by Ben Sanders
Charles said, “You with me, Bobby? You thinking about your hopes and dreams, how you’re going to make them happen?”
Bobby said, “All the time,” and ended the call.
Marko was holding out his hand for the phone, watching him in the mirror as he drove.
“What’d he tell you?”
Bobby said, “Wait a minute,” and brought up an internet app. He Googled, and found the number for the Tribeca Gardens on Canal Street. Bobby called the front desk and asked for room 1503. There was a long pause and then a slow ring as the call transferred. Nina answered with a “yes” that sounded faintly interested, not at all concerned.
Bobby said, “It’s me.”
She said, “So you don’t trust me.”
He didn’t answer, and she said, “You went through the front desk to see if I’d lied about my room number.”
He faltered. His brain whirred. He said, “If I got you on the cell there’s no way of knowing if you’re being coerced.”
Nina said, “I can be coerced all sorts of places. Maybe I’m being held at gunpoint now.”
“At least I know you’re in your room.”
He could see her, too: standing at the window, holding the phone with her shoulder. She’d be there when he came in the front door, and she’d walk over to him holding his gaze, stand close and say something that would make him smile.
Bobby said, “Who’s watching you?”
“There are two SUVs on rotation. Black Chevys with smoked glass. You’ll see them.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know. I just know that they’re there.”
“Are there people on the street as well?”
Nina said, “Have you decided yet who you’re with?”
Bobby didn’t answer. Luka was twisted around in his seat, watching, listening.
Bobby said, “Two of us will come and bring you down. We’ll wait in the lobby for a pickup.”
Nina said, “You didn’t answer my question. What happens when I’m in the car?”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Nina said, “I realize you’re being listened to, so let’s put it in straight yes-or-no terms. This is important, Bobby. Are you with me or not?”
There was a ringing in his ears that almost drowned the question.
EIGHTEEN
NEW YORK, NY
Miles Keller
On the freeway, the tracksuit man seemed to forget he was a hostage, settled into his driving with a nice low posture, holding the wheel with one hand like they were off for a weekend together. Miles was still propped against his door half-facing him, and the Glock hadn’t moved either. Every now and then he checked his mirror to see Lucy sitting two cars back. He thought he’d have to do a round of tough-guy talk back and forth, the driver asking who the girl in the SUV was, whether he was prepared to watch her back for the rest of his life. But there was none of that: they just rode in silence until about a mile before the BQE, when the driver looked across and said, “Would you really have shot me?” Trying to sound like it didn’t bother him one way or the other.
Miles said, “I’m still holding you at gunpoint. Why would I tell you anything except yes?”
The guy didn’t answer.
Miles said, “You trying to figure out if you died and gone someplace else? That’d be strange, wouldn’t it? Heaven and hell no different to where you were a moment ago.”
The guy took a minute and said, “Thought if you’re solving murders you wouldn’t want to make another one along the way.” Looking across with a smile starting in his eyes, like he’d figured all this out and Miles hadn’t.
Miles said, “I wouldn’t need to solve yours though, would I? Know it was me who shot you.”
The guy looked at the road and then looked back at him again, still with that look in his eye, but the smile not quite taking hold. He said, “How’d you get into all of this?”
Miles grinned. “You’ve got awful chatty, haven’t you?”
The guy didn’t answer.
Miles said, “You say that like I’m stuck in something that’s out of my control. But we’re doing okay, aren’t we?”
The guy said, “Yeah. We’ll see.”
The road was more congested now, southbound traffic out of LaGuardia slowing the flow. Miles said, “People end up on the wrong side of the law for all sorts of reasons—debts, extortion, I don’t know—maybe they take a risk somewhere and get in deeper than they wanted.” He shrugged. “I didn’t do any of that. I’m where I am because I made conscious decisions, and I knew what I was getting into. But you’re here because you went for a drive this morning and didn’t see me coming. I don’t know if that’s bad luck or if it’s like a common feature of your life. So you tell me: how did you get into all of this?”
