Vengeance: Mystery Writers of America Presents

Stokey grimaced. “What’s not right is the whole fucking system. Everything’s rigged for the fat boys.”

The screen door at the back of the church banged, and a shadowed figure came out, carrying two sacks. A family allotment. Joe thought he recognized the woman, but she went by without greeting them, got in her car, and drove away.

“I’m leaving,” Joe said.

“What?” Stokey looked up.

“Marjo’s gone, my job is gone, the house is going. I got nothing to do here.”

“Yeah, but —” Stokey didn’t seem to know what to say. “Where?”

“Connecticut.”

“Connecticut? What the hell for?”

“I’m going to …” Joe stopped. When he said it out loud, it sounded stupid.

“What?”

“Valiant lives there. His office is in New York City, but he lives in some little town in Connecticut. I want to talk to him.”

“Talk to him?”

“Ask him why he did it. Ask him to make things right.”

Stokey made a choking noise. He put his hands up, then dropped them. “Why the fuck would Valiant talk to you? Why would he even see you?”

“I’ll make an appointment.” Joe straightened up. “Look, he’s another human being, right? We’re all walking the earth. Maybe he just needs to see things clear.”

“That’s just plain — Valiant’s not walking the earth, not the same one as you and me. He’ll probably have you arrested. You can spend your golden years at Fort Madison.”

“I don’t think so.” Joe shifted the sack of food he’d never put down. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got nothing to do here. Seems worth a shot.”

They fell silent. Stokey’s energy faded. A light wind rustled the bean fields.

“You got to get in there,” Joe said finally. “They’re closing up, and Annie’s waiting on you.”

“Yeah.” Stokey started to move off. “Hey, when are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? When are you coming back? ”

“When it’s done.” Joe felt — not happy, but somehow … eager. “When it’s done.”

MANHATTAN WASN’T so bad.

Joe had been there before, but not since he was in the service — for some reason he’d been shipped home via Germany, even though the West Coast was a lot closer to Vietnam. New York in the early seventies had been spiraling into chaos, bankruptcy, and gang violence, and that’s how Joe remembered it. But the modern city was all clean streets and shiny buildings. He didn’t recognize Times Square at all.

Valiant’s firm had its offices on Park Avenue, the fortieth floor of a glass skyscraper called the Great Prosperity Building. Chinese characters on the largest logo in the atrium suggested the building was no longer owned by Americans.

“Mr. Valiant is out of the office this week,” said the receptionist.

“How about next week?”

“Fully booked, I’m afraid.”

The woman sat at her desk facing the elevator bank, but two husky young men stood by, one on either side, both staring at Joe. The carpet felt deep and plush beneath his feet.

He figured the bouncers were just guys who worked there, not real security. Their hands looked soft, and they didn’t have that wary, hooded gaze Joe remembered from the MPs. But they’d been out in the foyer already when Joe stepped off the elevator.

He’d had to sign in at the main desk in the lobby, downstairs, and show a driver’s license; he’d received a printed pass. The guard there must have called up. Somehow Joe didn’t look right.

“Why don’t you call him and check?” Joe said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Valiant’s schedule is very busy.”

Back on the street, Joe stood on the small plaza, under a tree just starting to blaze orange. Early afternoon and people seemed to be on extended lunch breaks, sitting in the sun, tapping at smartphones, eating paper- wrapped takeout.

After a minute he walked back to his truck, drove around the block, and entered the garage underneath the Great Prosperity Building.

On the A level, closest to both the surface and the elevator, Joe coasted slowly, counting. Two Ferraris, five high-end Audis, BMWs, Mercedeses, several Range Rovers … and a single Lamborghini Gallardo, the distinctive rear end unmistakable.

The lawyer had mentioned the model Valiant owned. Before leaving town, three days earlier, Joe had looked through old Car and Driver issues at the library until he’d found it.

“I didn’t even park,” he told the attendant at the exit, “I got a phone call, have to go right back out.”

“Ten minutes.” The attendant was black, with an accent from somewhere far away. He pointed to the sign at the booth. “Five dollars.”

Joe started to protest, then shrugged and dug out his wallet. No reason to attract more attention.

This time there were no good parking spaces on the street. Good thing he’d had the tank filled that morning in New Jersey, at a gas station near the highway motel he’d stayed at. Joe started driving around the block again, taking his time. Sooner or later a spot would open up, one with a nice view of the garage exit. He had all afternoon.

Valiant would have to leave the building eventually.

THE RESTAURANT SEEMED far too crowded, barely room to walk between the tables and people standing two deep at the short bar. Despite some kind of fancy cloth on the walls and a carpeted floor, it was noisy, with constant clatter, chattering, and glassware clinking.

“I’m meeting someone here at eight thirty,” Joe said, glancing at his watch. He’d put on his old jacket and tie, good enough to pass under the dim lamps that barely illuminated a podium at the door.

“Certainly,” said the maitre d’. “Care for a drink at the bar?”

“That would be perfect.”

Valiant was already at a small table, a woman probably twenty years younger sitting across from him. Joe had followed the Lamborghini straight here when Valiant left for the day, but Valiant used valet parking, and Joe had to take twenty minutes to find a spot on his own. He didn’t want to leave any more obvious a trail than necessary.

“Seltzer,” he told the barman after jostling his way to the front.

“Fourteen dollars.”

He made the drink last. People drifted in and out. Finally, after a quarter hour, Valiant’s companion stood and made her way to the restroom, in an alcove at the end of the bar.

When she came back out, Joe had maneuvered himself to stand where she had to brush past him.

“Excuse me?” he said, as politely as he could.

“Yes?” Up close she looked even more like someone accustomed to brushing off strange men in bars — flawlessly beautiful, dark eyes, precisely cut hair.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know if I should even tell you this, but …”

“What?” She was on the verge of pushing through and ignoring him.

“While you were in there? I happened to see your fella — he’s the handsome man in the blue shirt, right? He, well, he put something in your wineglass.”

That got her attention. “Say that again.”

“I’m waiting for my date, she’s coming down with one of her friends, so, you know, I’m just killing time. And I noticed, after you stood up — pardon me, miss, but I noticed you and I hope you’re not offended by that. But after you left, your man, he took something out of his pocket and reached across the table and held it over your drink. Like he was dropping something in.”