‘You’re just going to let him go?’ one officer was shouting.
‘That’s the decision. We’ll keep track of him, OK?’
Conor kept his elbow around Sergeant Wexler’s throat and the .44 pressed deep into his gut. ‘You’re choking me, you bastard,’ Sergeant Wexler told him.
‘Sorry, sergeant. It’s all in a good cause.’
Conor quickly looked around. Several police officers were still pointing their guns at him, but shoppers started to pour out of Spurr’s front entrance, some of them crowing and sobbing in hysteria. There was a tidal swirl of confusion. Police officers and press and paramedics started to mill around the sidewalk, and several people broke through the cordon at the end of the block.
Lieutenant Slyman ordered, ‘Stay back! Everybody stay back! We still have a situation here!’
Conor was trying to find a car: any car, so long as it wasn’t a police vehicle. All he could see was a taxi at the intersection with West 48th Street and a black Lincoln limousine on the corner of East 47th, just behind the police cordon. The taxi had been abandoned and the driver had probably taken the keys; but the Lincoln’s chauffeur was still sitting behind the wheel. Conor could see the sun shining off the peak of his cap.
‘Come on,’ Conor told Sergeant Wexler, ‘let’s get the hell out of here, on the double!’
Three or four police officers were already beginning to advance toward them, their weapons raised, but they were obviously still doubtful about what exactly was happening. Conor jostled Sergeant Wexler across the street, in between the tangle of parked squad cars. One of the police officers shouted, ‘Hey! Stop them! Those two! Stop them!’ but there was so much confusion that none of the cops around the cars really understood what was going on, particularly since Sergeant Wexler was in uniform and Conor’s face was so familiar.
Conor dragged Sergeant Wexler under the police tape and around the front of the Lincoln limousine. The chauffeur was talking on his mobile phone and didn’t see them at first. Conor pulled at the doorhandle but it was locked. The chauffeur looked up, startled, and Conor pointed the .44 at him.
‘Open the goddamned door! Now!’
White-faced, the chauffeur sprang the central locking. Conor opened the door and said, ‘Out!’
‘What?’
Conor didn’t have any time for discussion. He pushed Sergeant Wexler away and dragged the chauffeur out of his seat.
‘Don’t kill me, sir,’ the chauffeur begged him. He was pink-faced, only in his twenties. ‘My wife just had twins.’
‘You want to stay alive, keep out of the way,’ Conor warned him, climbing into the white leather driver’s seat. ‘There’s going to be some strays flying.’
Sergeant Wexler turned back to his colleagues and hoarsely screamed, ‘O’Neil’s here! He’s here! He’s trying to make a break for it!’
He made a girlish and ineffectual effort to throw himself onto the Lincoln’s hood, but Conor jammed his foot on the gas and the huge black limousine hurtled out of East 47th with its tires shrieking. The police officers had just reached the intersection and they crouched down and leveled their guns at him. He heard three distinct shots and one of the rear windows cracked. But then he was bouncing across Fifth Avenue, and speeding along West 47th, and all that he could see of Sergeant Wexler and his men were two puffs of smoke in his rear-view mirror and a stirred-up ants’ nest of uniforms.
He sped westward across Sixth Avenue, Seventh Avenue and Broadway, flashing his lights and blaring his horn. At the intersection with Eighth Avenue he looked wildly left and right. At first he could see nothing but taxis and private cars and a huge tractor-trailer with a huge steaming bowl of chicken soup painted on the side, Momma Somekh’s Finest. The traffic signals changed to green and a taxi driver behind him leaned on his horn, urging him to move, but he stayed where he was, even when another driver pulled up behind the taxi and started hooting at him, too.
The Lincoln’s air conditioning was set to Nome, Alaska, and the sweat on the back of his shirt started to chill.
The signals changed back to red. At that moment the Brinks-Mat truck appeared two blocks to his left, turning out of West 45th Street and heading uptown. As it passed him, Conor could see the Angel Gabriel through the green armored glass, pale and intent; and Doris, too. The lights were still red, but he jammed his foot on the gas and the huge Lincoln fishtailed into Eighth Avenue in a cloud of blue tire smoke.
