both? Maybe even evidence to prove that they are one and the same? That who is me.
“Yes, ancient astronauts, hard to believe,” he goes on. “But as time goes on, scientists are discovering more and more about ancient civilizations. The Egyptians, the Romans, the Incans, the Chinese, the Asian Indians, and the American Indians were far more advanced than for which written history gives them credit. There’s proof of them harnessing electricity, of conquering the skies with man-made flying objects, and even harnessing the power of healing.”
“Fascinating,” I say, still playing dumb as the taxi pulls up to the corner of Prince and Houston.
The dark-skinned driver turns around.
“Twelve dollar,” he says in a heavy accent that could be Afghan as easily as it could be Pakistani.
“You wanna split it, little buddy?” I say, reaching into my pocket for some cash.
But the bald man is too quick. He’s already pulled a ten and a five from his billfold, and is handing it to the driver through the Plexiglas opening over the seatback.
“Please keep the change,” he insists to the driver in his soft, strange voice. Then, turning back to me, he holds out his right hand. “I am Carlos,” he says, while reaching into his suit jacket with his free hand, pulling out a business card and handing it to me.
I take the small, almost birdlike hand in mine, give it quick squeeze and a shake, then pocket the card without looking at it.
“I’m Chase,” I say. “Chase Baker.”
“But of course you are. Pleased to meet you, Chase. If you would ever
like to talk more about the ancients and their mysteries, do not hesitate to give me a call. And thank you again for allowing me to share your cab.”
I watch him open his door, get out, and disappear around the corner. Opening my door, I step on out, shutting the door behind me. As I start walking toward my small apartment above the Italian restaurant on Prince Street, I can’t help but wonder if it’s entirely coincidental that Carlos and I shared the cab ride together, or if the strange man’s sudden appearance in my life was planned that way all along.
5.
Walking.
I’ve traveled enough in my life to know that you don’t always get around this big blue planet by means of a map or compass or even GPS. You get around by listening to your gut. And right now, as I walk the busy downtown Manhattan street, I’m once again listening to my gut speaking to me loud and crystal clear. It’s telling me, “Don’t look now, Chase, old boy, but you are being followed.”
It’s not just the voice that alerts me. It’s also the dryness in my mouth, the tightness in my stomach, and the fine hairs on the back of my neck that stand up at attention.
I don’t dare gaze over my shoulder.
Not yet.
I keep walking like I’m oblivious. Just another chump making my way back to my apartment after a long trip, hoping the two bags (my North Face Venture 90 and my twenty-year-old Tough Traveler shoulder bag) I had sent on to my apartment from the airport will have arrived before I do. But then, quite suddenly, I stop and about-face.
That’s when I spot him.
The strange little man in the blue suit ducking into a dark alley.
6.
I don’t hesitate to go after him.
Breaking out in a sprint, I head for the alley opening, dodging the innocent bystanders who block my path by running around them or simply pushing them out of the way. When I come to the alley, I stop and pull out my .45, thumbing off the safety. I gaze into the empty, shaded alley. Two tall brick walls flank me. Moisture and damp drip from numerous metal downspouts. Rusted, over-filled dumpsters occupy the long runway. I hear a noise and a commotion coming in the direction of the first dumpster. Raising the gun, I plant a bead on it. But that’s when I spot a rat the size of a house cat pop its head out, its nose whiskers twitching as it pushes aside an empty box and some newspapers, then jumping down into the alley, scattering off for the protection of a hole in the wall.
I step inside the alley, hearing my footsteps echoing against the brick walls. Then, up ahead, a man scoots across the width of the alley. He opens a door and enters into a building. It’s him. The bald man in the blue suit.
I give chase.
I find the door, grab hold of the opener, and twist. But it’s locked.
“Son of a bitch,” I whisper to myself. Looking over one shoulder, then the other, I plant the barrel of the .45 against the opener and press the trigger. The lock shatters into so many metal fragments. Pulling the metal door open, I’m greeted with a set of concrete and metal stairs. I bound up them two at a time, until I come to the first landing. I see him looking down at me through the opening in the center of the wraparound staircase.
“Wait,” I shout. “Stop!”
But he keeps running up the stairs. I follow, gaining on him with my every lunge. Apparently he smokes too much, because it doesn’t take me long to shorten the distance between us by only a single staircase. He knows I’m gaining on him, because instead of climbing more stairs, he scoots off to the right, bolts through another door.
I shoot up to the door and throw it open before he has a chance to lock it. But it doesn’t matter. Because now I find myself inside a crowded department store. Not just any department store, but one that specializes in Asian products. This must be the self-defense department, because the walls are filled with perfect replicas of ancient weapons. From where I am standing, I spot qiang spears, jian and dao swords, and flying knives.
