The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [94]
Outside the apartment, harsh streetlights were glinting off all kinds of surfaces, shining up brightly into his eyes. The glare temporarily blinded him.
He started to walk down Second Avenue, the old favorite singles scene, the great White Way, still crowded this late at night.
Parker rounded the corner onto Seventy-fourth Street. He continued only a few steps.
Crouching slightly, he stared through the windows of cars parked up and down the side street. His eyes were still adjusting to the lights.
Finally, he saw what he had been looking for, but hoping not to find. Noisy alarms sounded through his body.
Two men were sitting in Goodfellow’s, a popular restaurant and bar on Second Avenue. Parker watched them for at least sixty seconds, just to make sure.
He was sure. He’d noticed the one with red hair earlier that day. They were following him.
They hadn’t seen him approach on Second Avenue. They were too busy watching the brownstone where he and his girlfriend were supposed to be sleeping. They were clearly watching the brownstone. The Grave Dancer had his trackers, too.
Isiah Parker crossed Seventy-fourth Street. He walked among a few couples, out for a night of grazing in the neighborhood bars and restaurants. Except he was moving faster than the others.
He ducked inside Goodfellow’s, his gold detective’s shield out and ready.
He said, “I’m a police officer. You stay right here, all right? Don’t let anybody else in. Capisce?” He spoke quietly but firmly to the blond Irish bouncer-maître d’ stationed at the front door.
“Yeah, yeah. All right, man. Sure.”
He could make out the heads and shoulders of the two hit men. They were positioned at the rear of the tinted Plexiglas bubble attached to one side of the bar, nearest to Tanya’s apartment. The trackers.
Both men wore dark, European-style sports jackets. Parker was sure they carried concealed weapons underneath.
The heavyset bouncer at the door hadn’t moved. He was obviously smarter than he looked. Patrons of the East Side restaurant were crouched over their greasy burgers, their shell steaks, and wilting house salads. An air conditioner dribbled water onto the red tile floor.
As he peered around a white stucco pillar, Parker bent down suddenly. He took a .22 revolver out of a holster strapped tightly to his right leg.
Right then, the killer called the Hunter saw him.
The gunman’s right hand disappeared into his jacket. He was fast and smooth for such a large man. The very affected orange-red pompadour made most policemen underestimate his fighting skills.
The other hit man seemed to work in slow motion by comparison. He was moving, though, going for the kill out of synch with his partner.
Isiah Parker fired at Cacciatore first.
Cacciatore was hit and he crashed back through the restaurant window. His expensive black boots were suddenly up on the dining table. His body hung out through shattered glass onto Seventy-fourth Street. He was like a diver frozen in midair.
Parker’s gun flashed again.
The second assassin suddenly dropped his weapon, which clattered loudly. Then he fell awkwardly to the tile floor.
Parker had been grazed by the gunman’s first shot. His left cheek was burning. Customers in the restaurant were screaming, trying to get out onto Second Avenue, away from the sudden explosions of gunfire.
“I’m a police officer,” Parker said to anyone within hearing distance. “It’s all over! Everything’s all right. Everything’s all right now.”
It wasn’t all right, though, Isiah Parker knew.
Alexandre St.-Germain was coming after them. For some reason, he had waited—but now he was coming hard.
91
John Stefanovitch and Sarah McGinniss;
East Sixty-sixth Street
“GOOD EVENING, MRS. McGinniss. Evening to you, sir.”
“Hello, Mr. Sullivan,” Sarah said to the doorman posted inside the foyer of her building. Mr. Sullivan had once told Sarah he’d worked at the building for more than fifty-five years. He considered the tenants to