The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [144]
“Mister …”
The first bullet tore through his neck even as he turned toward the voice, followed by a mighty kick to his chest. The hatchback’s bumper raced to crash against his head, but he didn’t feel a thing.
In another few minutes, Ritter crossed Bladensburg Road and took a left turn to head down 22nd Street to the sanctity of Letters—a curious mix of bookstore and coffee shop frequented by literary buffs.
As he entered, Ritter darted a quick glance through the room, his gaze stopping at a table where a tall man with an impressive leonine mop of white hair was extolling Thomas Wolfe’s stream-of-consciousness virtuosity. He stepped over to a tiny bar counter.
“What can I tempt you with?”
“A smile?”
Lucia Fosse blinked, the skin around her mouth crackling under countless coats of thickly applied makeup. “Trying to seduce a working girl?”
“One day I might get lucky.”
She poured a mug of coffee from a carafe and slid it before him. “Perhaps one day.”
Ritter sipped the coffee and made a face. “Yesterday’s?”
“Almost closing time, but for you I’ll brew a fresh pot.”
“Forget it.” Ritter darted another glance around. “I need to get out the back.”
Lucia raised an eyebrow and her face cracked even more. Then she frowned, reached to the side for a pair of tiny reading glasses, and held them before her eyes, inspecting the myriad cuts on his face and head. “A husband?”
“A father.”
“I see. Messing about with the preacher’s daughter?”
Ritter pushed the mug away. “The father I’m talking about wields convincing arguments. A sawed-off shotgun.”
“I told you to keep clear of the mob’s goods.” She glanced at a ridiculously small wristwatch. “I’ll give you a lift in forty-five minutes.”
“I don’t have that long. Could you get me a cab?”
Lucia looked over his shoulder toward the sidewalk before searching his face again. “Go sit at the back. I’ll call a cousin.”
He held her gaze for a heartbeat and moved to reach for his billfold. She laid fingers with inch-long nails on his sleeve and squeezed. “On the house.”
Lucia’s cousin pulled around the back of the shop within ten minutes, driving a nondescript black sedan sorely begging for a merciful last trip to the scrap yard. Yet Ritter had to concede the engine sounded remarkably younger than the thing looked. A quiet man with hands much too large for the steering wheel, the driver kept his eyes on the windshield and didn’t utter a word when Ritter slid onto the rear seat. He shifted the vehicle into gear and stopped at the end of the alley.
“Galesville,” Ritter said.
Even though the directions were impossibly vague, the driver didn’t comment. He kept the engine idling inside the alley, waiting. When the lights changed at the nearest intersection, he slipped smoothly into the incoming traffic, eyes constantly darting between an oversize overhead mirror and smaller ones on the doors. Ritter suppressed a smile and made a mental note to send Lucia flowers, chocolates, and the works. Then he relaxed a notch, slid down onto the backrest, and reached for his pager.
HEAVEN? he typed. He reread the single word, entered the recipient, and pressed send.
On Atlantic Avenue, the driver kept his speed within legal limits, frequently changing lanes and adjusting to traffic conditions.
In his hand, the pager beeped: 653 LOWERSIDE RD.
Ritter stared at the unknown address for several heartbeats before the ploy registered. He leaned forward and read the address aloud. The driver nodded, reached to the dashboard, flicked a switch, and a GPS panel came alive. After entering the details, he resumed his careful maneuvering between the lanes. Fifteen minutes later, the car slipped onto Pennsylvania Avenue, then followed Southern Maryland Boulevard to the Greenock Road junction,