Stepping into the open store, I pocket my .45 before someone spots me with it. I scan the store with my eyes, but I don’t see the little man. Is it possible he got away? I walk up one aisle and down another, and still he is nowhere to be found. For a time, I hold my ground and simply observe. But after a period of five minutes or so, I decide to head back the way I came and abandon the search, chalking the whole experience up as just another strange occurrence.
I head back across the floor and enter into the back, off-limits hallway, until I come to the emergency exit. Placing my hand on the opener, I’m about to open the door, when a flying knife impales itself into the thick wood.
7.
“Don’t turn around, Mr. Baker,” comes the odd, nasally voice I’ve come to recognize in a very short time. “Don’t even breathe or I will destroy your liver.”
I feel the sharp tip of a second flying knife pressed against my abdomen.
To the right of the exit door I spot another door. It says For Employees Only. I can’t be sure, but if I had to guess, it’s a bathroom. The bald man is smaller than me, thinner. I’m wondering if he’s quicker too.
Only one way to find out.
Spinning fast, I grab hold of his wrist. I squeeze the wrist hard and the knife falls from his hand to the concrete floor. Then, reaching into my pocket, I grab the gun, thumb back the hammer, press the barrel to his now sweat-soaked forehead.
“Let’s take a powder, Baldy,” I say, pulling him into the bathroom.
I lock the deadbolt before dragging the bald man to the toilet.
“Knees,” I bark.
“Please, Mr. Baker,” he says. “I was only doing my job.”
“Knees,” I say again. Sharper this time, while thrusting my right knee into the back of his knee, collapsing him entirely.
Since he’s got no hair for me to grab hold of, I grab the collars on his suit jacket and oxford button-down and shove his head into the toilet. I hold him there for maybe five or six seconds until he begins to cough and choke. Then I pull him back out.
“Who do you work for? And why are you following me? Sharing cab rides with me?”
He takes a minute to catch his breath, his face soaking and dripping in toilet water.
“Chase, you hate me, don’t you?” His words are choking out of him along with the rancid water.
“I don’t even know you, pal, which is kind of the point.” Pushing him back toward the bowl. “Now tell me what I want to know or drown.”
I push, but as his head descends beyond the bowl’s rim, he cries, “Wait. Please, wait.”
I pull him back out.
“You ready to talk?”
“I was sent to take care of you.”
“I can see that. So who sent you?”
He hesitates.
“Tell me,” I insist, pushing his head back toward the bowl.
“Keogh.”
I have to think for a brief moment, but then it comes to me. The letter inside my bush jacket pocket. Or, the invitation for drinks at JFK, I should say. Why would Peter Clark Keogh the Third graciously invite me for drinks only to sic one of his goons on me? I have an idea or two.
“Let me guess, Baldy,” I say, “your boss, PCK the Third, was afraid I might not show.”
“Something like that,” he whispers.
“Threatening me with flying knives your idea of persuasion?”
“I was afraid you might disappear now that you knew I was following you. My mistake, Mr. Chase. Please forgive me.”
I let him go.
“Get up, Baldy,” I say, returning the hammer to the safety position on the .45, but keeping it gripped in my hand. “Clean up.”
He slowly stands, goes to the sink. First he washes his face and head with soap and water, then he dries himself with paper towels. He finishes by straightening his tie and his suit jacket so that it’s as perfect as possible.
“You’re a funny little man, Baldy,” I say. “I really should kick the living snot out of you and then tell PCK the Third to go fuck himself. But since my gut tells me he’s
got more pretty green than Trump and wants my attention so badly he’s willing to have me followed, I can’t help but be more than a little curious.”
He turns, smiles half-heartedly with his thin bee-lips.
“I shall arrange our transportation,” he says. “Where shall I pick you up?”
“No dice, Baldy,” I say. “Where’s your boss now?”
“Inbound,” he says, “from Berlin.”
“Man who likes to get around. I like PCK the Third already. Tell you what. We’re not going to wait until four o’clock. You and I are going to see him now.”
“But it is his habit to shower and nap after a long flight. He is not a well man these days.”
“He can shower after I’m gone,” I say, unlocking the deadbolt. Then, waving the pistol barrel at him, “Let’s get a move on, Baldy.”
He brushes past me, opens the door.
“Mr. Chase,” he says, “would it be terribly inconvenient for you to refer to me by my Christian name?”
I slip the .45 into my bush jacket pocket.
“I’m kind of getting used to Baldy, Carlos.”
“As you wish,” he says.
Together, we head for the back staircase while I silently make the decision to can the Baldy crap.
8.
Carlos pulls his cell phone from his pocket, makes a call. Within three minutes, a big black sedan with tinted windows pulls up to the corner of Prince and Houston.
“Excellent service,” I say.
Carlos opens the back door for me.
“After you,” he insists, smiling that bee-lipped smile again.
“You first,” I say, reaching into my pocket, pressing the barrel of the .45 outward so that it tents the fabric. “I’ve had enough surprises for one day.”
Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) Page 4