The guy didn’t answer, and Miles felt the confiscated phone buzz again in his pocket. He said, “This guy doesn’t give it a rest, does he?”
He entered the passcode to view the text message: “Call in. I’m concerned.”
Miles thought about it. He could put the driver on speaker, but it would be hard to keep him on-message. He couldn’t really use force while they were doing seventy miles an hour. Safest way would be to pull over somewhere while the guy made the call, but that had risks, too: no way of knowing what might be a coded tip-off. But by not calling he was potentially inviting trouble later. Show up at Rockefeller Center and find a hit squad waiting. Or maybe he’d just see the flash, and that would be it.
There was a call incoming now, but Miles silenced it and brought up the internet app. He Googled the number for the Tribeca Gardens on Canal Street and called the front desk with his burner phone. He told the lady on reception his room number, and asked for an access key to be ready for pickup.
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“Great. There’s a lady with an air tank coming by to get it in about thirty minutes.”
Traffic thinned out again coming along I-278, the straight east-west section where it parallels Flushing Avenue. On their right was a view of standard Brooklyn: boxy low-rise apartments in mismatched shades and sizes, and on their left a stretch of Housing Authority stock: brick high-rise apartments in sooty brown, one after the other after the other, like some dystopia being trialed, a new kind of bleak living right there by the freeway.
The damn phone was ringing again. Miles let it quit and then sent a text: “Can’t talk. See you in 30.”
He said, “Stay right. We want the Manhattan Bridge exit. We’re going via Canal Street first to pick up a bag of money. After that, we’re going to the LEGO store.”
NINETEEN
NEW YORK, NY
Bobby Deen
It didn’t seem like a Nina kind of neighborhood. He pictured her on a street with little trees and high-priced stores—Gucci and the stuff they had in Vogue—but this part of Canal was cheap goods: electronic gear and tourist shit crammed in behind neon storefronts.
They were coming in from the eastern end of Canal, the hotel on their left just past the post-office building, a tired brick monstrosity that looked like an army facility.
Luka said, “I don’t see any black SUVs.” He was playing with his gun to burn off tension, dropping the magazine an inch and then clicking it home. They’d brought a pistol for Bobby, too—a little Colt .38—no doubt trying to tell him he was second-class, and not worth a Sig. Compact was better though, in New York City: unlicensed carry would get you three years in lockup.
Marko looked at Bobby in the mirror. “Call her back and see what’s happening.”
Bobby called the hotel on his cell and gave the deskman Nina’s room number. She picked up and said, “I’m still here.”
Bobby said, “I don’t see any SUVs.”
“Then you timed it just right. They come and go.”
Bobby said, “Stay in the room. We’ll come up and get you and then wait in the lobby for the car.”
“What are you driving?”
> “Black Mercedes.”
“Matches your suit, I bet. See you soon.”
Gone—just the tone in Bobby’s ear.
Marko caught him in the mirror, eyebrows raised: “And?”
Bobby said, “She says they come and go, so we lucked out.”
Luka said, “Hopefully they show up. There’s an AR-15 in the trunk.”
He didn’t look eager for a gunfight, though. He looked nervous, kept touching his cuffs, smoothing his tie as he glanced around to check adjacent cars. No one looked back. Manhattan drivers don’t have time for that shit.
Marko said, “All right. I’ll drop you and do a loop. I don’t know how long it’ll take. Fuck this traffic—why do people want to live here anyway?”
He shifted to the left-hand lane and cut a U-turn just before West Broadway, changed lanes again to get them over by the curb, pulled up outside the Tribeca Gardens.
“Make it fast. I don’t want to have to keep doing laps.”
A concierge stepped up and opened Bobby’s door, leaned down with a smile and swept an upturned hand as he moved aside. Bobby got out into the city noise and tried to act natural, buttoned his jacket as he crossed the sidewalk to the hotel entrance, his back prickling with the thought of gunsights on his spine. He glanced back and saw Luka following, Marko already taking off with a chirp of the tires.