He swerved to avoid a Pony Express motorcycle messenger and bumped against a taxi, ripping off his nearside mirror. Horns blared all around him in a furious fanfare. With less than six inches to spare, he passed an elderly blue Datsun filled with nuns. Angrily they tooted their weak little hooter at him and shook their fists. ‘Forgive me my trespasses, sisters,’ he said, under his breath. He caught up with the Brinks-Mat truck and tucked the Lincoln in behind it, only inches away from its rear fender.
As it slowed up for Columbus Circle, on the south-west comer of Central Park, he nudged the Lincoln’s front bumper into the back of it. Not too hard – he didn’t want to damage the limousine too badly, but enough to give the Angel Gabriel an unpleasant jolt. He swerved to the left so that his car couldn’t be seen in Gabriel’s side mirror and then collided with the Brinks-Mat truck a second time.
Instantly, the Brinks-Mat truck accelerated and took a sharp right turn, almost tilting onto its side. It started to speed eastward on Central Park South, weaving in and out of the traffic and blasting its horn. Conor stamped his foot on the gas and went after it. The huge limousine dipped and bounced as he steered it around a mail van, a U-turning taxi and a slow-moving garbage truck. Its tires set up a hallelujah chorus, and Conor was followed all the way along the street by a barrage of angry car horns.
Darrell was having difficulty handling the security truck, especially at this speed. It weighed nearly four and a half tonnes, and its armor plating made it much more top-heavy than a regular truck. He crashed it into the side of a taxi, ripping off the rear fender and crumpling the doors. The taxi slewed away and mounted the pavement, colliding with a fire hydrant. Water fountained into the air and momentarily blurted on the roof of Conor’s limousine.
Halfway along Central Park South, Darrell was confronted by a bus and two automobiles driving three abreast. He hovered behind them for a few seconds, swerving from side to side in an attempt to find a way through. But he must have seen in his mirror that Conor was overhauling him fast, because he suddenly rear-ended the middle car and forced it forward, its tires smoking on the blacktop.
The car driver lost control. His vehicle hit the side of the bus and then the car next to him. Pieces of broken plastic rattled against Conor’s windshield and he instinctively ducked his head. The Brinks-Mat truck forced the automobile out of its path, and the automobile spun around 180 degrees and hit the car next to it head on. Both of their hoods flew up.
Conor could see that the gap between the bus and the two wrecked cars was scarcely wide enough for him to drive through, but he put his foot down even harder and rocketed toward it. There was a complicated crashing and squeaking as his second side mirror was torn off and the limousine’s door panels crunched against the side of the bus. But he forced his way through the gap and used every ounce of the Lincoln’s 210 horsepower to catch up with the Brinks-Mat truck as it neared the Grand Army Plaza, the intersection with Fifth Avenue.
As they reached the side entrance of the Plaza hotel, Conor managed to steer the Lincoln up alongside the Brinks-Mat truck so that they were bumping and grating against each other in a spectacular cascade of orange sparks. He twisted the wheel hard over to the left and the two vehicles, locked together, skidded diagonally across Central Park South and mounted the curb. They narrowly missed a horse-drawn carriage, and even above the grinding of metal Conor could hear the passengers scream. Pedestrians scattered as they bounced and jostled their way down the footpath into Central Park, tearing up railings and ripping up shrubs.
Conor’s limousi
ne hit a park bench and then a small maple and stopped. The driver’s-side air-bag burst out and punched him in the face. But the Brinks-Mat truck continued to career along the footpath until it tilted sideways down the grassy slope that led to the Pond. A mother dragged her two small children out of the way just before the truck launched itself off the sidewalk and hit the water in a massive clatter of spray.
Conor kicked open the limousine’s door and hobbled down the slope, shouting, ‘Police! Clear this area as fast as you can!’
He reached the water’s edge. Up on Central Park South sirens were already wailing and red lights were flashing; and the police helicopter that had been hovering over them outside Spurr’s suddenly reappeared, swooping low around Bergdorf Goodman.
