"Me?"
"You dropped this."
The figure was holding a small folded slip of paper in one of his thick armored gloves. Winters blinked.
"I did?"
The figure held out the slip of paper. "Take it, it's yours."
Winters took the paper. The figure turned on its steelshod heel and walked away. Winters stared after it. It made no more sense than a visitation from Mars. Without thinking, he unfolded the paper.
Call from a pay phone.
Winters could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise. It was the signal. The Magicians wanted him. He was not sure why it had been delivered with such a splendid show of force, but he was completely impressed and not a little scared. He quickly refolded the paper and, concealing it in his hand, hurried for the locker room and his street clothes.
He walked three blocks from Astor Place before he started looking for a pay phone. Somehow calling from right outside the CCC complex did not seem appropriate.
The first phone he came across was broken. It had been smashed by vandals. The slogan "There will be a cleansing of the temple " had been scrawled across the coin box. He walked on and found a pair that looked as if they were in working order by the entrance to the subway on Lafayette. A couple of drug-addict types were lurking by the phones. They seemed to be waiting for one or both of them to ring. As Winters walked up, they looked at him suspiciously, held a fast, muttered conversation, and moved off. Winters quickly keyed in the number. It rang four times and then a machine answered.
"Repeat this phrase for voice identification."
Winters waited for a few seconds before realizing that that was the phrase that he was supposed to repeat. He felt a little ridiculous as he mouthed the words into the mouthpiece. "Repeat this phrase for voice identification."
There were a series of pulses on the line. His voice must have passed the test, because a second tape was activated.
"Be on the corner of Broadway and Twenty-sixth Street at four forty-five a.m. tomorrow. Wear dark, serviceable clothes. You will be picked up."
The message repeated once and stopped. Winters slowly hung up. He was in. They were going to kill Carlisle, and he was to be part of the team.
Kline
It was five-fifteen in the morning and the phone was ringing. Cynthia Kline jerked awake with the reflexes of someone trained to expect trouble at all times. She snatched for the handset from inside the cocoon of blankets. Harry Carlisle muttered in his sleep.
"If it's for me, I'm not here."
"Hello." Her voice was neutral and tentative.
"Cynthia?"
"Who's this?"
"It's Laura at C86. We're having a panic here. Can you come in?"
Cynthia groaned. "Do you know what time it is?"
Laura did not sound too pleased with Cynthia's response. "I know what time it is. I've been here all night. This is important."
"Okay, okay. I'll get there as fast as I can."
She sat up in bed but hesitated before she turned on the light. She had to do something about Harry. She was not comfortable with the idea of leaving him alone in her apartment. She was confident that there was nothing glaring that would give her away in a routine search, but it was a different matter having a trained detective hanging around there. They got impressions from random patterns, things that other people did not even see. No matter what she felt about him, he was still a cop.
As she shook him gently by the shoulder to wake him she felt bad. He had looked so exhausted when he had finally showed up around one-thirty, and even now he had been asleep for less than two hours.
"Harry, wake up. The office called, and I have to go in."
Harry Carlisle blinked. He did not seem to be quite sure of where he was. "What office?"
"I just got a call from C86. They're having some sort of emergency and they want me to come in."
Harry yawned. "C86 doesn't have emergencies. It's just a bimbo pool for the deacon brass."
Cynthia glared at him. "That's a fucking sexist remark."
"That's probably the first time the phrase 'fucking sexist' has been heard south of the Canadian border in a coon's age. Besides, you told me yourself that it was a bimbo pool, or as good as. I think you were being a little more ladylike at the time."
Cynthia didn't know whether to blush or go white. She'd made a bad slip. Only someone who had recently been out of the country, where they still used phrases like that, would call something 'fucking sexist'. His mention of the Canadian border was too close to home. The best she could do was to give him a defiant look. "Sometimes I revert."
"I'm glad to hear it."
He did not seem to want to pursue it. She lit a cigarette.
"Listen, Harry, I guess I ought to get going."
"And you figure that I ought to get going, too?"
"I didn't say that. Really, if you – "
"Nobody wants someone else alone in their apartment."
The more he came awake, the more he seemed to grasp the situation. He started to climb wearily out of bed. Cynthia felt bad.
"You don't mind?"
"Hell, no. I need to go back and get a clean shirt."
"You want some coffee?"
Carlisle shook his head. "Just give me a cigarette. I'll go straight to bed when I get to my place and sleep until somebody demands that I get up."
He was gathering his clothes.
Winters
Winters was on the corner of Twenty-sixth and Broadway fifteen minutes before the appointed time. He was all but dressed for a commando raid in a black nylon windbreaker, a black rollneck, black sweat pants, and running shoes, not his expensive Reeboks but a pair of beat-up Converse All Stars. All he had in his pockets was a compact 9mm automatic and a hundred dollars. He had left all of his identification back in his room, just to be on the safe side.
There was a definite chill in the air, but the way that he jogged on the spot, like a fighter warming up for the ring, was more from nervous energy than cold. A helicopter – it sounded like a Cobra – rattled overhead. Winters stepped lightly back into a doorway. He did not want to be seen by any kind of authority. He looked too much as if he was on his way to commit a crime, which, in some respects, he was. As the sound of the chopper faded, he emerged onto the sidewalk again. He peered anxiously up Broadway, but the early-morning streets were deserted. There were just the cardboard boxes in which the vagrants nested. One had a small garbage fire going in front of it.
There was the tiptap of high heels behind him, coming down.Twenty-sixth Street. It was a woman, walking unsteadily. At first, he could only see her in silhouette, but when she came into the glow of a lighted street lamp, her spandex pants, sequined tube top, and exaggerated shoes told him immediately that she was a prostitute, probably one of the bottom-rung street women who tried to scratch a living among the cardboard-box people. Her makeup was smeared, and she was having trouble focusing her eyes. It was obviously the end of a long evening. When she saw Winters, she increased the swing in her walk.
"You're up late."
Something really had to be done about the number of whores in the city and the shamelessness of their behavior, Winters thought. It seemed that, each time he looked, there were more of them, in more blatant states of seminudity. A serious crackdown was needed.
"What's the matter? Lost your voice?" She stopped in front of him. "Feel like a blow job to go to bed with?"
Winters eyes bugged out of his head. "I – I'm not going to bed."
It had taken him a second to gird his moral authority around him.
The prostitute shrugged. "So call it breakfast. Only cost you fifty."
There was a car coming down Broadway. Winters hissed at the woman. "Go away."