The foyer was air-conditioned, and seemed bright with all its shiny stone veneer, but it was just a normal hotel scene: reception crew looking pleasant and attentive in their ties and blazers, a few guests milling around, an even split of corporate types and tourists. He saw three guys in red polo shirts standing by a sign that read INSTITUTE OF WIRE ROPE FABRICATORS—CONFERENCE ROOM 2. They weren’t talking, just standing there hand-on-wrist and looking at the distance, and as Bobby came past they all turned to him, as if he might be the one to save them from the silence.
He turned and checked the sidewalk as he waited for Luka to catch up, but all he saw were pedestrians in motion, no one stopping for a cigarette or looking at him across a newspaper.
“We going up or what?”
Bobby smoothed his coat, making sure it covered the gun. He said, “Stay here and watch the lobby.”
Luka made a little O shape with his mouth, like blowing out a candle. He cocked his head and said, “They got small elevators or something?”
He wasn’t so tense now, though Bobby wasn’t sure why. Maybe being in a hotel put him at ease: all those happy tourists, in the business of happy memories.
Bobby said, “Someone could follow us, or be waiting when we come back down. I just don’t want any surprises.”
Luka looked away as he nodded and touched his tie knot. Then he stepped in close and used a thumb to tilt Bobby’s hat back so he could look him in the face. Bobby stood there and let it happen. He knew he could even things out eventually.
Luka said, “Yeah, I don’t want any surprises, either. So I think I’ll come up with you. Unless you want to stay down here?”
He was close enough Bobby could see the flecks in his irises, the tiny motions as his focus shifted. Bobby shrugged without breaking eye contact. He noticed they’d got the polo-shirt guys out of trouble: something to talk about now he and Luka were facing off.
He said, “All right, then. After you.”
Luka stepped away, and as he did so he flicked the underside of Bobby’s brim, a hard flat click like the first raindrop, a storm on the way. Bobby followed him to the elevators and pushed the up arrow, and they stood there in silence as if part of some strange ceremony, hands clasped and looking up at the floor counter as they waited for the doors to open.
TWENTY
NEW YORK, NY
Miles Keller
He made his driver take a left onto Broadway from Canal, wanting to approach the hotel from the west, keep it on the near side of the street. He called Lucy again on the burner and told her what was happening.
He said, “You can pull up right outside and go straight in the front door.”
She said, “It’s probably no stopping, or cabs only or something.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ll wait farther up and you can bring the bag over.”
“Am I going to be able to carry it with one arm?”
Miles said, “Yeah, probably.”
“Otherwise I’ll be throwing out money till it’s light enough.”
He said, “There’s a photo on the desk, too. Just put it in the bag.”
“All right. If I have to drop something, do you want the money or the photo?”
He covered the phone with his shoulder and told the tracksuit man to go right again onto Walker Street. He put the phone back to his ear and caught Lucy midsentence.
“Say that again?”
She said, “I’ve done pickups before, but no one ever told me what I was actually carrying. You’re the first guy to be straight up with me, and you’re a cop. I don’t know if that counts as irony, or if it’s just a funny way things work sometimes. You know?”
Miles didn’t answer. They reached Sixth Avenue, and he watched his mirror as Lucy rode the Cadillac’s fender through the right-hand turn.
He said, “I’m going to get off the phone. Just call me back if you need anything.”
“Yeah, sure. So if I call back and ask, you’ll tell me what’s going on?”
He didn’t answer.
She said, “And Miles? After this is sorted—whatever it is—we’re even, okay?”
She clicked off, and he had the dial tone in his ear as they turned right onto Canal Street off Sixth.
Miles said to his driver, “Are you being all well-behaved because you’ve accepted what’s happening, or are you planning a getaway?”
The guy craned his neck to see himself in the rearview mirror, gave a long sigh through his nose. He said, “Oh, you know.” He did that lazy turn of his head again, like it took some effort to look across the console. “Guess I’m just coming to terms with it.”
Miles said, “Well, that’s great: I can relax then.”
