“So when we get to your car, she’ll be waiting, right?”
“Eris? Oh yes she will. With open arms.”
Before I could respond, I heard a sound like a tire exploding. The world slowed to a crawl. I felt the guy pull away from me. My legs began to melt. I pressed against the window glass, trying to hold myself up. I waited for the burning sensation to assault my lower back. A wail built deep in my throat.
A woman at the cafe table nearest me lurched out of her chair and screamed. A yellow cab braked hard. A guy passing by pulled out his phone and started punching in numbers. The cafe tables emptied. People ran away from me. I stretched out my hand. No one reached back.
Eighteen
The crowd collected around something at the curb. I curled my hand behind my back. Nothing out of the ordinary. No burning, no gaping hole, no sticky ooze of blood. My legs felt stronger. I pushed myself away from the window and found I could still walk.
The first of the sirens began to scream and a fire truck steamed in, stopping in front of the cafe with cruisers right on its back. After that I lost count of the number of emergency vehicles. I pushed to the front of the crowd and saw a graffiti-scarred cargo van stopped at a strange angle to the curb. In front, a man lay flat out on the pavement, his shorts torn and one of his sneakers ripped off, blood welling around his torso, streaming down his legs.
Uniformed men formed a circle around him. One of them leaned over, hands clamped together, and began to apply the steady push and release of life-saving chest compressions.
I peered at the crowd for any sign of the jester but he’d disappeared. Understandable that he wouldn’t want to conduct his business that close to half the NYPD. I remained there for some time, feeling protected by the group. What had happened? Was the accident a pure stroke of fate? Had my assailant’s shot gone wild, hit the van, and caused the collision?
People scattered when a couple of cops walked up and ordered the onlookers back. I checked for the jester one more time before climbing into a cab stuck in the gridlock. The accident that had saved me brought the memory of my own crash rushing back. Exhaustion overwhelmed me, but the sharp edge of panic wouldn’t let me rest. I sensed myself slipping, afraid I could no longer cope with the turmoil Hal had plunged me into. I needed help. Somewhere in the precinct of Penn Station, Rapunzel, an old acquaintance of mine, ran a catering truck. There, I hoped to find at least temporary salvation.
Rapunzel was so named because his hair was cropped short except for a blond tuft at the back of his head hanging down to his butt. He’d never heard of the fairy tale, so when he learned Rapunzel was a woman’s name he shortened it to Rap. He’d been in business for more than a decade. In that time his locations had changed but not his service. He’d stiffed a couple of people I knew and sold one guy some stuff with impurities nasty enough to put him in the ICU.
I found him standing next to his truck, listening to music pounding out from the speakers. “Hey, Rap, I see you still have bad taste in tunes.”
He grinned and put down the sandwich he’d been chewing on. “Good to see you.” He checked out my torn shirt and the bloody cut on my shoulder. “What’s up with that? You been dating rough trade again?”
“Very funny, Rap. Listen, I need to make a purchase.”
“I’ve got some cool turkey sandwiches. Mom cooked the bird and wrapped them up herself.”
“You’re a joker, Rap. You missed your calling.”
“I make too much coin doing this, even though I work like a dog. Speaking of which, this heat is a bitch.”
“I’m light today. Can you be my banker for a spell?”
“A spell?”
“Maybe a week or so.”
“Do you see me wearing Armani? There’s an ATM right over there.” He pointed vaguely to the north.
It wasn’t a big stretch from drugs to weapons, so I thought it a good bet he’d have what I wanted. No one was looking over our shoulders but I lowered my voice anyway. “Look, a situation has come up. I need a gun.”
His eyes widened.
“And some uppers—I need them too.”
“I never read you as a gangster, Madison. Art business not going well?”
“You don’t want to know,” I said. “How about it?”
“I’ve got some serious stuff in. You know what I’m saying? How much do you want?”
“Enough for a week or so.”
“Hold on.” He grabbed his cellphone, half-chewed sandwich, credit card machine, and cash box, then motioned for me to follow him into the cab of the truck. He reached down and pushed my feet away to lift a polyethylene mat off the floor. Underneath was a lid crudely cut out of Masonite. In the depression below lay a couple of pistols.
He slapped on some latex gloves and picked one out. “It’s a Glock. I take it you don’t know how to shoot.”
I shook my head.
“This is the best for people like you. You’ve got seventeen rounds.” He showed me how to load it. “If you’re really planning to whack someone you’ve got to get close.”
“How come?”
“You’d need a thousand practice shots to be any good longer range. You’re looking at a grand and a half for this. Ammunition’s free.”
“I’m good for it. Just not right this minute.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“What about the bennies? Come on. I used to buy exclusively from you.”
“Got some Dexedrine. Just as good, really. That’s around three hundred.”
“Just for a few hits of it? Any truck driver has that stuff.”
“Don’t see any truck drivers around here at present. It’s pharmacy grade. I’m not some
I took off my watch and held it out to him. “Omega Speedmaster. Worth a couple thousand. Take it on loan for the two of them, the Glock and the stimulants.”
He picked the watch up and turned the stainless steel band around in his hand. “Watch looks in pretty good shape. I’ll keep it for the pistol only. And final sale, no loan.”
“You’re not serious.”
“It’s human, man. We all need money. It’s a human thing.”
“So I should take my business elsewhere?”
That produced a belly laugh. “We’re running out of time here.”
He pulled a ziplock bag out of the glove compartment and dropped in the Glock, then peeled off his gloves.
“Haven’t you got anything to put it in? I can hardly walk around carrying it in my hand.”
He shook his head and rooted around behind the driver’s seat, pulling up a small canvas satchel. “Should charge you more for this. Take it,” he said. “Now beat it.”
When I got out I left the door open a crack. Rap’s half-eaten sandwich sat on the dash. I waited until I could see him walk to the open panel of his truck and engage in a heated conversation with another customer, his lanky body framed by the backdrop of chocolate bars, wrapped white-bread sandwiches, soda cans, and juice cartons.
Stealing back into the truck, I took out the evil seed Eris had planted in my back and stuck it between the lettuce leaves in Rap’s sandwich and walked away.
I found a hole-in-the-ground restaurant near the ass end of Penn Station and drank two cups of muddy
