Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [149]
54
THERE ARE SOME citizens who will tell you that all big cities are alike. Those people are born chumps. Where else but in New York could you find a Prophet sitting in the lobby of an empty office building in the early evening, poised over a shoebox and looking for all the world like an elderly black man just trying to pry a few coins loose from society. Or a warrior from ancient Tibet without the power of speech but with the strength of a dozen men standing still as a statue on the second-floor landing of that same building? And could you find a little round man with an underground complexion and a brain that understood the cosmos sitting in the basement of the same building, waiting to make electrical systems magically disappear? It was all there in place as I strolled into the Fifth Avenue lobby that night, dressed up for the role in a belted leather trenchcoat, soft suede snapbrim hat, tinted glasses, carrying a pigskin attache case and a .38, some anesthetic nose plugs, a can of mace, and a set of handcuffs.
I caught the Prof’s eye as I entered the lobby, raised my eyebrows behind the glasses. He flipped the cover of his shoebox to show me the Cobra’s picture taped inside. The portable radio sitting next to him wasn’t playing, but the Mole would hear its song when the Prof sent him the message. The elevators had a neatly printed sign: CLOSED FOR REPAIRS, PLEASE USE STAIRS.
I walked past the lobby entrance and climbed the stairs. Max was in position. I held up one finger, moved my lips like I was speaking, pulled my fingers away from my mouth to show words spilling out. Max nodded—we’d talk the freak out of the building if we could. He could come easy or he could come hard. But he was coming. Max would watch—if he saw the Cobra and me leaving together he’d wait a beat, then slip out so he’d be in the front seat of the Plymouth before us. If Wilson panicked when he saw me on the stairs and tried for the door he’d find it locked. If he smashed his way past that, the Prof would pull his just-released-from-Bellevue madman act on the sidewalk to give us another clear shot. So if Wilson, a.k.a. the Cobra, stepped into the lobby, he was going to be leaving with us one way or another.
I checked the time—21:01 on the face of my genuine Military Assault Watch ($39.95 from a mail-order house). I thought it was a nice touch. My mind wasn’t open to the possibility that the Cobra wouldn’t show. If that happened I’d have to use Michelle, track down that kid in the video joint . . . too much to think about and I had to get into character for the meet . . .
I heard the Prof’s voice. “Shine, suh?” and no response. But that was the signal. And when I heard a muttered “Fuck!” I knew the Cobra wasn’t happy about the stairs. Some soldier of fortune—his idea of jungle warfare was probably blowing up a few African villages at long range and then moving in to mop up. But when I heard his footsteps coming up at me I knew he wasn’t a complete phony—he had the light, patterned steps of a martial arts man moving toward an objective, and his breathing sounded correct.
When he came up to where I was waiting against the wall, I took a flash-second to decide—the gun or the game—and then there he was, right in front of me. The Cobra—a little taller than me, thin and hard-looking, his nose and earlobes both too heavily tipped, just like they were in the mug shot, the acne scars in place. Wearing a fatigue jacket so I couldn’t check for tattoos, but it was him. His hair was longish in the back but cropped close up front, and blond, like Michelle had told me. His mouth opened when he saw me and I saw the fear flash in his eyes. I spoke first—calm, level—reassuring. Just a man doing a job. “Sorry about the elevator, my friend. Mr. James insisted—security, you know. You’re the appointment for twenty-one-hundred hours, I assume?”
“Who’re you?”
“My name is Layne. I work for Falcon.”
“You American?”
“Sure. The limeys are just the recruiting end, pal. At our end