data to put it together that many of the names were jobs they had never done. Had Pet kept a list of potentials?
The only area codes Wesley saw next to the phone numbers were 516, 914, 203, and 201. Long Island, Westchester, northern New Jersey, southern Connecticut. The seven digit numbers Wesley assumed were 212— within the five boroughs.
The next night, Wesley prepared to try all the 516 numbers. He didn’t take the Ford—it was too nondescript, an obvious prowler’s machine. The El Dorado was a little too hard to miss. He couldn’t drive the cab like Pet and make it seem like he belonged behind the wheel, although the kid could.
Finally, he settled on the Firebird—a chocolate-brown 1970 model with a worked-over undercarriage and very sticky radial tires. He checked the electromagnets, releasing the Airweight, and returned it under the dash. He put six rolls of dimes and five rolls of quarters in the glove compartment and stashed a rectangular metal box full of equipment in the console between the seats.
Wesley took the Brooklyn Bridge to the BQE, connecting to the Long Island Expressway. He was wearing a dark blue J. Press summer-weight suit with a light, blue knit shirt, no tie. It all fit well with the car, as did the complete set of credit cards (“You can’t fucking beat that American Express Gold for impressing the rollers, Wes. Any sucker can cop the Green, but the Gold is for high-class faggots. The Man sees that, he figures you not the right guy to roust.”) that matched his counterfeit driver’s license and registration.
He kept the car at the speed limit all the way to Exit 40. From there it was only a mile or so to the giant Gertz parking lot. He picked out one of the outdoor payphone booths near the back. The area was empty except for a gang of kids listening to their car radios, all tuned to the same station. It was loud, but it wouldn’t disturb conversation inside the booth.
Wesley quickly swept the booth with the tiny scanner Pet had showed him how to use—it was clean. A quick twist removed the mouthpiece, and Wesley inserted the flat metal disc with its network of printed circuits and perforations which exactly matched the original. Voiceprints were getting to be as much of a problem as fingerprints.
The first number was a busy signal; the second, no answer. The third was in Hewlett Harbor. A soft-voiced woman picked up the phone.
“Hello.”
“Could I speak with Mr. Norden, please?” Wesley asked politely.
“May I tell him who is calling?”
“Mr. Petraglia.”
The phone was silent for almost thirty seconds—Wesley was going to give it forty-five and then hang up— when a clipped, hard voice came on the line: “Do you think it was wise to give your name like that?”
“Would you have come to the phone otherwise?” Wesley replied.
“You’re not...”
“I’m his brother. In the same business. He told me to call you.”
“Well, I still have the problem, but time is getting...”
“This is all the talking I do on the phone. Tell me where to meet you.”
“Can you be at the Sequoia Club in an hour? You know where it is?”
“In one hour.”
“Listen! How will I know you? Do you—?”
“Just go in the back and sit down,” Wesley told him. “I’ll find you.”
“Look, I—”
Wesley replaced the receiver, first exchanging his voice-alteration disk for the stock item. The shiny chrome of the phone coin box picked up fingerprints perfectly—Wesley knew smearing them was as good as wiping them, but he took the extra second to do a thorough job with his handkerchief. A man wearing gloves in the summer making a phone call would be too much for even a Nassau County cop to pass up. On the other hand, you could see their orange-and-blue squad cars coming a hundred yards away.
Pet’s book had all the information about the Sequoia, and Wesley had thoroughly checked it out on a street map of Norden’s area before driving out to the Island. He dialed his mind to dismiss all the information he had memorized on the first two people he had called, focusing on what he knew about Norden. There wasn’t much, except the price was the highest in the 516 section: $100K. And a code: “P/ok,” which Wesley took to mean that Norden had used this service previously and had paid off without incident.
69/
As Wesley approached the Firebird, he took in the three kids sitting on its hood and fenders. As he got close, he looked into their faces and got blank, vicious smiles in return—they were too young to see what the Times Square hustler had recognized. The kids nudged each other as Wesley came closer, climbing off the Firebird at the last moment.
They were smiling as Wesley took out the keys and opened the door. They kept smiling as he started the engine. They never noticed that Wesley hadn’t fully closed the door—his left foot was pressing out against it with nearly all his strength, held in check only by the slightly greater pressure of his left hand and forearm locked onto the door handle from the inside.
The three kids assembled in front of the driver’s door. The leader motioned for Wesley to lower the window, still smiling. Wesley flicked the power-window switch with his right hand and the tinted glass whispered down to the sill level. The biggest kid came up to the window, flanked by his partners.
“Say, mister, could you help us out?” he sneered. “We need a hundred bucks for a cup of coffee.” The other kids laughed nervously, their hands in their jacket pockets.
Wesley looked up; the veins in his forearm were popping full under the suit coat’s jacket. “Get the fuck outta here, punk,” he said softly.
