“I think you’re taking this spy shit a little too seriously.”
“After seeing what happened on the front lawn of the mansion, I’m taking everything seriously.”
“Except your own antics. You need to buckle down, son, and think with a clear head.”
Art was right. A few seconds ago, Ethan had been lobbing wisecracks at his partner, just like any other day. Maybe his subconscious wanted to pretend things were still normal, but recent events indicated anything but the norm. “Okay, I hear you, Art, but you have to trust me.”
There was another sigh from across the line, but this one was not filled with skepticism. “So you’re serious. Your uncle was mixed up with Ruskies? And they’re in New York?”
“Not sure, maybe even more than just New York.”
The doors of the library opened and Lucy Nevares exited the building, trotting down the stairs with her head buried in her book. He hoped she made it safely home without crashing into a light pole or something. Must be a really good book. Maybe he should check it out sometime.
“Alright, I’ll put some feelers out,” Art was saying, but his voice held a tone that said Ethan shouldn’t expect much from his efforts.
“Thanks, man. So, has anything else been happening?”
“Fredericks is pissed that he doesn’t know where you are, and your uncle’s lawyer called several times.”
“Why?”
“Why? Your uncle had a fortune, and guess who gets all of it — minus the government’s share?”
“Oh yeah, right.”
Art grunted his annoyance at Ethan’s cavalier attitude in the face of overnight wealth. “Anyway, he wants to talk with you soon to discuss the transference of Tobias’s assets.
“It’s J.B. Wilcox and Sons right?”
“Yep, that’s the one. Do you need his office number?”
Ethan hefted the duffel bag higher on his shoulder. “Nah, I have it somewhere at my house, but if he calls back just tell him to send everything to me at my post office box.” He hesitated, then decided to tell Art about what happened at the Elysium Terrace. “Some guys were searching my apartment this morning and I won’t be going back. They gunned down a man right there on the street like it was just a normal Tuesday morning.”
Art sucked in a breath. “Jesus, man — are you okay? What the hell?”
“I’m fine, but I’m not going back there for a while yet. I know it’s not your jurisdiction, but if you get a moment, can you check into that too?”
“Will do,” Art said. “So when I comb the streets how do I get in touch with you, or are you going to keep up this cloak and dagger crap?” The words were lighthearted, but Ethan could hear the undertone of concern in Art’s voice.
“I’m staying at The Cozy Clam.”
“Sounds unsavory.”
“It is. I’m pretty sure my room came with a dead hooker under the bed, but at least I have someone to keep me company.”
“I feel sorry for the dead working girl already.”
“At least you didn’t lose all your humor with old age along with your hair.”
A soft hmpf came over the line and Ethan smiled. The banter felt good, however brief.
“I’ll be back at the Clam tonight,” Ethan said. “I’m staying under the name of ‘Cash’; call when you find out anything.”
“Sounds good.”
“Thanks, Art, and one more thing … I’m not kidding when I say this, but be careful.”
14
Juan Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
Why was he even here at this hour? Was there any credibility to Ethan’s claims? These were the questions that kept coming to Art as he drove to his destination. The answer was always the same. Despite Ethan’s younger age, the man had an intuition that couldn’t be ignored. As outrageous as it sounded, Ethan seemed convinced, and Art knew he would never have lied about that message. That, and Art’s loyalty to his partner was the deciding factor; he would labor into this for him. It would be the first time, however, that he hoped Ethan was misguided. Art prayed it was just the turmoil of losing a loved one that was bringing Ethan to these strange conclusions, and he was hopeful he could deliver a message that would quell his partner’s fears.
The wheels of his Oldsmobile brushed against the curb as he came to a stop. He pushed the driver door open with his leg as he stepped out of his vehicle into the cool night air. Because he was in the Bronx, he made sure to lock the door before crossing the street to the trashy looking apartment building that was his destination.
Almost the instant his heel made contact with the sidewalk, a member of the local talent initiated conversation.
“Hey sweetie, mama’s got something that’ll make ya forget all ‘bout dat wedding band,” a husky voice called out to him.
“Get lost sister, I’m a cop,” Art growled, not even bothering to flash his badge.
At the word cop, she spun on her clunky ten dollar heels and stumbled away as fast as her bony and bruise-mottled legs could take her. She rounded the corner — to plague another intersection, most likely. Art shook his head in disgust. He didn’t have the time to take in a street walking tramp. The sad thing was, it wasn’t jail that would do her harm, but the beating she would get from her pimp for soliciting a cop that could get her killed.
In the few seconds it took him to cross the street to the tenement building, Art had witnessed numerous illegal activities. Fighting crime was practically a losing battle — like the plant life around the city attempting to take back the concrete jungle. Police officers throughout New York struggled to lay their claim on promoting civility and obedience of the law to all residents, legal or otherwise, but when gangs were pushed out of one locale, a new turf would be established mere blocks away.
As it had many times before, frustration surged in him at the hopeless situation. Would it always be this way? Did his service matter — was it worth anything? He had to believe it was; if even one life was saved from his efforts he’d keep going. How many had been lost already? He’d stopped counting years ago. But he hoped that before he retired his shield and hung up his holster the scales would be balanced.
He entered the rundown complex and climbed four sets of stairs before coming to the door he needed: 4D. It had taken him less than an hour to track down the scumbag he was looking for; now here he was, pounding on the door. Art waited a full twenty seconds before doing so again with more urgency.
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’!” a heavily accented voice said from inside the apartment.
The door cracked open, and instant recognition flashed on Juan Bracamontes’ face at the sight of Detective Arthur Hansen standing in the hallway.
“Oh shit!” The door slammed closed, its dead bolt snapping into place. Art heard the clumsy scramble of feet moving across the room.
He’s running! Art withdrew his Colt .45 and smashed the heel of his shoe into the old door, shattering the lock from its frame. Why do they always run?
15
B*A*S*H
The musty smell of old cigarettes permeated the air and clung to the walls of Interrogation Room Two. Art stood by the metal table in the middle of the room, perusing some papers in a dark brown dossier that was clasped in his meaty hands. At six foot six, he struck an imposing figure and had a reputation of effective intimidation when he questioned suspects. Size was relative here in the confined space of the low-ceilinged room, and Art’s hulking shape alone was often his most effective tool.