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Authors: Jeffery Deaver
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those telescopes they have. For surveying. Yeah, I’m sure I saw some of them in the alley. I remember ’cause they wear those plastic helmets. Some of them were those men who came around with the petition we signed.”
Pellam remembered Ettie telling him about the high-rise, how the locals had greeted the huge project with such excitement. Roger McKennah, as famous as Donald Trump, was building a glitzy skyscraper in Hell’s Kitchen! His company had sent representatives out into the ’hood, asking residents in the blocks around the high-rise to sign waivers so that the building could go five stories higher than the zoning laws allowed. In exchange for their approval of the variance he pledged that the building would feature new grocery stores and a Spanish restaurant and a twenty-four-hour laundry. Ettie had signed, along with most of the other residents.
And then they’d found that the grocery store was part of a gourmet chain that charged $2.39 for a can of black beans, the laundry charged three dollars to wash a blouse, and as for the restaurant, it had a dress code and the limos parked out in front created a terrible traffic jam.
Pellam now made a mental note about the workers, wondered why they were surveying in the alley across the street. He wondered too why they’d been working at ten o’clock at night.
“I think we should call your daughter,” Pellam said.
“I already did,” Ettie said and looked at her cast in surprise—as if it had just materialized on her arm. “I had a long talk with her this morning. She’s sendingmoney to Louis for his bill. She wanted to come tomorrow but I was thinking I’ll need her more ’round the trial.”
“I’m voting that there won’t even be a trial.”
The bejeweled guard examined her watch. “Okay. Come on, Washington.”
“I just got here,” Pellam said coolly.
“An’ now you just be leavin’.”
“A few minutes,” he said.
“Time’s up. Move it! And you, Washington, hustle. ”
Pellam lowered his eyes to the guard’s. “She’s got a sprained ankle. You want to tell me how the hell’s she supposed to hustle?”
“Don’t want lip from you, mister. Less go.”
The door swung open, revealing the dim hallway, in which a sign was partially visible. PRISONERS SHALL NO
“Ettie,” Pellam said, grinning. “You owe me something. Don’t forget.”
“What’s that?”
“The end of the story about Billy Doyle.”
Pellam watched the woman tuck away her despair beneath a smile. “You’ll like that story, John. That’ll be a good one in your film.” To the matron she said, “I’m coming, I’m coming. Give an old lady a break.”
SEVEN
Inside Bailey’s office a gaunt man hunched over the desk, listening to instructions the lawyer was firing at him over a paper cup filled with jug Chablis.
Bailey saw Pellam enter and nodded him over. “This is Cleg.”
The thin man shook Pellam’s hand as if they were good friends. Cleg wore a green polyester jacket and black slacks. A steel penny gleamed in his left loafer and he smelled of Brylcreem.
The lawyer was looking through an impacted Rolodex. “Let me see. . . .”
Cleg said to Pellam, “You play the horses.”
It wasn’t a question.
“No,” Pellam admitted.
The slim man was dismayed. “Well. I got a lock for you, you interested.”
“What’s a lock?”
“Bet,” Cleg responded.
“A bet?”
“That you can’t lose.”
“Thanks anyway.”
He stared at Pellam for a moment then nodded as if he suddenly understood everything there was to know about him. He searched his pockets until he found a pack of cigarettes.
“Here we go,” Bailey said. He jotted a name on a yellow Post-it that had been reused several times. He took two bottles of liquor from his desk, slipped them into large interoffice envelopes along with smaller packages that contained, presumably, Pellam’s former cash.
He handed Cleg one envelope. “This’s for the Recorder of Deeds, the clerk.
Pellam remembered Ettie telling him about the high-rise, how the locals had greeted the huge project with such excitement. Roger McKennah, as famous as Donald Trump, was building a glitzy skyscraper in Hell’s Kitchen! His company had sent representatives out into the ’hood, asking residents in the blocks around the high-rise to sign waivers so that the building could go five stories higher than the zoning laws allowed. In exchange for their approval of the variance he pledged that the building would feature new grocery stores and a Spanish restaurant and a twenty-four-hour laundry. Ettie had signed, along with most of the other residents.
And then they’d found that the grocery store was part of a gourmet chain that charged $2.39 for a can of black beans, the laundry charged three dollars to wash a blouse, and as for the restaurant, it had a dress code and the limos parked out in front created a terrible traffic jam.
Pellam now made a mental note about the workers, wondered why they were surveying in the alley across the street. He wondered too why they’d been working at ten o’clock at night.
“I think we should call your daughter,” Pellam said.
“I already did,” Ettie said and looked at her cast in surprise—as if it had just materialized on her arm. “I had a long talk with her this morning. She’s sendingmoney to Louis for his bill. She wanted to come tomorrow but I was thinking I’ll need her more ’round the trial.”
“I’m voting that there won’t even be a trial.”
The bejeweled guard examined her watch. “Okay. Come on, Washington.”
“I just got here,” Pellam said coolly.
“An’ now you just be leavin’.”
“A few minutes,” he said.
“Time’s up. Move it! And you, Washington, hustle. ”
Pellam lowered his eyes to the guard’s. “She’s got a sprained ankle. You want to tell me how the hell’s she supposed to hustle?”
“Don’t want lip from you, mister. Less go.”
The door swung open, revealing the dim hallway, in which a sign was partially visible. PRISONERS SHALL NO
“Ettie,” Pellam said, grinning. “You owe me something. Don’t forget.”
“What’s that?”
“The end of the story about Billy Doyle.”
Pellam watched the woman tuck away her despair beneath a smile. “You’ll like that story, John. That’ll be a good one in your film.” To the matron she said, “I’m coming, I’m coming. Give an old lady a break.”
SEVEN
Inside Bailey’s office a gaunt man hunched over the desk, listening to instructions the lawyer was firing at him over a paper cup filled with jug Chablis.
Bailey saw Pellam enter and nodded him over. “This is Cleg.”
The thin man shook Pellam’s hand as if they were good friends. Cleg wore a green polyester jacket and black slacks. A steel penny gleamed in his left loafer and he smelled of Brylcreem.
The lawyer was looking through an impacted Rolodex. “Let me see. . . .”
Cleg said to Pellam, “You play the horses.”
It wasn’t a question.
“No,” Pellam admitted.
The slim man was dismayed. “Well. I got a lock for you, you interested.”
“What’s a lock?”
“Bet,” Cleg responded.
“A bet?”
“That you can’t lose.”
“Thanks anyway.”
He stared at Pellam for a moment then nodded as if he suddenly understood everything there was to know about him. He searched his pockets until he found a pack of cigarettes.
“Here we go,” Bailey said. He jotted a name on a yellow Post-it that had been reused several times. He took two bottles of liquor from his desk, slipped them into large interoffice envelopes along with smaller packages that contained, presumably, Pellam’s former cash.
He handed Cleg one envelope. “This’s for the Recorder of Deeds, the clerk.
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