Neal thought he’d grabbed a glimpse of Crisp’s head bobbing in the crowd about a half block ahead, but then he lost it. If Colin beat him to the square without Neal getting a look at where he was headed, it could be all over. Colin could head anywhere from the south side of the square, leaving Neal only a guess and a desperate search through the local pubs. He quickened his pace, finding every hole in the crowd and moving through it. He worked his way to the edge of the crowd, figuring he could race ahead and maybe even beat Colin to the square. That’s when the cop grabbed him.
Neal stared up at the huge bobby, who had thrown an arm across his chest.
“Steady, lad,” the cop intoned. “Do you want to get run over?”
Neal saw the edge of the sidewalk under his feet and realized that he had been about to step into the street, where even now taxis were rushing past. His heart slowed to a mere race as he forced a smile and said, “No, sir. Thank you.”
He thought that he’d rather get creamed by the fucking cab than lose Colin and Allie, which was exactly what he was doing. They had to be in the square by now, and unless they were going there to hang out, he might have blown his last chance.
The signal changed and Neal ran across the street onto the broad sidewalk that made up the northwest corner of the square. No Colin, no Allie, no crew cut, no Crisp. Go fish. In fact, he couldn’t see a goddamn thing with all the people out there. The unpleasant buzz of panic filled his ears for a second. Then he had a “just might work” idea. He crossed the north sidewalk, walking away from the square, and ran up a flight of stairs on the outside of the corner building. This was a second-floor restaurant, where a few tables looked out onto the square. He walked in. The place was packed and there was a line. Neal sidled his way up to the headwaiter. (He never suspected that his life would be so much in the hands of London’s headwaiters.)
“Sir,” said this one in a voice that told Neal that these guys must all go to school together, “perhaps you noticed the people in queue behind you?”
“I’m meeting friends,” Neal said, “and I’m very late.”
“And do your friends have names, sir?”
Tick, tick, tick. Maybe the old lapel trick…
“Lord and Lady Hectare,” Neal said as he stood on tiptoes and waved to an old couple seated by the window. The puzzled old gentleman waved back feebly, just in time for the guard at the gate to see.
“Bring another chair, could you?” Neal said before the waiter had a chance to check his reservation list. Neal was gambling that the waiter wouldn’t fuck around with any friend of the nobility anyway, and he headed straight for the table and stood over the couple, smiling his most ingratiating smile.
“Hello,” Neal said as he peered out the window. “You don’t know me from a hole in the manor wall, but I just need to stand here for a moment or so and look out the window.” He scanned the square from left to right, farthest to nearest, and perhaps…
“Now see here,” the old man was saying.
“Exactly,” answered Neal. “I thought I saw a very rare Bumbailey’s pigeon a moment ago land in a tree in the square. I just couldn’t pass up a chance to spot it and add it to my list.”
“A Bumbailey’s pigeon!” the woman exclaimed. “I’ve never seen one, either!” She turned to look out the window.
“Balls,” the old man said.
“I think it’s a female, actually. Of course, I only got a brief look at it.” There they were, headed down the west side of the square, not stopping for anything, presenting Neal with the perfect Hobson’s choice. He could stand up here and watch them walk out of range, or he could run down into the square and lose sight of them.
“I have my opera glasses in my bag,” the woman was saying. Neal wasn’t listening. He was swallowing the bitter taste of fucking it up good. Bumbailey’s pigeon, indeed. He was about to run for the stairs and give it a futile shot when he heard the sound of drums and cymbals, and saw Colin and his trio stop dead in their tracks and try to turn around. Too late. A crowd formed in back of them, and in front of them were the Hare Krishnas, fifty of them at least, snaking their way up the west edge of the square in perfect formation. As the lead members started to circle around Colin and Allie, Neal smiled a long smile. Maybe there is a God, he thought. Hare Krishna, Hare Hare.
“I think I see it!” the woman shouted. Other diners turned to stare at her. “A Bumbailey’s pigeon,” she explained patiently.
“I guess I’ll be running along,” Neal said. “Thanks.” He made his way back to the foyer.
“Is something wrong, sir?” asked the headwaiter.
Neal looked at him with disgust. “That isn’t Lord Hectare.”
Then he went to join the parade.
They’re pretty impressive, these Hare Krishnas, Neal thought as he joined the edge of the crowd of spectators. I mean, you always think of them as airheads, but they know how to throw a parade. And Colin certainly looks happy, trapped in the middle of their intricately weaving patterns and all red in the face and staring at the ground, while Allie laughs and sings along.
Neal worked his way around the chanting procession to put himself in Colin’s path. He found himself standing beside Charlie Chaplin’s statue. Never one to disregard a prop, he casually leaned against the statue and faced front, watching the Hares jingle, bang, and chant with bemused detachment. Ultimate cool. This also gave him time to catch his breath and stop sweating in streams.
He was the first thing Colin saw as the figures finally cleared the way. Colin looked out past the last swirling Krishna to see Neal, one foot planted against the statue, grinning at him. Colin didn’t believe in coincidence. In his business, as in Neal’s, there is a word for people who do believe in coincidence: victims. He matched Neal’s grin and walked carefully toward him. Neal didn’t move, and the smile didn’t fade, and Colin didn’t like that one little effing bit. This was his turf.
Neal watched him coming, and also watched Crisp work his way around to Neal’s left. A minor tactical error, Neal thought, as you should always play the odds that your adversary is right-handed and place yourself in position to grab that hand before it can do something nasty to your boss. Unless, of course, you’re carrying something far nastier and don’t mind using it. Neal pushed that ugly thought from his head and kept smiling as Colin came right up into his face.
Neal got off first. “I liked your Alex and his Droogs act in the restaurant.”
“It’s no act, rugger.”
“No offense. Everybody has an act.”
“What’s yours?” He was still smiling, but Neal saw the edge behind it. He wanted to start crying and say it was all a mistake.
Instead he said, “I steal wallets.”
Colin’s eyes turned killer cold. The smile vanished into a frown. He shook his head slowly back and forth while Crisp waited for the order to bash Neal’s head in. Neal could see Allie over Colin’s shoulder, observing the scene with a petulant sneer. Neal knew he could duck Crisp’s first shot. It was the second and third that had him worried, never mind what Colin might decide to contribute. Bright idea, he thought, trapping yourself against a statue. Very clever.
Colin finally spoke. “Now why did you have to tell me, sports fan? You had a nice thing going, the bit about returning my purse and all, and then you have to ball it up and fookin’ tell me about it!”
Neal wasn’t sure, but he thought the speech had the whiny tone produced by the last straw on a bad day. He sensed that Colin was more embarrassed than angry, and he almost started breathing again. On the other hand, he’d seen embarrassed people do some pretty wicked things.