demanded.
A faint smile crossed the man’s lips. “It was something of a challenge, I’ll admit. Took me almost six seconds. You ought to invest in a Medeco dead bolt, Carl. Those can sometimes take me up to a minute, depending on the construction of the door frame.”
Carl’s apartment had been a formal parlor ninety or so years ago, before the old town house had been broken up into apartments. There was a fireplace, nonworking, and built-in oak bookcases with glass doors. In place of a chandelier, Carl’s sixty-pound red leather Everlast heavy bag hung in the middle of the room. He’d gotten it the day after Amanda moved to Washington. It wasn’t until three months after that that he’d realized there might be some connection between the two. For furniture he had his bed, a huge old iron one that came from a lunatic asylum in upstate New York, and his desk, a battered rolltop that once belonged to a railroad stationmaster. Also a small dining table, which had no story behind it whatsoever other than the fact it was cheap. It was set up in front of the bay window.
The intruder went over to the window, opened the curtain an inch, and studied the street outside carefully. That’s when Carl saw it. Underneath the expensive silk jacket, over the white vest.
“You have a gun,” Carl said slowly.
“Mmm,” the man said in agreement. “Don’t you like guns?”
“No,” Carl said.
The man nodded his head sympathetically. “Well, get used to them. That’s my advice.”
Carl said nothing. For the first time the man looked impatient. “We have work to do.” When Carl didn’t move, just peered at him curiously, the man said, “It’s a rush job. I thought you understood that part.”
Carl let out a slow breath. It felt like the first breath he’d taken in months. “You’re Gideon.”
“I’m Harry Wagner,” the man said, puffing on his cigar. Short for Harrison, not Harold. And no, I’m not Gideon. I’m what is known in underground circles as the go-between. Rather a quaint, Regency-era term, don’t you think? Carries with it the whiff of tender romance. Intrigue of the trembly, virginal heart. Most inappropriate, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Then trust me. There’s no love going on here, Carl. None at all. There’s only people fucking each other.” As punctuation, Wagner hit the heavy bag with a thundering right hand.
“What people?”
“Nice try, Carl. And I appreciate the effort. But I was told you also understood that part of our little endeavor—no questions.”
Carl glowered at him, not liking any of this. Who was this asshole? What the hell had he gotten himself into? He had the card that Maggie had given him, the one with her cell phone number on it. Abruptly he reached for the phone and dialed.
She answered on the first ring. “What is it Carl?”
Carl froze. “How’d you know it was me?”
“I haven’t given this number to anyone else,” she said impatiently. “Now, what do you want?”
“There’s a very large white man wearing a very ugly tie in my apartment …”
Suddenly Carl felt Harry’s fingers wrap around his wrist. This was not a gentle laying on of hands. This was an iron grip. One that, with so little effort, was causing extraordinary pain. Somehow the man had sprung across the room. Carl hadn’t heard him, hadn’t seen him move. But here he was, crushing the bones in Carl’s right wrist as easily as one might crumple a paper cup. Carl looked up into Harry’s eyes and was very afraid.
“Say ‘Hold on,’ ” Harry Wagner said. His voice was low, as if,out of politeness, he didn’t want the person on the other end of the phone to know he was interrupting. When Carl didn’t respond immediately, Harry squeezed harder. Tears came into Carl’s eyes.
“Hold on,” he managed to say into the mouthpiece.
“For Christ’s sake, what’s going on?” he heard Maggie squawk.
“Now put the phone down,” Harry instructed.
This
A faint smile crossed the man’s lips. “It was something of a challenge, I’ll admit. Took me almost six seconds. You ought to invest in a Medeco dead bolt, Carl. Those can sometimes take me up to a minute, depending on the construction of the door frame.”
Carl’s apartment had been a formal parlor ninety or so years ago, before the old town house had been broken up into apartments. There was a fireplace, nonworking, and built-in oak bookcases with glass doors. In place of a chandelier, Carl’s sixty-pound red leather Everlast heavy bag hung in the middle of the room. He’d gotten it the day after Amanda moved to Washington. It wasn’t until three months after that that he’d realized there might be some connection between the two. For furniture he had his bed, a huge old iron one that came from a lunatic asylum in upstate New York, and his desk, a battered rolltop that once belonged to a railroad stationmaster. Also a small dining table, which had no story behind it whatsoever other than the fact it was cheap. It was set up in front of the bay window.
The intruder went over to the window, opened the curtain an inch, and studied the street outside carefully. That’s when Carl saw it. Underneath the expensive silk jacket, over the white vest.
“You have a gun,” Carl said slowly.
“Mmm,” the man said in agreement. “Don’t you like guns?”
“No,” Carl said.
The man nodded his head sympathetically. “Well, get used to them. That’s my advice.”
Carl said nothing. For the first time the man looked impatient. “We have work to do.” When Carl didn’t move, just peered at him curiously, the man said, “It’s a rush job. I thought you understood that part.”
Carl let out a slow breath. It felt like the first breath he’d taken in months. “You’re Gideon.”
“I’m Harry Wagner,” the man said, puffing on his cigar. Short for Harrison, not Harold. And no, I’m not Gideon. I’m what is known in underground circles as the go-between. Rather a quaint, Regency-era term, don’t you think? Carries with it the whiff of tender romance. Intrigue of the trembly, virginal heart. Most inappropriate, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Then trust me. There’s no love going on here, Carl. None at all. There’s only people fucking each other.” As punctuation, Wagner hit the heavy bag with a thundering right hand.
“What people?”
“Nice try, Carl. And I appreciate the effort. But I was told you also understood that part of our little endeavor—no questions.”
Carl glowered at him, not liking any of this. Who was this asshole? What the hell had he gotten himself into? He had the card that Maggie had given him, the one with her cell phone number on it. Abruptly he reached for the phone and dialed.
She answered on the first ring. “What is it Carl?”
Carl froze. “How’d you know it was me?”
“I haven’t given this number to anyone else,” she said impatiently. “Now, what do you want?”
“There’s a very large white man wearing a very ugly tie in my apartment …”
Suddenly Carl felt Harry’s fingers wrap around his wrist. This was not a gentle laying on of hands. This was an iron grip. One that, with so little effort, was causing extraordinary pain. Somehow the man had sprung across the room. Carl hadn’t heard him, hadn’t seen him move. But here he was, crushing the bones in Carl’s right wrist as easily as one might crumple a paper cup. Carl looked up into Harry’s eyes and was very afraid.
“Say ‘Hold on,’ ” Harry Wagner said. His voice was low, as if,out of politeness, he didn’t want the person on the other end of the phone to know he was interrupting. When Carl didn’t respond immediately, Harry squeezed harder. Tears came into Carl’s eyes.
“Hold on,” he managed to say into the mouthpiece.
“For Christ’s sake, what’s going on?” he heard Maggie squawk.
“Now put the phone down,” Harry instructed.
This
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