The passenger door of the Brinks-Mat truck slid open. The Angel Gabriel appeared, holding up his Uzi by the barrel. Conor pointed the .44 at him double-handed and barked, ‘Wade over here! Keep that weapon where I can see it! Bring it to the bank, then drop it like it’s red hot!’
The Angel Gabriel climbed down from the truck until he was waist deep in water. He began to wade toward the edge of the Pond. Then Doris appeared, looking pale and shaken. Conor’s relief was almost overwhelming.
‘Doris? Are you OK? He didn’t hurt you, did he?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Doris. ‘But young Mr Bussman – he’s hit his head. You’d better call for an ambulance.’
The Angel Gabriel heaved himself out of the Pond with water gushing from his pants. He laid the Uzi down on the asphalt and then – without being told to – spread himself face down on the grass. By now eight or nine police officers were running down the slope toward them, including Sergeant Wexler and Lieutenant Slyman. Two of them waded into the water to help Doris; a third went to see what he could do for Darrell.
Holding the butt between finger and thumb, Conor fastidiously laid the .44 on the ground next to the Uzi. Then he lay face down, too. He didn’t want to give any trigger-happy officer the slightest excuse to open fire.
The Angel Gabriel looked at him through the blades of sunburned grass. ‘You’re a persistent bastard, aren’t you? I should’ve known you wouldn’t let me get away with it.’
‘It’s my job. It’s only a job, but it’s my job.’
Two officers yanked the Angel Gabriel’s arms behind his back and handcuffed him. Lieutenant Slyman came up to Conor, casting a shadow across his face. Conor didn’t look up but he recognized him by his Cerruti aftershave and his immaculately polished brogues.
‘Well, well,’ said Lieutenant Slyman. ‘You’ve certainly done some spectacular damage today. How much do you reckon they cost, those stretch limos? Fifty K? More?’
He held out his hand to help Conor onto his feet. Conor ignored it. He stood up and brushed himself down and then said, ‘I’ll write you out a full statement, lieutenant, if it helps.’
Lieutenant Slyman shook his head in mock admiration. He was a thin man, with a very narrow head. He had black slashed-back hair and bulbous but hooded eyes. His mouth was red lipped and bow shaped, almost like a woman’s.
‘Still the knight in shining armor, aren’t you, O’Neil? One man struggling alone against the forces of darkness. You’ll be even more of a hero after this.’
Sergeant Wexler was scarlet and sweating. ‘What’s this hero shit? He stuck a gun in my goddamned gut.’
‘Oh, get real, sergeant. He apprehended an armed felon without killing any civilians and he recovered the very valuable property he was paid to protect. Nobody’s going to make a fuss about a few wrecked vehicles.’
‘He took me hostage, for Christ’s sake.’
‘He took steps to prevent you from making even more of an asshole of yourself than you already are. You were supposed to go in there to contain the situation, not re-enact the Battle of Antietam.’
Two paramedics had managed to lift Darrell out of the Brinks-Mat truck and were wheeling him on a gurney up to their waiting ambulance. He had suffered a deep gash on his forehead and his eyes were closed. His head was held in a bright red neck-brace and his nose and mouth were covered by an oxygen mask.
‘How is he?’ asked Conor.
One of the paramedics shrugged. ‘Hard to tell with a head injury like this. Could be nothing more than a minor concussion. Could be a fracture.’
‘Take him to Roosevelt-St Luke’s. They have an emergency room there, don’t they? His uncle owns most of Spurr’s Fifth Avenue. I’ll have somebody call and work out the insurance details later.’
He watched as they wheeled Darrell away. Lieutenant Slyman came up and stood next to him and said, ‘Answer me one thing, O’Neil. How could you be sure that guy wasn’t going to shoot the hostage?’
‘I wasn’t. But you get a feeling about people, you know? You can always tell when somebody is really capable of killing, and when they’re not. You can smell it.’
Lieutenant Slyman laid a long-fingered hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll look forward to your report,’ he said.
Chapter 6
Before he went home he visited Salvatore’s wife, Maria. The Morales lived in a second-story apartment on 104th Street, up in El Barrio, with window-boxes crammed with geraniums. The windows were wide open because of the heat and he could hear samba music and somebody laughing. He had been half hoping that Maria would have been watching television and would already know what had happened.
