No Thomas Rhodes.
Calm down, Dunn told himself. Calm down!
He didn’t doubt Rhodes had known he was being tracked and had used the subway stop to slip away from his pursuer. He must have been waiting just to the side of the street steps so he could cut back the way he’d come after Dunn had hurried toward the turnstiles without a sideways glance. Now back up on the crowded sidewalks, Dunn had no chance of finding him again to resume tracking.
He moved back into a doorway and stood thinking, his eyes all the time moving, seeking another momentary glimpse of Rhodes.
Rhodes was wearing a heavy sport jacket and carrying a bag that could only be called luggage, so he was traveling. He might catch a cab and head for one of the airports, but his pursuer would figure him to travel by air, probably in first class.
Dunn knew he had to guess, and he went with the odds. What was the least likely way Rhodes would travel?
A bus.
Possibly a train, but less likely was a bus.
If that was the case, Dunn had a pretty good idea where Rhodes would hook up with his transportation. Where whoever was hunting him would have to make another choice. Port Authority Terminal on Forty-second Street, where a traveler could board either a bus or a subway train.
Rhodes wasn’t carrying the duffel bag for nothing.
Dunn got out in the street and hailed a cab. He told the driver he was pressed for time and there was a twenty in it for him if he drove fast for the Port Authority Terminal, that he needed to hook up with someone he did business with and it was critical to an important deal for him to get there before a bus left.
All true. In its fashion.
It had been almost a week since Hobbs had laid a hand on her. Temporarily at least, Lavern Neeson was unbruised.
Often he’d call her from work to keep tabs on her, so she’d faked a doctor’s appointment this time, knowing that since she was unmarked Hobbs wouldn’t be interested. And she’d told him she thought she was coming down with a summer cold, not only to keep him away from her, but to give her an excuse for her sham appointment.
Where she’d taken her unbruised self was to the lounge where she’d almost been picked up by the handsome guy with the hooded eyes and jet-black hair. It was about the same time of day she’d been there last time, so he might well be there, too. She could picture him sitting on the same stool as before, hunched over his drink, and then walking toward her, absently spinning bar stools as he came. Then the change in his expression as he saw the bruises on her face, bruises that makeup couldn’t quite conceal. She hadn’t been able to get the man out of her thoughts, out of her dreams.
It could be different this time.
As she entered the lounge she blinked a few times to help adjust her eyes to the dimness, looking all around for the dark-eyed man.
He wasn’t there.
Well, what did you expect? With your crappy luck.
But on the same stool where dark-eyes had sat was another man, in his late thirties, maybe forty. A nice- enough-looking guy wearing gray slacks and a shirt and tie. He was looking at Lavern and smiling. He had a lot of dark stubble on his chin, but that was the style, and maybe he was growing a beard.
When she got closer, she glanced at his left hand and didn’t see a wedding band. For all that was worth these days.
Still smiling, he nodded to her and said, “You’re late, but that’s okay. We can make up for lost time.”
Another bullshit artist.
“Do we know each other?”
“I’ve never before laid eyes on you,” he admitted. The smile widened. Nice teeth, very white. “See, we’re starting off honestly.”
Lavern smiled back.
Why not? She could use a little talk, a little personal, painless attention.
And a drink.
53
“…and they didn’t know if the parrot was saying everything he was saying, or if he was saying everything the parrot was saying.”
The crowd in Say What? thought about it, then with a growing rush of applause decided they liked that one. They cheered and hooted as Jackie Jameson waved his right arm over his head in a circular motion, dipped low in his exaggerated bow, and trotted off the stage.
Mitzi and Rob (he had finally told her his name-Rob Curlew) were seated at the table Rob preferred. It was barely large enough for two, so they wouldn’t attract unwanted company. It was also at the very edge of the crowd, and not far from one of the side exits. Not only could they look out over the audience so Mitzi could judge crowd reaction to particular jokes, but when the night of comedy and near comedy ended, they could easily slip outside and get away without having to talk to anyone Mitzi knew. Rob valued his privacy. Mitzi understood that and accommodated him.
Tonight was different, however, because her boss Ted Tack was holding her check from last week, and Mitzi needed the money. The rent was past due, and the landlord was pesky.
Jackie Jameson had been the final act, so Mitzi and Rob waited for the applause to trail off, then stood up from their table.
Mitzi started toward a side aisle so she could make her way to the stage and office. Rob closed his hand on her arm.
Mitzi explained that she had to pick up her paycheck.
“I can carry us till next week,” Rob said.
Mitzi aimed her big smile at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, you carried us all this week. You wouldn’t want me sleeping with the landlord. I need my money, baby.”
“You mean your independence.”
“Up the rebels! Whatever it is they’re against.”
Rob smiled and kissed her cheek. “I’ll be waiting right outside.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes for Ted to pay me or for me to punch him out,” Mitzi said. She waved a small fist. “He always pays.”
“Remember I’m nearby,” Rob said, “in case there’s any trouble.” As if she was serious.
Mitizi wondered sometimes if he was serious, some of the things he said. Or maybe it was because he was normally so smooth that any slightly out-of-kilter remark seemed even more so.
As she moved away through the crowd that was gradually making its way outside, she wondered what kind of job Rob had, that he worried so little about money. Something to do with investments, he’d say, whenever she inquired, then he’d begin explaining things to her she didn’t understand. There were lots of acronyms, but they all meant money. So maybe he was rich as well as handsome.
I am makin’ out with The Man.
Somebody or something tugged at her right earlobe, and she turned, ready to cut some poor bastard off at the knees if she could figure out who’d been the tugger.
I better know you as a friend.
She did. Jackie Jameson was jammed up against her by the press of the crowd.
Her momentary anger was gone. She grinned at him. “Nice set, Jackie.”
“Yours, too.” He cupped his hands over his chest. “Wanna go lift a few, Mitz? Talkin’ drinks here, not boobs.”
