Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [90]
At twenty past ten that evening, Stemkowsky nosed his Vets cab out of the street noise and blazing yellow lights of Midtown Manhattan in the East 60s. He’d finished his regular ten-hour shift, all according to the Vets’ master plan, Colonel Hudson’s prescribed step-by-step plan for their ultimate success.
The Checker cab bumped and rattled onto the 59th Street entrance to the bridge.
A few minutes later, the Checker cab turned onto a busy avenue in Jackson Heights, then edged onto 85th Street, where Harry Stemkowsky lived with his wife, Mary.
He absently licked his lips as he drove down 85th. He could just about taste the French stew Mary had said she was fixing when he’d left in the morning.
The sudden expectation of beef, shallots, those little, light puffed potatoes she usually made, was exhilarating. Maybe he and Mary should retire to the south of France after this was over, he began to think. They’d be filthy rich enough for sure. They could eat four-star French food until they got absolutely sick of it Maybe move on to Italy. Maybe Greece after that Greece was supposed to be cheap. Hey. Who cared if it was cheap or not?
Harry Stemkowsky began to accelerate down the last flat stretch toward home.
“Jesus Christ, buddy! Stemkowsky suddenly shouted out loud and pounded his brakes.
A tall, balding guy, with an incredibly pained look, had run out in front of the cab. The guy was frantically waving both arms over his head; he was screaming something Stemkowsky couldn’t make out with the windows up.
Harry Stemkowsky recognized the look from Viet Nam though, from dreaded clean-up patrols into villages after devastating Phantom air strafes. Something horrible and unexpected had happened here—something awful had happened in Stemkowsky’s neighborhood.
The terrified man was up against the cab window. Still screaming at the top of his voice. “Help me, please! Help! Please help!”
Stemkowsky finally got the window rolled down. He had his radio mike in hand, ready to call for whatever kind of emergency help was needed.
“What the hell happened? What happened, mister?”
Suddenly, a small black Beretta was shoved hard, crunching like a nightstick against Stemkowsky’s temple. “This is the matter! Don’t move. Put back that mike.”
A second man appeared now, emerging out of the smoky side street darkness. He yanked open the creaking passenger side door.
“Just turn the cab right around, Stemkowsky. We’re not going home quite yet.”
An indefinite time later—Hours? Maybe it was days? There was no way to accurately gauge because all time had collapsed under him—Stemkowsky felt hands angrily ripping under his armpits, lifting him rudely.
The hands propped him hard onto a badly creaking wooden chair again.
A man’s face, a blur of soft pink, seemed to float down and stop close to Stemkowsky’s face. The man was uncomfortably close.
Then his mind went into complete shock! Sergeant Harry Stemkowsky’s watery eyes began to blink rapidly; he tried to look away from this particular closeup face.…
Harry Stemkowsky couldn’t believe who this was.
His eyes kept trying to lock into focus.
This face, he’d seen it before, recently, always distilled by a network TV screen or a newspaper—
No, he was confused: the injected drug had fucked his brain over—
What was going on here? This person couldn’t be—
The face smiled horribly and said, “Yes, I’m Francois Monserrat, You know me under another name. This is an extraordinary shock, I know.”
Harry Stemkowsky shut his eyes a moment. This was all a bad dream; make it go away.
Stemkowsky opened his eyes: he shook his head.
Suddenly, Harry Stemkowsky’s head ached unbelievably. His eyeballs felt indescribably heavy, as if they were hanging on elastic bands. He simply could not believe it. So incredibly near the top. The ultimate traitor…
When Stemkowsky finally spoke, he was close to being incoherent; incomprehensible