The car was going very fast. The West Side Highway was not built for such speed-a four-lane highway with traffic lights every twenty yards. Plus the “ongoing” construction didn’t help. The construction had been going on for as long as anyone could remember. History books stated that Peter Minuit, the Dutchman who purchased Manhattan from the Indians in 1626, often complained about the delays around Fifty-seventh Street.
But none of that deterred Win’s hefty accelerator foot. The Javits Center was a blur. So was the Hudson River, for that matter.
Myron said, “Could you slow down a tad?”
“No need to worry. The car has a driver-side air bag.”
“Wonderful.”
They were getting closer to Ache’s office. Myron’s stomach knotted-not helped by the smog blasting into his face because the top was down. His nerves were as taut as a freshly strung tennis racket. Win, on the other hand, looked relaxed. Then again, Frank Ache didn’t have a contract out on his head.
Win’s car phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?” He handed the phone to Myron. “It’s P.T.”
Myron took the receiver. “What’s up?”
“Hey, Myron, how you feeling today?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Glad to hear it. Say, you’ll never guess what happened last night.”
“What?”
“Two of New York’s finest hit men were found dead in an alley. Sad, ain’t it?”
“Tragic,” Myron agreed.
“They worked for Frank Ache.”
“That a fact?”
“Forty-four Magnum with dum-dum bullets were used. Blew their heads clean off.”
“Such a loss.”
“Yeah, I’m losing sleep over it too. Anyway, word out on the street is, this ain’t over. Corpses don’t exactly waylay the wants of a guy like Frank Ache. The contract is still out on whatever ugly slob pissed Frank off.”
Myron said, “Ugly?”
“Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Myron. Take care.”
“You too, P.T.”
Myron hung up.
“The contract is still in place?” Win asked.
“Yep.”
“They won’t hit you in Herman’s office,” Win said. “He would never allow it.”
Myron knew that was true. There was a certain code, even among men who have probably ordered the deaths of hundreds of people. Some idiots believed that these codes were based on some sort of ethics. Not even close. The codes were two things to mobsters: (1) a device to make them appear almost human, and (2) a way of protecting themselves and their position. Ethics are to a mobster what honesty is to a politician.
A construction site slowed them near Twelfth Street, but they still made it with time to spare. The air smelled of pizza-probably because they parked in front of a pizzeria called The First Original Ray’s Pizza of New York, Really, We’re Not Kidding, Honest, We’re It. A tall woman in a blue business suit and fancy sunglasses strolled purposefully down the sidewalk. Myron smiled at her, and she returned it. He would have preferred a faint or even a small swoon, but you can’t have everything.
At two in the afternoon Clancy’s Tavern was already in full swing. Myron stopped right outside the door, fixed his hair, turned left, smiled, turned right, smiled, looked up, smiled.
Win looked a question at him.
“The feds take pictures of everyone who comes in here,” Myron said “I just wanted to look my best.”
“Now you tell me. I look like hell.”
Clancy’s patrons were all men. Not exactly a swinging pick-up joint. A jukebox played Bob Seger. The decor was Early American Beer. Lots of those neon signs, the ones that spell out company names. Budweiser, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Lite, Schlitz. A clock courtesy of Michelob. A mirror from Coors Coasters from Pabst. The mugs had Rolling Rock logos emblazoned across them.
Myron knew that there were probably a million FBI bugging devices in here. Herman Ache didn’t care. Anybody who said something truly damaging in the tavern itself was beyond stupid and deserved to get nailed. The real talk went on in the back rooms. Ache made sure they were swept for bugs every day.
Win drew a few curious glances when they entered. Prep was not exactly the “in” style of Clancy’s clientele. But no one stared too long. This was a bar where no one stared at anyone too long.
“Is that your friend Aaron?” Win asked.
Aaron was at the back of the bar wearing his customary white suit. This time he wore a shirt, albeit one of those pectoral-displaying sleeveless muscle T’s. It was as if Aaron’s wardrobe had entered some molecular transformer with issues of
“Hello, Myron,” Aaron said. “A genuine pleasure to see you again.”
Myron Bolitar, Mr. Popularity. “Aaron, I’d like you to meet Win Lockwood.”
Aaron angled the smile at Win. “Pleasure, Win.” They shook hands with death stares, each sizing the other man up. Neither flinched.
“They’re waiting in the back,” Aaron said. “Come on.”
Aaron led them to a locked door with a one-way mirror. The door opened immediately. They entered. Two hoods stood stonefaced. In front of them was a long corridor. There was-and this was new-a metal detector, like at the airport.
Aaron shrugged, as if to say, A sign of the times. “Hand over your weapons, if you’d be so kind. Then step through.”
Myron took out his thirty-eight, Win a brand-new forty-four. Last night’s forty-four had no doubt been destroyed. They stepped through. The metal detector did not ding, but the two hoods still searched with one of those gizmos that looked suspiciously like vibrators. Then they searched again, this time by hand.
“Very thorough,” Win said.
“Almost enjoyable,” Myron added. “I thought he was going to ask me to turn my head and cough.”
“Hey, funny man,” one of the hoods groused, “this way.”
The two hoods took over, escorting them down the corridor. Aaron stayed back and watched. Myron did not like that. The walls were white, the carpet office-orange. Lithographs of the French Riviera lined the walls. The front of Clancy’s Tavern looked like a dive; the back like a dentist’s office.
Two other men appeared at the other end of the corridor. They were both carrying guns.
Myron leaned toward Win’s ear. “Uh-oh.”
Win nodded.
The two men pointed their guns at Myron and Win. One barked, “Hey, you, Goldilocks Get over here.”
Win looked at Myron. “Goldilocks?”
“I think he means you.”
“Oh. The blond hair. I get it now.”
“Yeah, Goldie, get your butt down here.”
“Later,” Win said. He moved down the corridor. The two hoods from the metal detector took out their guns. Four men, four guns. Lots of firepower. Not taking any chances after last night.
“Hands on your head. Let’s go.”
Win and Myron, separated by approximately ten feet, did as they were told. One of the hoods from the metal detector approached Myron. Without warning, he punched the butt of his gun against Myron’s kidney.
Myron dropped to his knees. Nausea swam through him. The man followed up with a kick to the ribs. Then another. Myron slid to the ground. The other man joined in. He stomped on Myron’s upper legs like they were small brushfires. One stomp landed on the already-sore kidney. Myron thought he was going to vomit.
In something of a haze Myron spotted Win. He had not moved, his face displaying something akin to noninterest. Win had sized up the situation and made a quick determination: There was nothing he could do to help. Worrying and fretting were worthless. Win was spending his time calmly studying the men. He didn’t like to forget a