He paid off his cab and climbed the steps to the front door. A small boy with a runny nose was sitting against the railings, staging a fight between two identical Batman dolls. Conor recognized him from the photo on Salvatore’s desk.
‘Who’s winning?’ asked Conor, hunkering down beside him.
The boy stared at him as if he were a mental defective. ‘Batman,’ he said.
‘I see. Ask a stupid question.’
The boy took pity on him. ‘This Batman is good and this Batman is bad. The bad Batman is winning.’
Conor said, ‘Maybe I should help the good Batman, huh?’ He reached into his coat pocket with his left hand. He kept it there for a moment, and then he brought it out again and popped his fingers, right in front of the bad Batman’s face. A puff of smoke blew out of his fingertips, and Conor said, ‘Bang! Got you!’
The boy stared at him in amazement. ‘How did you do that? That’s so cool! Wait till I tell my dad!’
Conor stood up and scruffed the boy’s hair. ‘Sure,’ he said, sadly.
He pressed the doorbell marked S. Morales, then stepped back. Maria Morales leaned out of her living-room window, a dark curly-haired woman in a bright red blouse, with a glittery rhinestone crucifix around her neck.
‘Mr O’Neil? What are you doing here?’
He didn’t reply. She hesitated for a moment and then she said tensely, ‘Wait.’
She came flying down the stairs with bare feet. He could see her red blouse through the frosted glass. She opened the door and there was a stricken look on her face.
‘What’s happened? Where’s Sal?’
‘Maria, I think we’d better go inside.’
‘Is he hurt? Tell me! Is he in hospital?’
Conor took hold of both of her hands. He felt as if somebody had wedged an apple down his throat. ‘I’m sorry, Maria. There was a robbery. He couldn’t have known what hit him.’
Tears started to flow down Maria’s cheeks and the boy on the step stopped playing with his Batman figures and stared at his mother in sympathetic awe.
* * *
He didn’t arrive home until well after ten o’clock. He went straight to the icebox and took out a Bud. He pressed the freezing cold can against his forehead as if he wanted to numb his brain. Lacey stood beside him and didn’t say anything.
After a while he opened the can, drank a mouthful, and looked at her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, touching his cheek.
‘He’s dead. There’s nothing anybody can do to bring him back. I just feel so bad about him. He resented me so much but he was always so polite.�
��
‘How was Maria?’
‘How do you think? Her sister came around, and she’ll get a lot of help from the neighbors. But God … she has four school-age kids to take care of.’
He dragged out one of the yellow-painted kitchen chairs and sat down. The whole apartment smelled of fresh varnish and paint and she was still wearing her blue OshKosh dungarees with the yellow and white splashes on them. Since they had moved up to East 50th Street, five months ago, she had been turning a collection of stuffy, brownish 1950s rooms into a Swedish country cottage – with stenciled walls and bare sanded floorboards and decorative tiles.
‘I saw you on TV,’ she said. ‘What you did… that was so brave. It was amazing.’
He shook his head. ‘No it wasn’t. It was arrogant. I should have let Slyman handle it.’
‘But you caught the thief, didn’t you? You got all of those safety deposit boxes back.’
‘Oh sure. And Sal’s in the morgue with a ticket on his toe.’
She stood close to him, one hand held out as if she wanted to touch him, but couldn’t. She couldn’t share what he was feeling, no matter how much she wanted to. He looked up at her and gave her a quick, wry smile.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. It’s just beginning to hit me, is all’
‘You must be exhausted. Do you want anything to eat?’
‘Maybe later. It’s so damned hot. Is that air conditioning still on the fritz?’
‘The air-conditioning guy was supposed to call but his wife went into labor.’
Conor swallowed more beer. ‘I thought when I took this job at Spurr’s … well, I didn’t think that I’d be visiting other men’s widows any more.’
She sat beside him and ran her fingers through his thick black hair. ‘Two gray ones,’ she said, plucking them out. ‘Maybe you should try something different.’
Holy Terror Page 5
