“Leonard. You’re inclined to think he’s righteous. Am I wrong?”
“How would you feel?” she asked. “What would you do?”
“No, no,” Walter said shaking his head, holding up his hands. “Don’t ask me how I feel. Tell me how you feel.”
“I do,” she said. “It’s not academic to Leonard Martin, not just numbers. They took everything from him. Can you imagine losing everything? It frightens me just to think about it-not only his family-everything. There’s a curse in being a survivor. Yes, I sympathize with him. I can’t help it.”
“And the people he’s killed? And those he means to kill? All of them?”
“I can’t say,” she said. “I can’t say. I said I sympathize with him. That’s not the same as saying I approve of what he’s doing.”
“It isn’t?” That question remained unanswered.
Over coffee and a glass of Spanish port, Isobel asked, “Walter, why are we still working together? You were correct. I could never have identified Leonard Martin on my own. You did, and you did it before he contacted me. However, now we’ve both met him, talked to him. I know who he is and my story is no longer questioned by anyone. You know who he is. You say finding him again is no trouble. Why are we still in this together, Walter? What’s left for us to do?”
“I represent the people who remain on his list-”
“Exactly my point. What’s in it for you or your clients? Why do you need me? And what’s in it for me?”
“And,” Walter continued, “that puts me in a position to arrange a negotiated settlement, an end to the killing. When he reaches out to you, I can put him in touch with Stein and Stein’s money.”
Isobel looked at Walter out of the corner of her eye, her mouth a frown, skepticism written all over her face. She had been impressed with Walter’s self-assurance and intelligence from the first time they met. She found his demeanor enchanting and not a little bit erotic. Now she began to question his approach and her own judgment.
“Stein’s money,” she said. “What in the world makes you think Leonard Martin wants any of it? And why are you still working for them after learning what they’re all about?”
“I got paid,” Walter said. Isobel shrugged her shoulders, recalling a film where Humphrey Bogart had a speech about some silly obligation he felt to his partner.
“That’s p-p-plain ridiculous.”
“I took the job. I got paid and I have an obligation to finish the job. That’s not ridiculous. That’s honorable. As for Leonard, don’t discount him so easily. Remember when I asked you to think of a dollar amount and then double it or triple it? You’d be surprised how much money might be involved here. It could be an offer Leonard Martin can’t refuse.”
“No,” Isobel said. “Not for any amount. Not this man. Not a man who uses the name of Michael DelGrazo. It’s love, Walter. Don’t you see that? There’s no price on love. It’s too important.” Walter stirred his second cup of coffee, wondering what Ike would say to that.
“You’re right. I don’t need you to find Leonard,” he said. “Now that I know what I know, a second time is only a matter of where and when. That’s what I do, you know. I find people no one else can.” He was looking down into his coffee or at his napkin or checking out the brand name carved into the blade of his steak knife. He avoided Isobel’s eyes. He felt the rush of blood to his cheeks. He hadn’t experienced this kind of helplessness since high school. Isobel could see he was troubled. She leaned across the table and took his hands in hers. She knew there must be more than the lame excuse he offered. “What is it?” she said. “It’s something, but what?”
“I want to be with you,” he said, terribly afraid he sounded like a sixteen year old. “It has nothing to do with Leonard. You’re right. Find him or not. I really don’t care. It’s you, Isobel. I think about you all the time. I don’t sleep. Tonight’s the first time I’ve eaten a real meal since you left St. John. I want you.”
Walter’s needy desire, his awkward hesitation, his tender honesty-it all did the trick for Isobel. Her faucets ran wide open and red hot.
“You want to go to my place?” she said. The invitation and the promise it held thrilled Walter. Whatever disappointment he felt at her casual greeting at the Hilton was gone now.
“Would you like to see what a snow-covered Central Park looks like from high up?”
“Sure,” she said. “ The Mayflower’s close enough. Shall we walk?”
Bundled up to stay warm on the windy, cold night, they walked arm-in-arm toward Columbus Circle and the Mayflower Hotel. It was close to eleven o’clock, but this was New York, the city that never sleeps, where the streets were always crowded. Kids, couples in their twenties (kids to Walter, anyway), ran past them toward the park, tossing snowballs at each other. Many stores and all the bars and restaurants were still open. “In New York the magic never ends,” Walter thought. Tonight he was alive too. He pictured Isobel unbuttoning her blouse, slipping it off her back, her skirt dropping to the floor of his bedroom a few blocks away. His whole body tingled in anticipation. That was when the man standing by the window of an electronics store caught Walter’s attention. Something inside him stirred, and it had nothing to do with the thought of Isobel’s naked body against his own. Walter was sure he’d seen the same man near the Hilton. They passed the store and Walter glanced quickly behind him. He knew the man could easily see their reflection in the store window. Walter and Isobel continued walking. The man followed them.
At the corner of 60th Street, Walter put his hand on Isobel’s shoulder. She looked at him, and the look on his face frightened her. They stopped right in front of the Trump Hotel. The man who had been behind them kept walking, past them. He stopped at the next corner. And he waited. Walter watched the traffic light at 61st Street go from red to green, and then to red again and once more to green. Walk… don’t walk… walk. The man did not cross the street.
“Don’t say anything,” Walter said. “We go to this corner and turn left. Trust me.” They resumed walking, and at the corner of 61st Street, where the man who followed them was still standing, they turned west, heading toward Broadway. That block is a dark and empty one. The side of the Trump Hotel has no customer entrance. The other side of the street is the southern face of the Mayflower. It also has no public entrance. There is only a solitary apartment building with its awning entrance well down the street on the other side. Halfway down the block, on their side, there was a service entrance to the Trump Hotel. It was an unlit, windowless metal door set back slightly from the sidewalk. Walter could make out the icy walkway in front of the doorway. He and Isobel were a few feet past that door, firmly on a patch of dry cement, when Walter turned.
“Got a match?” he said to the man, who now stood squarely on the icy spot. He was clearly startled by Walter’s unexpected action. For just an instant the man seemed paralyzed. Then his feet moved, but all he could manage was an uncertain slip.
Walter lunged and grabbed him. He spun him around and slammed him face-first against the metal service door. He ripped the man’s coat off from behind and seemed to jam his hand into the man’s ass.
“You know what you’re feeling?” Walter demanded. The man shook his head nervously.
“No,” he said, the word barely escaping his mouth.
“Who are you?” demanded Walter. The man did not respond. “What you’re feeling is the barrel of a small twenty-two caliber pistol. If you don’t answer my questions, quickly and truthfully, I’m going to shoot you. Do you know what that means?” This time Walter didn’t wait for an answer. “It means a twenty-two magnum cartridge will literally cut you a new asshole. It probably won’t kill you. But the damage it does to your colon and your intestines will take years to fix. Maybe decades. You’ll shit in a bag until you’re an old man, and every time you so much as pass gas you’ll think of me and regret whatever impulse you’re feeling now to withhold information. Have I made myself clear?” Walter reached into the man’s coat pocket and removed a pistol. He ran his hand across the man’s chest and took a second gun from his shoulder holster. “You hear me, asshole!”
“Yes,” the man said. Isobel could taste the fear in his voice. She too was imagining the lifetime of pain and discomfort that awaited the wrong decision.
“Who are you?” Walter asked. He pushed harder into the man’s rectum.
“Jack Allen,” the man said.
“And?” said Walter, pushing even harder.
“I’m a New York City police detective.”
Isobel was shocked, certain they had stumbled into something that meant trouble for both of them. Holding a gun to the asshole of an NYPD detective…
“Name,” Walter commanded. This time he took the man’s wallet and flipped it open. The badge was there