He saw the hotel coming up on his right, cabs at the curb with their trunk lids up and a group of people loading them with luggage.
Miles said, “Pull up just past these guys.”
The tracksuit man found a gap and swung the Cadillac to the curb.
Miles said, “Leave the engine running.”
He saw Lucy pull up just behind the cabs. There wasn’t enough room to get the SUV in against the curb, and she had the rear fender sticking out in the lane.
Miles said, “We’re going to sit here for a few minutes. Take your hands off the wheel. We’re not moving till I say.”
TWENTY-ONE
NEW YORK, NY
Bobby Deen
Afterward, he realized how easy it would’ve been to take him out. As soon as he got in the elevator, his focus was Nina Nina Nina. Someone could’ve walked up and shot him and he wouldn’t have noticed.
They went along the hallway reading door numbers and found her room, and Luka hung back to let Bobby knock.
“She’ll like that, won’t she? Bobby Deen framed in the doorway.”
Bobby ignored him. He felt light as his knuckles touched the wood, the same feeling as when the elevator reached their floor, that slight lift in his stomach.
Nina opened the door with half a smile, like she knew for sure it was going to be him. She stood there briefly looking him up and down, only her eyes moving, and Bobby thought back to that image he had of her at the window, Nina facing the view and then walking over to him, making some remark. This was close: she didn’t move back as he came into the entry hall, held her ground and touched his jacket and then his tie, like making small adjustments. She looked up at him but didn’t say anything, and Bobby decided this was better than being face-to-face with Luka.
She let her finger trail off his lapel as she turned and moved into the room, glanced back at Luka in the hallway and said, “You too?”
“Yeah. You don’t
have to sound so thrilled.”
Nina’s smile grew. “Oh, I’m definitely not.”
In Bobby’s head she’d been Audrey Hepburn—wearing a little dress and a big hat, big shades to go with it, even indoors—but she looked just as good in jeans and a sweater. She hooked her hair back with a finger as she bent to pick up a bag, no different from anyone he’d been past in the lobby, except she was the kind of woman you couldn’t look away from.
Bobby held the door for her as she came out into the corridor, and Nina said, “You could’ve brought some luggage with you, make yourselves look less like bodyguards.”
He hadn’t thought of that, but she made it seem more endearing than an oversight, saying it lightly and looking him in the eye. He heard the metallic hum-tick of an electronic lock, and he glanced over to see a woman with an air tank on a little wheeled trolley go into a room along the corridor. He saw Nina watching too, eyes on the door even after it was closed.
Bobby said, “All good?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Just interesting.” She gave his tie a tug, holding it high and letting her knuckles touch his chest. “Let’s get out of here.”
Going down, they had an elevator to themselves again. Nina stood next to him with her back to the door, looking at him in the glass as she said, “You never told me about your hat.”
Funny how it was all about who asked the question: if Luka had given him that line he would’ve ignored it, brushed it off as the guy trying to make a dig. But Nina made it different, and he could hear her wanting to know him. He wished it had more of a story, that it showed some strength of character. Maybe like a cowboy arrangement, where he’d killed a guy and took his hat. That might be overdoing it. He could tone it back though, think up a scenario where someone gave him attitude, acted smart, so Bobby sought penance—
Luka said, “He just wears it so you can’t see him going bald.”
Which was a good way to dodge an answer actually. Bobby looked at him and smiled briefly, like there was a lot more to it, but he wouldn’t deign to lay it out in the presence of an asshole.
They got out at the lobby and headed for the street, Luka and then Nina with her bag, Bobby bringing up the rear. Being in the lobby crowd put his brain back in threat mode, let him see past Nina to the other people in the room—pastel-clad tourists with their brochures, businessmen who looked up from their phones to track Nina walking past. He couldn’t see the Mercedes at the curb. There was a Lincoln Navigator parked at an angle in behind a taxi, a few people still fussing with luggage. The polo-shirt guys had moved on, but they’d left their sign behind. Wire rope fabricators, conference room two.
