Undue attention.
He doesn’t want to alarm anyone. Not that there aren’t plenty of other people around the place now for them to be worried about.
Passersby, civilians, gawkers.
As the back doors of all three limos are being opened, Jimmy senses a collective, almost gravitational pull, a jolt, like an implosion, towards them. This is accompanied by a noticeable increase in the level of clicking and whirring.
From the first car, two ladies appear, in their forties, svelte and elegant. These, Jimmy takes it, are the Rundle wives. From the second car – slightly harder to see now, with the scramble intensifying – the Rundle brothers themselves appear, the senator with the wire brace on his hand and wrist, Clark instantly recognisable from photos in that Vanity Fair spread.
They all move from the kerb onto a carpet under the marquee. The pace is leisurely, and Jimmy has the impression that someone from inside the hotel has emerged to greet them. This causes a delay, as there seems to be some handshaking and small talk going on. It’s possible they’re doing this for the benefit of the photographers and camera crews, but Jimmy doesn’t mind, because standing in his direct line of vision at the moment – through an accidental configuration of the crowd, and it surely won’t last – is the only person here this morning he’s interested in seeing, Clark Rundle.
The chairman and CEO of BRX is tall and distinguished-looking, but in a central casting sort of way. Jimmy would love to be able to read his expression, to decode it, to pick up on something in it, vibes or a signal that would explain, or illuminate, but nothing like that happens.
It’s the face of a middle-aged business executive.
What did he expect?
And when a security guy moves and cuts off Jimmy’s line of vision, the face goes with it, instantly forgotten, the slate wiped clean.
A second or two later, with a further shift in the crowd formation, Jimmy catches a flash of the senator – telegenic smile in place as he greets someone in the line, pointing at them in recognition.
But then something happens.
From the other side of the street, just up a bit, there’s a sudden movement. A man breaks away from a line of people at the kerb and comes rushing across the street in a diagonal line towards the hotel entrance. He’s shouting, ‘Senator, Senator.’
Everyone turns and looks. The man is big, in a leather jacket, with a buzz cut and mirror shades.
Reaction is swift.
Two of the security detail double back around the main limousine and head straight into his path, blocking him from getting any further.
‘Senator,’ the man continues shouting, ‘tell us the truth, tell us where you were, tell us what you were doing.’
The security guys push him back, as others arrive to help.
Jimmy and everyone else – including those under the marquee – watch in shock for a couple of seconds. Then, as the senator starts to move, bodyguards bundling him inside, the man lunges forward once more, pushing against the security guys, and shouting, ‘Tell us about your trip to Buenke, Senator. Tell us what really happened.’
Jimmy freezes.
What?
The security guys shove the man back again and this time he breaks loose, taking a few steps away from them. ‘Assholes,’ he says, standing in the middle of the street now and starting to straighten his jacket. The security guys remain where they are, looking over their shoulders.
Jimmy glances back towards the marquee.
Gone.
Everyone inside, everyone who matters, the rest filtering in slowly, the show over.
Jimmy looks out at the street again. The security guys are shaking their heads at each other as the man in the leather jacket retreats, walking backwards for a bit, but then turning and striding off in the direction of Third Avenue.
A woman in front of Jimmy says to her companion, ‘What did that guy say?’
‘I don’t know, but what a freak.’
Jimmy stares at the backs of their heads.
Buenke.
He said Buenke.
He said tell us about your trip to Buenke.
Before he knows what he’s doing, Jimmy has skipped out onto the street and is crossing to the other side.
He walks quickly, glancing back every couple of seconds. When he gets to the corner, he turns right, and scans the sidewalk in front of him.
There he is, half a block away, buzz cut, black leather jacket.
Forward motion.
Keeping his distance, Jimmy follows.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.’
Standing at the light, waiting to cross at Fifty-seventh Street, Tom Szymanski’s insides feel like they’re being put through a meat grinder. He can’t believe it. That’s all he had to offer? That was his A game? Shouting out stuff like some fucking anti-globalisation protester at a G8 summit?
Really?
Jesus.
The light changes and he moves forward, no idea where he’s going, that stupid Lipstick Building a few blocks on making him queasy now just having to look at it.
What happened?
He was primed and ready and he could have done it, easily. Granted, there wouldn’t have been any fine marksmanship involved, but if he’d positioned himself across the street, up close, clear view.
One shot is all it would have taken.
To the chest, or head.
M9 sliding from his pocket, arm outstretched, element of surprise – it would have been a piece of cake.
So what stopped him?
He doesn’t know.
He’s too fucking self-aware, maybe, too analytical. Too able to see different points of view at the same time, a potentially lethal trait in this line of business.
He doesn’t know.
Too tired?
He tried to convince himself he was crazy – and he is, up to a point, sure, given what he’s seen – but he doesn’t have that extra bit of crazy that Ray Kroner had, the bit that presses too hard on whatever nerve ending it is that causes you to… flip. And maybe that’s it, to stand there in the street and shoot some bastard in cold blood you don’t even know, you’d absolutely have to flip. But for him, back there on Fifty-eighth Street, as he gazed across at the entrance to the hotel, fingering the gun in his pocket, he just knew it was never going to happen.
Not today, not ever.
Tom Szymanski, too sane to flip.
But where did that leave him? He still had his sense of outrage over Buenke, over the ‘incident’ and the subsequent lies, he still had his raw anger – so he ends up, what, powerless, screaming like a girl?
It’d be funny if it wasn’t so fucking tragic.
What actually is funny is that he’s now thinking about going back and retrieving his holdall from that dumpster.
Or looking for the nearest Duane Reade.
And it’s when he stops suddenly, and turns around, to scan this section of Third Avenue for the familiar signage, that something strikes him – it’s in his line of sight, a barely perceptible flicker, a reaction maybe to his own action of turning around. That guy at the kerb? The one over there at the camera store window?
Szymanski turns back and moves on.
Someone recognised him. He didn’t see Donald Ribcoff at any point, but so what?
Also, he said Buenke.
Which basically means he’s fucked. Because Szymanski understands how Gideon works. The company is like some primitive organism – it’s lean, it’s hungry, and self-preservation is about the sum total of what it knows. Walking on now, crossing Fifty-sixth Street, he can even imagine its physical presence, on his back – and not just eyes, human ones, tracking his every move, but laser pointers as well, from the surveillance equipment they’ll be using.