“Mercy is a sign of weakness, Roche. You of all people should know that. So when you find Belik and Morris, make sure they aren’t breathing. The same with Masters, if he’s part of this.”
“You’re putting a hit on a federal agent? That’s dangerous, even for you.” She didn’t respond. “Any reason you’re throwing me into the fire and not one of your lackeys?”
“I can’t have his blood on my hands, unfortunately.”
“Ah … there we go.” I smirked, and I could sense her blood beginning to boil once more. “There’s the kicker. You’re powerless to stop him, because everyone and their mother in Lower Manhattan would know that you were the one to pull the trigger, and then you’d have a war on your hands. Status quo, just like Robins. Now I remember why you keep me around.”
“Yes, for that reason, and because your name still carries weight.”
“Which name? Elias Roche, or the Iron Hand?”
Once again, she didn’t respond.
“I’ll do your dirty work, and you know I can set the price for these hits.”
“Indeed, I do.” She was grinding her teeth. “I’ll have your payment ready when the deeds are done.”
“Good.” I turned to leave, but the click of a hammer made me stop dead. Always had to have the last word, didn’t she? “Fuck, what is it now?” I said, turning back.
A skittering of feet was followed by faint, indecipherable whispers. I could see her head nodding before she spoke again to me. “Your partner. Has he any idea of our … acquaintance?”
“None the wiser. I doubt he’d understand, anyway.”
“Try him sometime. He’s no regular Automatic, after all. I’m sure you two would do well to stay partners.”
“How did you know —”
“I have ears where I cannot see, and eyes where there is nothing to hear.” She lifted her arm and the shadow of a heavy revolver became visible in her grasp. “And an Iron Hand to reach everything. I’ll be in contact soon to see what’s become of these suspects of yours … perhaps I’ll give your friends at the 5th a ring, just so they keep an eye on you.”
“We don’t need to involve them any more than I already have.”
“Why not? Robins knows you work for me, as does anyone there with half a brain. If I want something done by someone — anyone — I will call it in.”
She reclined in the chair, relaxing her grip on the weapon. Her associate who had run from the room returned with the same haste, running up to her and whispering in her ear. “Speaking of which, there’s a deal being done at the Crossroads. You have thirty minutes. Good luck, Elias.”
I kept my mouth shut as I opened the door and sprinted back to the car. I slammed into the door of the Talbot, got in, and kicked the beast into gear.
Allen nearly jumped out of its seat. “Detective! What is it?”
“We have an ID on Belik and Morris in Times Square. We need to get there, pronto. Hold on to something.”
“Like what?”
I hit the clutch and pulled it back as I gassed it, firing us off like a rocket, southbound once more. Once again I was speeding away from northern Manhattan, but this time I was running toward something. I almost crashed into a crumbled brick shithouse, but regained control and kept motoring.
The Crossroads of the World was where you could find anyone.
I punched the gas harder as I careered around SoHo to Greenwich Village, meeting one of the many avenues packed with cars heading north. The Crossroads of the World — Times Square — was just up ahead, the only place in town deserving of that kind of name. We crept forward in the Talbot and soon saw the golden pillars of Times Square come into view. I got closer to the sidewalk, hitting the gas and then cranking the handbrake, and the Talbot slid across the pavement and came to a halt, the tires colliding with the raised sidewalk. Looking ahead, I could see the scramble of civilians around the square. As soon as the intersection lights turned red, the street was fair game. There was no way my car would get through that. I grasped the handles on the roof of the car and hopped out through the open window. Allen was about to follow, but I put my hand up. “If things go pear-shaped, I’ll need backup. And I’d rather you do that from here.”
“How would you have me help, Detective?”
I leaned back through the window and pointed to the console with the gear shifter. “Listen to everything I say — and I’m making it quick. No repeats.”
“Of course, Detective.” Allen sat attentively, watching my finger like a hawk.
“If things go south, there’s a pull switch on the shifter, near the grip … here. This will give the motor a kick and shoot some extra Fuel Gel into the engine to get you moving. It could be handy for saving my ass, or someone else’s. Got it?”
“I’m not adept at the operation of automotive vehicles, but I believe I have everything under control,” Allen said, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Make sure you’re gassing it when you pull it, too. I don’t need you fucking my car up.”
I sprinted away from the car, heading into the crowd. Even half a block away, the lights and sounds of the square were dizzying. Huge screens and billboards nearly reached up to the bottom of the Plate, and a cacophony of people, machines, and advertisements bombarded one’s ears. There was never a time these streets weren’t congested — maybe around three a.m., the traffic let up for a brief moment, but the rest of the time it was bumper to bumper. Every two minutes all the traffic lights went red, and a sixty-second scramble ensued, with pedestrians climbing over cars to
