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Authors: Daniel Judson
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trouble?”
“I doubt that.”
“You sound pretty
certain.”
“They haven’t
spoken to each other in years.” She paused, then: “You know how Johnny is.”
Of the three
children, Johnny was the one who most saw the world in black and white. He was
also the most independent, and the harder of the brothers for Cat to reach when
they were young.
His father’s
son, and clear favorite.
It had always
made sense to her that she lost track of him now that they were adults.
“Any idea where
we might start looking for him?” Fiermonte asked.
Cat didn’t
answer. Her silence rang for several seconds.
“What?”
Fiermonte pressed.
“You won’t like
my answer, Donnie.”
“Shit.”
She knew by this
that Fiermonte understood who it was they would need to contact first if they
wanted to find Johnny. And, like she, Fiermonte didn’t dare say the man’s name
over the phone.
“They were close,”
Cat explained. “I think he always saw the…potential in Johnny, if you know what
I mean. He used to send Johnny gifts on his birthday, then checks while he was
in college. I think this blinded Johnny a little, at least for a while.”
“Can you contact
him?”
“I know how ,
yeah.”
“If he knows
where Johnny is, you should set something up.”
“It would take
some…arranging.”
“We don’t have
much choice here. And we don’t have a lot of time to waste.”
In a matter of a
few hours, Fiermonte had led her step-by-step across a number of lines. First she
had been called to a crime scene involving a loved one. Then she had been sent
to that loved one’s apartment, from which she removed evidence. And now she was
being asked to make contact with a man from whom she had always distanced
herself.
Her father’s
oldest friend. The man he had grown up with, and who had, through his underworld
connections, provided her father with everything he needed to build and
maintain his various cover stories.
And protect his
family.
He was also the
last person to have spoken with her father on the night he was taken.
Dickey
McVicker.
She knew now
that she’d probably be crossing a few more lines before this was done.
The connection
was beginning to fail. Fiermonte’s voice disappeared for a moment, then
returned.
Cat heard him say
through a field of static, “You’d better call him now. The sooner we set this up,
the better.”
“I’ll try,” she
said, but the line had already gone dead.
She closed the
phone and dropped it onto the passenger seat.
A few minutes
later, she was turning her Mustang onto Twenty-Third Street and heading east
toward Fifth.
She passed the
Chelsea Hotel, an eight-story fortress of brick and tall windows and wrought
iron railings, without even looking at it.
Chapter Seven
Vitali was standing before the
bathroom mirror and cleaning the small cut over his right eye. He felt foolish,
would never have sustained such an injury had he not been ordered by his
employer to hold back . He would never have missed had he not been told
to follow his orders no matter what . In fact, it had taken real
concentration for him to overcome his training and not hit his target. He
thought he may have fucked up when he saw the bike suddenly go down, but by the
way the Coyle kid had gotten up and took off on foot, Vitali knew he hadn’t
been hit.
A strange thing
to be pleased about.
When the wound
was closed — it was minor, more damaging to his ego than anything else — he
stripped down, showered, and redressed. He’d bought a pack of something called
American Spirits during his supply run yesterday and began smoking. Each brand
he tried was worse than the one before it, and these things — weak and all but
tasteless — were no exception.
He roamed the
States, in the employ of his benefactor, for one reason only: so he would be
readily available for his shot at vengeance. His benefactor had promised him
that his time would come, sooner or later. He had also promised that he would
do his
“I doubt that.”
“You sound pretty
certain.”
“They haven’t
spoken to each other in years.” She paused, then: “You know how Johnny is.”
Of the three
children, Johnny was the one who most saw the world in black and white. He was
also the most independent, and the harder of the brothers for Cat to reach when
they were young.
His father’s
son, and clear favorite.
It had always
made sense to her that she lost track of him now that they were adults.
“Any idea where
we might start looking for him?” Fiermonte asked.
Cat didn’t
answer. Her silence rang for several seconds.
“What?”
Fiermonte pressed.
“You won’t like
my answer, Donnie.”
“Shit.”
She knew by this
that Fiermonte understood who it was they would need to contact first if they
wanted to find Johnny. And, like she, Fiermonte didn’t dare say the man’s name
over the phone.
“They were close,”
Cat explained. “I think he always saw the…potential in Johnny, if you know what
I mean. He used to send Johnny gifts on his birthday, then checks while he was
in college. I think this blinded Johnny a little, at least for a while.”
“Can you contact
him?”
“I know how ,
yeah.”
“If he knows
where Johnny is, you should set something up.”
“It would take
some…arranging.”
“We don’t have
much choice here. And we don’t have a lot of time to waste.”
In a matter of a
few hours, Fiermonte had led her step-by-step across a number of lines. First she
had been called to a crime scene involving a loved one. Then she had been sent
to that loved one’s apartment, from which she removed evidence. And now she was
being asked to make contact with a man from whom she had always distanced
herself.
Her father’s
oldest friend. The man he had grown up with, and who had, through his underworld
connections, provided her father with everything he needed to build and
maintain his various cover stories.
And protect his
family.
He was also the
last person to have spoken with her father on the night he was taken.
Dickey
McVicker.
She knew now
that she’d probably be crossing a few more lines before this was done.
The connection
was beginning to fail. Fiermonte’s voice disappeared for a moment, then
returned.
Cat heard him say
through a field of static, “You’d better call him now. The sooner we set this up,
the better.”
“I’ll try,” she
said, but the line had already gone dead.
She closed the
phone and dropped it onto the passenger seat.
A few minutes
later, she was turning her Mustang onto Twenty-Third Street and heading east
toward Fifth.
She passed the
Chelsea Hotel, an eight-story fortress of brick and tall windows and wrought
iron railings, without even looking at it.
Chapter Seven
Vitali was standing before the
bathroom mirror and cleaning the small cut over his right eye. He felt foolish,
would never have sustained such an injury had he not been ordered by his
employer to hold back . He would never have missed had he not been told
to follow his orders no matter what . In fact, it had taken real
concentration for him to overcome his training and not hit his target. He
thought he may have fucked up when he saw the bike suddenly go down, but by the
way the Coyle kid had gotten up and took off on foot, Vitali knew he hadn’t
been hit.
A strange thing
to be pleased about.
When the wound
was closed — it was minor, more damaging to his ego than anything else — he
stripped down, showered, and redressed. He’d bought a pack of something called
American Spirits during his supply run yesterday and began smoking. Each brand
he tried was worse than the one before it, and these things — weak and all but
tasteless — were no exception.
He roamed the
States, in the employ of his benefactor, for one reason only: so he would be
readily available for his shot at vengeance. His benefactor had promised him
that his time would come, sooner or later. He had also promised that he would
do his
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