'One hundred and forty thousand is ten years ago's sixty thousand,' said Jerry.
'So you're going to pass up writing the policy because of nostalgia? Insurance is insurance.'
'That it is,' said Jerry.
Keith stood to the side, listening.
'So you're going to write it up or not?' the older man said.
Jerry pressed a button on the umbrella to close it. He had purchased it from a one-eyed nervous vendor this morning for five dollars. It was working just fine.
'I'll write it up,' said Jerry. 'When I get back to Dayton.'
'Before you go home,' pressed the older man. 'Jerry, don't give me a heart attack here.'
'Before I go home,' Jerry conceded.
The older man patted Jerry's shoulder and grinned. He was getting a piece of the action and it was enough.
'Gotta go,' said the older man. 'You going up to your room and getting it done now, right?'
'Right.'
'I'll send a messenger to pick it up in an hour, okay?'
'An hour's fine,' said Jerry.
The older man looked at the sky and shook his head. He muttered, 'Fucking rain,' and ran to the curb where a cab was waiting.
Keith walked up to Jerry, doing his best to hide the limp he knew the police would be on the lookout for. They would also be looking for a lone man. He meant to remedy that situation right now.
'Jerry?' he said as the bald man turned to head for the hotel.
'Yeah.'
'I thought it was you,' Keith said, holding out his hand to shake. 'Ted Wingate from Dayton. You sold my uncle a great policy on his business.'
Jerry took the offered hand and said, 'Frank Terhune?'
'My uncle,' said Keith. 'What brings you to New York?'
'Insurance,' said Jerry. 'You?'
'Surgery,' said Keith. 'Leg. Long, boring story. Afghanistan. Got a minute? I haven't talked to anyone from home in weeks.'
Jerry hesitated and then said, 'Sure. We can sit in the lobby or- '
'Mind if we go to my room? I've got to make a call.'
'No, that'll be fine. I just have a few minutes.'
'Me too. I've got a check up at Mount Sinai at one. Wait. They were just starting to clean my room when I came down.'
'We can go to my room,' said Jerry.
They walked in together. Keith put his hand on Jerry's arm to steady himself, hide the limp. The hand made Jerry uncomfortable, but he wasn't about to distance himself from a wounded veteran.
Installation art. That's what it looked like to The Hat. A long time ago. A year? Six years? He had been an artist. A real artist. Shows in galleries in San Antonio, Los Angeles, Dallas, Chicago, Manhattan. He could have designed something like this back then.
A cleanly painted room with shining floors. A single office chair in the middle. Someone sitting almost motionless. A boy in jeans and a blue pullover shirt, short sleeves.
The Hat stood in the doorway, looking at the kid who looked back at him but didn't move.
'You okay, kid?' asked The Hat.
'I don't know.'
The Hat stepped into the room. Nothing seemed to be holding the kid in the chair. He wasn't tied up. There was no bomb attached to him.
'Why are you sitting there?' asked The Hat. 'You hungry?'
'No. He, this guy, told me to sit here till he got back,' said the kid.
'Guy?'
'I don't know his name. He came for me at school, outside of school. Said Ellen was waiting for me.'
'Ellen?' asked The Hat.
The truth was that Jeffrey was more frightened of this guy than he had been of the man with a limp. The man with the limp had talked to him softly, calmly, assured Jeffrey that he wouldn't be hurt, and Jeffrey believed him. Jeffrey also believed him when he said he would be very sorry if he got out of the chair before the man got back.
Jeffrey didn't feel the same about this guy. He knew homeless when he saw it.
'She wasn't waiting for you? This Ellen,' said The Hat.
'No. He called her. I think he wants to kill her. He's got a knife.'
The Hat knew kids this age who drank, smoked, snorted, ate and shot up with all kinds of crap that had them seeing murder where there was none. This kid was none too bright, but he looked clean.
'Kid, just get up and go home,' said The Hat. 'You got money?'
'No,' Jeffrey said warily. 'But I have a Metrocard.'
The Hat moved to the middle of the room to help the boy up, but the boy didn't need help. There was nothing wrong with him.
'Maybe I better just wait,' Jeffrey said.
'Maybe you better just get the hell out of here,' said The Hat.
'Hold it,' came a voice behind them.
The Hat froze, then turned around.
Don Flack stood in the doorway, gun in hand. The Hat knew he was a cop. He looked cop, probably smelled cop if they got close to him.
'I just came in to get out of the wet,' The Hat said.
He looked harmless, but Flack knew better than to count on that.
'Keep your hands where I can see them,' he said, taking a step into the room.
The Hat held his hands out. So did the boy.
'The man with the limp,' said Flack. 'Where is he?'
'Left,' said Jeffrey.
'Who are you?' asked Flack.
'Jeffrey Herdez.'
The name rang bells, lots of bells.
'Ellen Janecek,' said Flack.
'He's going to hurt her,' said the boy. 'He said it was because of what she did to me. Ellen didn't do anything to me.'
The Hat was lost. 'The rain,' he said. 'We just- '
'You see the man?' asked Flack, putting his gun back in the holster under his jacket but keeping his distance.
'No,' said The Hat.
Flack took out his phone, flicked it on, pushed a speed dial button, waited a beat and said, 'Mac. Yunkin's on the way to the hotel to get Ellen Janecek. Might be there by now.'
A pause. 'You are?' said Flack into the phone. 'Right. I'll get him home.'
Flack turned the phone off and looked at the homeless man.
'Let yourself out the way you came in,' he said.
The Hat didn't need to be told twice.
