popped all the breakers. The heavy-duty air-conditioning wheezed and clunked to a halt. The lights blinked off; I was in total darkness.
Footsteps echoed on concrete, but in the cavernous warehouse I could not tell the direction. Yagamata would try to find the electrical room, so I kept moving. I tiptoed cautiously into the blackness, taking care, trying to remember the tomcat stalk an outdoorsman once taught me: high slow steps, heel down first, roll onto the ball of the foot. I was doing fine. I didn’t wake any sleeping bears or fall into any rushing streams. But then I smacked into something.
“ Cono! ” the something yelled. It was Carlos, tumbling to the floor. I didn’t move. He couldn’t see me, because I couldn’t see him. A nerve-shattering cl-ick warned me that he had cocked the hammer on his. 357 Magnum. My breathing sounded like a locomotive in my ears. Silently, I reached into a pocket, took out a quarter, and tossed it into the darkness. It landed with a ping on the concrete, and Carlos fired a shot that made my ears ring. The flash from the barrel was just below me. He was sitting on the floor at my feet. With the noise still echoing, I took off the other way and turned what I thought was a corner, but slammed into a metal rack, banging my bum knee hard. I backed up, tried to figure where the middle of the aisle would be, then started moving slowly, my arms in front of me, feeling the air.
A soft noise.
A buzzing.
Louder now.
Two small headlights swung around a corner. In the blackness, the lights blinded me. I was caught in their glare, frozen like a startled deer. The lights grew in size, the forklift closing the distance. I turned and ran, chasing my shadow, which loomed twenty feet in front of me.
Thirty miles an hour. That’s how fast Crespo told me they went. Me, I never ran an hour in my life. On my best day, it took me four point eight two seconds to run forty yards. On this day, rapidly shaping up as my worst, I may have trimmed half a second off my time.
The lift closed on me, someone shouting from behind. I looked back over my shoulder. It hung there five yards away, then closed the gap. We were coming to an intersection of rows. Let’s see how that baby corners. I faked left and took the corner right like a wide receiver on a deep post, trying to make a hard L-cut. My turn was a little flabby around the edges, but it was better than the guy behind me. The lift banged into a metal rack, sending sparks into the darkness. It stopped, backed up, and started again. I had gained twenty yards but was losing steam. With the air-conditioning off, the air went stale and the warehouse was a sweatbox. I was having trouble with my breathing, and there it was again, behind me. I thought of Smorodinsky, impaled on the wall. I thought of Cary Grant in North by Northwest, being chased by the crop duster. If I got out of this, I was going to buy Lourdes Soto a drink and ask “how a girl like you got to be a girl like you.”
Slanting to the right, I tried to calculate how much room there was on either side of the forklift. I couldn’t outrun it, but maybe I could pivot out of its way, reverse my field, and take a poke at the driver as he went by. It was probably no more difficult than kicking a ball through the uprights, then running and catching that sucker before it hit the ground.
More yelling behind me. No more time to think. I planted my left leg and pivoted. I heard the snap before I felt it, the knee giving way. I spun into a pallet of bottled barbecue sauce, my hands gripping the wooden frame to keep from falling. My back was pressed against the pallet, my arms outstretched, my knee throbbing. The forklift growled past me, braked hard, spun around, and came back. It stopped three feet in front of me, its headlights bleaching me in their malevolent glare. I heard the hydraulic whoosh of the lift and saw the blade raise to my chest level. Then the ugly machine moved forward, at first slowly, then with a charge. I raised my arms as the blades slashed into the pallet on either side of my rib cage. Behind me, bottles shattered, and what I hoped was barbecue sauce ran down the back of my legs. My chest was pinned to the front of the forklift, my back to the splintered wood pallet.
The driver turned off the ignition, leaving the headlights on. My lungs wanted oxygen, but the lift was crushing my ribs in a mechanical bearhug. I watched the driver dismount, peel off a pair of gloves, and walk into the twin shafts of yellow light.
“My father was right about you,” Lourdes Soto said, softly. “You are the kind of man who touches a stove to see if it is hot.”
15
But I don’t like Washington in the summer…” I said.
Robert Foley didn’t seem to care.
“… or the rest of the year, for that matter.”
He sat on the vinyl sofa, reading a newspaper, ignoring me. His tie was at half mast, and his white shirt wrinkled. His creased face was pale and drawn. Maybe baby-sitting for me was a tiring job. Around us, a potpourri of government agents went about their tasks. There were customs inspectors in uniform, DEA agents in plainclothes, one with a German shepherd, and a variety of federal employees wearing photo ID badges and toiling at various secretive tasks in that governmental tempo that is somewhere between slow motion and a dead halt. In the center of the room, a dozen cubicles each contained eight miniature television monitors. Bleary-eyed women scanned the screens, occasionally whispering into their headsets. We were deep in the bowels of the airport in a restricted federal area. The sign on the door said simply, SPECIAL SERVICES.
I was watching the inside of the door when Foley said, “You don’t have to go with me. Leave now if you want. I’ll get you a cab.”
“Uh-huh. Only the cab driver has a different kind of license, right?”
“What?”
“A license to kill.”
“Lassiter, you see too many movies. We haven’t done that sort of thing in years. At least not domestically.”
On the wall was a panel with numbers one through fifty. Four or five numbers were blinking at once. Another lighted panel showed arriving and departing international flights with a matching number from one to fifty.
“Okay, I think I’ll leave now,” I told him. “I need to put some ice on this knee.”
Foley went back to his newspaper.
I stood, straightened my bum leg, and said, “Well, I guess this is good-bye. Next time you’re in Miami, do me a favor. Don’t call me.”
“Oh, you’ll be seeing me at the trial.”
“What trial?”
Foley put down the newspaper, creasing the folds as if it were the flag at Arlington. “Yours, pal. For the murder of Francisco Crespo.”
The board showed a flight arriving from Bogota. Three numbers started blinking. Had I heard him right? He couldn’t have said what I thought he said.
“Your prints are all over that trailer, Lassiter. You tell us a cock-and-bull story about a man dressed in brown running away. There were a hundred people in that park, and nobody saw your mystery man.”
“A hundred people from south of the border, but not one green card in the bunch. Of course nobody saw anything.”
Foley beamed. He looked genuinely happy. “Oh, I wouldn’t put it that way. Three witnesses saw you go into Crespo’s trailer and heard two muffled popping sounds maybe a minute later.”
“Bullshit! It was the other way around. I went in after-”
“That’s not what the witnesses say.”
I sunk back into the sofa. My knee throbbed. “I take it back. There’ll be three green cards in that park by next week.”
“Sorry, Lassiter, but you’ll be indicted for second-degree murder. As the English say, a nasty bit of
