happened to mess with this fire hose box in the next twenty-eight hours, the Britany-Swindol sparks were safely stored at my escape point. Monday would bring mostly business travelers, and they hardly had time to explore the garage stairwells, especially the ones farthest from the terminal.
Back at the Nighthawk, I slid Mr. Zim’s fatal sticks of gum into the normal gum wrappers and then into the end of the Wrigley’s pack, marking their ends with my thumbnail. The two sticks of gum they replaced I put in my mouth and matched a Winston.
I checked Tito’s Patek Philippe. Four thirty. With any luck, the Serbs would be combing Long Beach Island looking for the beach house where they imagined me nursing Trudy. That would make New York and the Gold Coast safer for me. How long would they stay focused on that diversion before they turned elsewhere? Especially if Teddy, Steve, or Doc ratted me out? Doc was the loose cannon. What was to keep her from setting up the exchange with her Hong Kong friends and then handing me over to the Serbs? For all I knew, the Macau heist was sanctioned by the Hong Kong friends, an insurance rip-off. In a few hours I’d carefully take delivery of the paper and tickets, which, if a double cross didn’t come down then, would at least let Hong Kong think I was a hundred percent on board with their schemes.
Heading back north I exited the Van Wyck onto a business strip in a residential area where I thought I remembered a diner next door to a motel. I’d stayed at the motel once after an operation where I made the tactical error of letting an elevator camera take a picture of me. Part of why I don’t like leaving an operation by elevator. It wasn’t a very good picture, but to be safe I had to stay out of New Jersey for a week until they stopped running my picture on Channel 12.
My memory didn’t fail me. I parked at the diner and turned on Phone #2, which I’d used to call Teddy, Steve, and Doc. I walked across the street and dropped the phone into a trash can in front of the motel. Back in front of the diner I bought a newspaper from a metal box. Inside the diner I got myself a booth at the tinted window where I could keep an eye on the trash can over the top of my paper.
Coffee tasted like mud, and it was all I could do to swallow a burger deluxe worth of carbs and greasy protein. I didn’t care if I ever ate again, yet I needed the energy and I needed to stay awake. Other than a cola, cigarettes, and Wrigley’s, dinner was the first meal of the day.
The waitress had served me about a gallon of coffee over an hour and a half before a Chinese kid in a leather vest appeared in front of the motel smoking a cigarette. He stole long looks at the front of the motel while alternately checking his watch, and finally decided to go into the motel office. He came back out and went through the parking lot looking at license plates. The desk clerk had been no help in telling the kid which room I was in.
I went to the bathroom to get rid of some coffee. When I got back to my booth the kid had returned to the front of the motel and was standing next to the trash can, his cell phone to his ear. Phone tucked back into his shirt pocket, he faced the motel and waited.
His head snapped toward the trash can. They had called Phone #2 to see if I would pick up, to see if they could get an idea what room I was in, maybe to make me come out of my room, I had no idea. The kid soon had my phone in one hand and his in the other.
My waitress was relieved that I finally paid my check and that I actually tipped her well. I exited to the parking lot through a side entrance away from the motel.
Helmet under my arm, I turned the corner of the diner. The kid was ten feet ahead, walking around the diner, looking at the cars. And then he looked at me.
He tried ducking his head, reaching for his cell phone, pretending he hadn’t recognized me.
I called out to him. “Excuse me, pal, can you tell me how to get to the
Back at the Nighthawk, I slid Mr. Zim’s fatal sticks of gum into the normal gum wrappers and then into the end of the Wrigley’s pack, marking their ends with my thumbnail. The two sticks of gum they replaced I put in my mouth and matched a Winston.
I checked Tito’s Patek Philippe. Four thirty. With any luck, the Serbs would be combing Long Beach Island looking for the beach house where they imagined me nursing Trudy. That would make New York and the Gold Coast safer for me. How long would they stay focused on that diversion before they turned elsewhere? Especially if Teddy, Steve, or Doc ratted me out? Doc was the loose cannon. What was to keep her from setting up the exchange with her Hong Kong friends and then handing me over to the Serbs? For all I knew, the Macau heist was sanctioned by the Hong Kong friends, an insurance rip-off. In a few hours I’d carefully take delivery of the paper and tickets, which, if a double cross didn’t come down then, would at least let Hong Kong think I was a hundred percent on board with their schemes.
Heading back north I exited the Van Wyck onto a business strip in a residential area where I thought I remembered a diner next door to a motel. I’d stayed at the motel once after an operation where I made the tactical error of letting an elevator camera take a picture of me. Part of why I don’t like leaving an operation by elevator. It wasn’t a very good picture, but to be safe I had to stay out of New Jersey for a week until they stopped running my picture on Channel 12.
My memory didn’t fail me. I parked at the diner and turned on Phone #2, which I’d used to call Teddy, Steve, and Doc. I walked across the street and dropped the phone into a trash can in front of the motel. Back in front of the diner I bought a newspaper from a metal box. Inside the diner I got myself a booth at the tinted window where I could keep an eye on the trash can over the top of my paper.
Coffee tasted like mud, and it was all I could do to swallow a burger deluxe worth of carbs and greasy protein. I didn’t care if I ever ate again, yet I needed the energy and I needed to stay awake. Other than a cola, cigarettes, and Wrigley’s, dinner was the first meal of the day.
The waitress had served me about a gallon of coffee over an hour and a half before a Chinese kid in a leather vest appeared in front of the motel smoking a cigarette. He stole long looks at the front of the motel while alternately checking his watch, and finally decided to go into the motel office. He came back out and went through the parking lot looking at license plates. The desk clerk had been no help in telling the kid which room I was in.
I went to the bathroom to get rid of some coffee. When I got back to my booth the kid had returned to the front of the motel and was standing next to the trash can, his cell phone to his ear. Phone tucked back into his shirt pocket, he faced the motel and waited.
His head snapped toward the trash can. They had called Phone #2 to see if I would pick up, to see if they could get an idea what room I was in, maybe to make me come out of my room, I had no idea. The kid soon had my phone in one hand and his in the other.
My waitress was relieved that I finally paid my check and that I actually tipped her well. I exited to the parking lot through a side entrance away from the motel.
Helmet under my arm, I turned the corner of the diner. The kid was ten feet ahead, walking around the diner, looking at the cars. And then he looked at me.
He tried ducking his head, reaching for his cell phone, pretending he hadn’t recognized me.
I called out to him. “Excuse me, pal, can you tell me how to get to the
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