Desperate Measures

froze my account.

Burt was right.

“Haven’t you listened to the radio? You didn’t see the evening news?” Burt had demanded. Pittman walked rapidly along a side street, checking several taverns, finding one that had a television behind the bar. Since the Chronicle and all the other New York City newspapers came out in the morning, they wouldn’t have had enough time to run a story about anything that happened to Jonathan Millgate late last night.

The only ready source of news that Pittman could think of was a cable channel like CNN. He sat in a shadowy, smoke-filled corner of the tavern and in frustration watched the fourth round of a boxing match. He fidgeted, not sharing the enthusiasm of the other patrons in the bar about a sudden knockout.

Come on, he kept thinking. Somebody put on the news.

He almost risked drawing attention to himself by asking the man behind the bar to switch channels to CNN. But just as Pittman stood to approach the counter, news came on after the fight, and Pittman was stunned to see his photograph on a screen behind the reporter. The photo had been taken years earlier when Pittman had had a mustache. His features had been heavier, not yet ravaged by grief. Nonetheless, he immediately receded back into the shadows.

“Suicidal obituary writer kills ailing diplomat,” the reporter intoned, obviously enjoying the lurid headline.

Feeling his extremities turn cold as blood rushed to his stomach, Pittman listened in dismay. The reporter qualified his story by frequently using the words alleged and possibly, but his tone left no doubt that Pittman was guilty. According to the Scarsdale police, in cooperation with the Manhattan homicide department, Pittman-suffering from a nervous breakdown as a consequence of his son’s death-had determined to commit suicide and had gone so far as to write his own obituary. Newswriters who had desks near Pittman characterized him as being depressed and distracted. He was said to be obsessed with Jonathan Millgate, an obsession that had begun seven years earlier when Pittman had become irrationally convinced that Millgate was involved in a defense-industry scandal. Pittman had stalked Millgate so relentlessly for an interview that Millgate had considered asking the police for a restraining order. Now, in his weakened mental state, Pittman had again become fixated on Millgate, apparently enough to kill him as a prelude to Pittman’s suicide. Warned of the danger, Millgate’s aides had taken the precaution of moving the senior statesman from a New York hospital where he was recovering from a heart attack. Pittman had managed to follow Millgate to an estate in Scarsdale, had broken into Millgate’s room, and had disconnected his life-support system, killing him. Fingerprints on the outside door to Millgate’s room as well as on Millgate’s medical equipment proved that Pittman had been inside. A nurse had seen him flee from the old man’s bedside. A check that Pittman had given to a New York City taxi driver who drove him to the estate had made it possible for the police to narrow their investigation to Pittman as their main suspect. Pittman was still at large.

Pittman stared at the television and strained to keep from shaking. His sanity felt threatened. Despite the differences, surely everyone in the tavern must know it was his photograph they’d just been shown. He had to get onto the street before someone called the police.

The police. Pittman walked in alarmed confusion from the bar, keeping his head low, relieved that no one tried to stop him. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I ought to go to the police. Tell them they’re mistaken. I tried to help Millgate, not kill him.

Sure. And what about the man you killed in your apartment? If he’s still there, if his buddies haven’t moved him. Do you expect the police will take your word about what happened? As soon as they get their hands on you, they’ll put you in jail.

Is that so bad? At least I’ll be safe. The men at my apartment won’t be able to get at me.

What makes you sure? Seven years ago, two men broke your jaw while you and they were in custody in Boston. Security might fail again. And this time what happens to you could be lethal.

13

When Pittman entered the diner, he watched to see if anyone looked suspiciously toward him. No one seemed to care. Either they hadn’t seen the story about him on TV or else they didn’t make the connection with him. After all, no one here knew him by name, except for the cook who was usually on duty at this hour, and the cook knew Pittman only as Matt.

“How you doing, Matt?” the cook asked. “No show for several weeks, and now you’re back two nights in a row. We’ll get some weight back on you quick. What’ll it be tonight?”

Still dismayed that the police had arranged for his bank’s automated teller machine to seize his card, Pittman said, “I’m low on cash. Will you take a check for a meal?”

“You’ve always been good for it.”

“And an extra twenty dollars?”

“Hey, you don’t appreciate my cooking that much. Sorry.”

“Ten dollars?”

The cook shook his head.

“Come on.”

“You’re really that low?”

“Worse than low.”

“You’re breaking my heart.” The cook debated. “Okay. For you, I’ll make an exception. But don’t let this get around.”

“Our secret. I appreciate this, Tony. I’m starved. Give me a salad, the meat loaf, mashed potatoes, plenty of gravy, those peas and carrots, a glass of milk, and coffee, coffee, coffee. Then we’ll talk about dessert.”

“Yeah, we will get some weight back on you. You sure that’s all?”

“One thing more.”

“What is it?”

“The box I gave you last night.”

14

Outside the diner, Pittman sought the cover of a nearby alley. Crouching in the darkness with his back to the street, he opened the box, took out the.45 and the carton of ammunition, and placed them in his gym bag.

He heard a threatening voice behind him. “What ya got in the bag, man?”

Looking over his shoulder, Pittman saw a street kid, tall, broad shoulders, steely eyes, late teens.

“Stuff.”

“What stuff?” The kid flashed a long-bladed knife.

“This stuff.” Pittman aimed the.45.

The kid put the knife away. “Cool, man. Damned good stuff.” He backed off, hurrying down the street.

Pittman put the gun back in the gym bag.

15

Madison Square Park was the site of Pittman’s favorite Steichen photograph, an evocative early-twentieth- century depiction of the Flatiron Building, where Broadway intersects with Fifth Avenue. The photograph showed a winter scene with snow falling on horse carriages, and to the left, taking up only part of the photograph but seeming to dominate the photo as much as the Flatiron Building did, were the bare trees of Madison Square Park.