instructions were elaborate. The basics were to administer one vial an hour orally, put the slimy stuff on Trudy’s wound with a hot compress every two hours, and dampen and smolder the crunchy stuff and fan it over her frequently. I loaded it all into my saddle bag.
“And if she doesn’t improve?”
“Better get to hospital. Or cemetery.”
I tugged on my lower lip a moment. “Zim? If this doesn’t go well, it will have to be the cemetery. You have anything that could make it easier?”
He took off his specs again, and looked out the front windows. “Of course.”
“Quick and painless. And small.”
He eyed me very carefully. “This for her? Or you?”
I gulped, my eyes moist. “Does it matter?”
“Only to you.” He reached for a jar on a lower shelf, and from inside pulled two regulation-sized sticks of gum wrapped in yellow paper with red Chinese characters. “Chew, and go in peace. Forever.”
I dropped the thousand dollars on the counter and left.
Around the corner I dropped the crap Mr. Zim gave me in a dumpster.
Except the gum.
Fourteen
I had no intention of going to Iceland, but it didn’t hurt to let Doc’s Hong Kong friends think I was. Yet why not Iceland? It wasn’t like Antwerp or London or Tokyo, where they would expect there to be a lot of connected goons, and it was the sort of place that would make a good jumping-off place to Europe and beyond. No doubt they would be flying people there to sandbag me when I came out of the airport. Just a few less to try to sandbag me in New York. Of course, as the mission proceeded, I would have to weigh my options and consider alternatives, but getting out of town for a while was a given. Australia might be far enough. I looked forward to drinking and sleeping on a long flight to the ends of the earth, a place where I could stand at the planet’s edge and stare into oblivion for a while catching fading glimpses of Trudy.
Bric-a-brac stores in Flushing have almost every known product to mankind, and much of it spills out the front onto sidewalk bins and hangs from the awnings. I ducked into one of these places and picked up an oversized belly bag, the kind tourists strap around their midsection. Another purchase was a bill pen, the kind you mark bills with to see if they’re real, and a large pack of Wrigley’s. I put the gum and pen into the belly bag and strapped it on. The saddle bag I strapped back onto the Nighthawk.
Tito’s watch said three thirty.
I fired up the bike and hit a gas station on College Point Boulevard before jumping on the Whitestone Expressway to the Van Wyck Expressway south. I snaked my way past Flushing Meadows Park in heavy traffic through the Grand Central Parkway interchange aimed at JFK, New York’s international airport. Sunday afternoon traffic was heavy with beachgoers, picnickers, weekenders headed home from the last of their weekend fun.
At a short-term parking garage, I motored to the corner highest and farthest from the entrance to the terminal, where there were a lot of tired people coming off their Sunday afternoon flights from summer vacations.
I parked the bike and grabbed the plastic socket wrench box with the Britany-Swindol assets. In the back stairwell I found a fire hose cubby built into the cinder brick wall. I opened the access door. There was an almost empty pint of vodka and some other litter that I cleared out so I could inspect the tag on the hose. The fire-deterrent system had been tested every six months for the last few years, and the most recent date was the end of June. The next inspection was four months off. The flat hose was folded accordion-style on an armature that swung out so that a fireman could easily unfurl the hose out of the cubby. I tucked the socket wrench box into the back of the cubby and swung the hose back into place, closing the door. The socket wrench box was blocked from view by the hose and couldn’t be seen through the cubby door’s glass. Unless some moron
“And if she doesn’t improve?”
“Better get to hospital. Or cemetery.”
I tugged on my lower lip a moment. “Zim? If this doesn’t go well, it will have to be the cemetery. You have anything that could make it easier?”
He took off his specs again, and looked out the front windows. “Of course.”
“Quick and painless. And small.”
He eyed me very carefully. “This for her? Or you?”
I gulped, my eyes moist. “Does it matter?”
“Only to you.” He reached for a jar on a lower shelf, and from inside pulled two regulation-sized sticks of gum wrapped in yellow paper with red Chinese characters. “Chew, and go in peace. Forever.”
I dropped the thousand dollars on the counter and left.
Around the corner I dropped the crap Mr. Zim gave me in a dumpster.
Except the gum.
Fourteen
I had no intention of going to Iceland, but it didn’t hurt to let Doc’s Hong Kong friends think I was. Yet why not Iceland? It wasn’t like Antwerp or London or Tokyo, where they would expect there to be a lot of connected goons, and it was the sort of place that would make a good jumping-off place to Europe and beyond. No doubt they would be flying people there to sandbag me when I came out of the airport. Just a few less to try to sandbag me in New York. Of course, as the mission proceeded, I would have to weigh my options and consider alternatives, but getting out of town for a while was a given. Australia might be far enough. I looked forward to drinking and sleeping on a long flight to the ends of the earth, a place where I could stand at the planet’s edge and stare into oblivion for a while catching fading glimpses of Trudy.
Bric-a-brac stores in Flushing have almost every known product to mankind, and much of it spills out the front onto sidewalk bins and hangs from the awnings. I ducked into one of these places and picked up an oversized belly bag, the kind tourists strap around their midsection. Another purchase was a bill pen, the kind you mark bills with to see if they’re real, and a large pack of Wrigley’s. I put the gum and pen into the belly bag and strapped it on. The saddle bag I strapped back onto the Nighthawk.
Tito’s watch said three thirty.
I fired up the bike and hit a gas station on College Point Boulevard before jumping on the Whitestone Expressway to the Van Wyck Expressway south. I snaked my way past Flushing Meadows Park in heavy traffic through the Grand Central Parkway interchange aimed at JFK, New York’s international airport. Sunday afternoon traffic was heavy with beachgoers, picnickers, weekenders headed home from the last of their weekend fun.
At a short-term parking garage, I motored to the corner highest and farthest from the entrance to the terminal, where there were a lot of tired people coming off their Sunday afternoon flights from summer vacations.
I parked the bike and grabbed the plastic socket wrench box with the Britany-Swindol assets. In the back stairwell I found a fire hose cubby built into the cinder brick wall. I opened the access door. There was an almost empty pint of vodka and some other litter that I cleared out so I could inspect the tag on the hose. The fire-deterrent system had been tested every six months for the last few years, and the most recent date was the end of June. The next inspection was four months off. The flat hose was folded accordion-style on an armature that swung out so that a fireman could easily unfurl the hose out of the cubby. I tucked the socket wrench box into the back of the cubby and swung the hose back into place, closing the door. The socket wrench box was blocked from view by the hose and couldn’t be seen through the cubby door’s glass. Unless some moron
Similar Books
