Read Online Curtains by Scott Nicholson - Free Book Online

bar. He thought about asking
the transvestite to pay for his drink, but that would be pushing
it. Instead, he walked past the bar, hurried out the door, and was
lost in the crowd before the bartender could react.
    He walked for a while, ten blocks, until his
feet were sore. He didn't know if Joey's people could find him more
easily if he kept moving, or if he tried to hole up. Eventually,
fatigue and the dull ache in his head sent him to a bench in one of
those half-acre dirt patches that the city called a public park.
The two trees clung stubbornly to their oxygen-starved leaves.
    Someone had stuffed an afternoon edition, the Daily News Express , in the trash can. Vincent fished it out.
More crash coverage filled the front page, photos of the obligatory
grieving survivors, bits of wreckage, FAA talking suits. On page
seven was a list of those believed to have been on board NationAir
Flight 317.
    Vincent ran his finger down near the bottom
of the list. Wells, Robert.
    So far, so good. Wells was officially
presumed dead.
    And Scattione, with his resources, would know
that Vincent Hartbarger had become Wells. Scattione would get the
word in his Sing Sing cell, his lips would veer to the right in
churlish anger, and he'd pound his fist against the hard mattress.
Nothing could tick Scattione off more than revenge denied. Vincent
had to smile.
    But not laugh.
    He couldn't laugh until later, when Vincent
Hartbarger was officially laid to rest, along with Charlie Ehle and
the half-dozen other identities that Vincent had adopted over the
years. Fingerprints were no problem, really. All he had to do was
build up the kitty, turn a few deals, and grease a few palms.
Everywhere a record was kept, there was a human recorder who had
access to it. All Vincent needed was access to the recorder.
    Vincent had learned that it wasn't a question
of whether integrity could be bought and sold. It was only a
question of price.
    He managed to nap a couple of hours, keeping
the newspaper over his face. Scattione had probably passed out a
hundred photos. Vincent could change his name, but he was stuck
with those same recognizable features. At least until he got to
Cayman, where he knew a decent plastic surgeon. First things first,
he needed to live long enough to get his new identity.
    The walk downtown took longer than he
expected. When he entered the deli, Sid gave him the once-over.
Vincent's suit was rumpled, the knees dirty from being rolled by
the mugger. He hadn't shaved, either.
    "How the mighty have fallen," Sid said, as
Vincent slid into the booth opposite him.
    "I haven't fallen yet," Vincent said.
    Sid was eating a Reuben, and though Vincent
hadn't eaten all day, the smell of the sauerkraut curdled his
stomach. Vincent checked the door. Sid wasn't known as a
double-crosser. He couldn't afford to be, in his line of work. But,
with Scattione in the mix, everything was subject to change.
    Sid brought out a large envelope, put it
beside his plate. "Hello, Mister Raymond Highwater," he said.
    "Highwater? What sort of name is that? It's
so phony, I won't make it to Jersey."
    "I stole it out of the phone book. That's
what you get when you ask for a rush job." A piece of corned beef
was stuck between Sid's teeth.
    "Listen, I got to ask you for a favor."
    Sid patted the table. "Pay for the last one,
then we can talk."
    Vincent leaned over the table. A group of
Hassidic Jews were across the room, two women were chatting over
coffee, a college-aged kid, probably a film student from Columbia,
was reading a magazine at the counter. None of them looked like
Scattione's people. But in this city, the walls had ears, eyes, and
sometimes a .45 automatic.
    "I'm short at the moment," Vincent said. In
the ensuing silence, he heard a bus honk outside, and somebody in
the kitchen dropped a pan.
    Sid stopped in mid-bite, took a slow chew,
and then began working his jaws like a ferret. "Short," he said,
spraying rye crumbs across the table.
    "Listen, I can make it