"All right," Jack said. "Let's plan it out."
"First thing I'll need to know is the location of the meeting. The exact location."
"I can get that." I think.
"Good. Next thing is, you've got to get yourself some hacking clothes."
"Such as?"
"Well, in the summer, when the AC is on, I use long Johns. But in the winter, it can get hot in those ducts. Even in the returns. So I'd recommend a lightweight coverall—sans buttons, or a rugby shirt and panty hose."
"Panty hose? Jeez, Dud!"
"You're gonna be belly-crawling every which way you can, Jack. You gotta be able to slide, man."
"Yeah… but pantyhose?"
Another Post headline flashed before his eyes:
PANTY-HOSED PEEPER PINCHED IN PIPES!
Jack said, "I'll go with the coveralls, I think. What else will I need?"
"A three-piece suit."
"Aw, no!"
2.
"Where did we meet?" Alicia said, cradling the phone against her shoulder as she unwrapped half a turkey sub from the Blimpie's down the block. "In Gordon Haffner's office. He's Thomas's lawyer."
She'd waited all morning to hear from Jack. He'd been so excited last night after finding that magic marker squiggle in the Hand Building lobby. He'd started babbling about building hackers—whatever they were—and somebody named Milkdud. He'd taken her home, checked out her apartment to make sure it was empty and secure, then left her, saying he'd call in the morning.
Well, he hadn't called. And she'd had some very bad moments walking to the hospital this morning. She'd kept to the center of the sidewalk, eyeing every van near the curb, every passerby, tensing at every set of hurried footsteps behind her. She'd never been so relieved to see the guard at the front door.
Her relief had turned to dismay when she saw Hector's blood culture report: Candida albicans, the opportunistic fungus that rode into AIDS patients on the backs of other infections. She'd added IV amphotericin B to the mix of meds flowing into Hector, and crossed her fingers.
His foster mother probably hadn't been giving him his prophylactic Diflucan either. At least Alicia hoped that was the reason for the infection. If not, it meant he'd picked up a resistant strain, and that could be bad. Very bad.
She took a bite of her sandwich. She hadn't had dinner last night, hadn't been able to stomach breakfast this morning; it had taken until noon for the thought of food to occur to her. And now, just as she was starting lunch at her desk, Jack called.
"Gordon Haffner," Jack said. "Where's his office on the floor?"
She swallowed. "I'm not sure."
"It's important, Alicia."
"All right, then. Let me think."
She replayed that afternoon in her mind, walking through the glass doors on the twenty-first floor with Leo Weinstein, sitting in the reception area, then being led down a hall to Haffner's office. She remembered looking out the window and seeing the blue canopy of the Chemists' Club across the street below.
"He overlooks Forty-fifth Street."
"That's a start. But I need to know exactly. Is it a corner office?"
"No. But it's right next to a corner office—the east corner."
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely. I remember thinking that Thomas might not have the top man in the firm, but he seems to have someone close to the top."
"The office next to the east corner overlooking Forty-fifth," Jack said. "Got it."
"What's up?" she said.
"You're going to have a meeting with Mr. Haffner Monday morning. You're going to tell him you're ready to sell the place."
She almost choked on a mouthful of turkey. She coughed and swallowed.
"Like hell, I am!"
"Easy. Just listen. You're going to ask an absurd amount, say, ten million."
"They'll never go for that."
"Of course not. The offer isn't the point. It's the meeting we want. I'll explain all the details later. Right now you should be freeing up Monday morning so you can be there. A guy named Sean O'Neill will be calling you this afternoon. He'll be your lawyer on Monday."
"My lawyer? But he doesn't know a thing about—"
"He doesn't need to, and believe me, he doesn't want to. Sean's greatest pleasure in life is driving other lawyers crazy. He'll set up the meeting for you."
She checked her calendar. Monday morning… she'd have to excuse herself from the monthly meeting of the infectious disease department… but nothing else was pressing.
"Okay. Can do it. But the earlier the better."
"Good. That makes two of us."
"This is all very weird, Jack. I'd like to know what's going on."
"I'll explain everything Sunday night when we have our rehearsal."
"Rehearsal?"
"Yeah. You, me, and Sean. But the important thing for you to know right now is that setting up this meeting with the lawyers gives us a breather. No one's going to be making another grab for you or threaten you if they think an agreement might be reached on Monday. That means you can stop looking over your shoulder—at least for the weekend."
"That's a relief."
"For both of us. Gotta run. Talk to you later."
And then he was gone.
Alicia hung up and attacked her sandwich with new gusto. She felt as if a lead weight had been removed from the pit of her stomach. She wouldn't have to live like a fugitive for the next couple of days.
But what on earth was Jack planning? And how reliable was he? Sure he seemed extraordinary with the strong-arm stuff, but this was different. He'd be dealing with a big law firm, some extremely sharp minds. Could a guy from the street outwit the Harvard grads on the twenty-first floor?
She didn't know, but if she had to bet, Alicia didn't think she'd risk her money on the suits.
3.
"Is that him?" Jack said as a new voice spoke from the cassette player's speaker.
Jorge shook his big head. He was dressed for business—his workday started when the offices began emptying—in a cutoff sweatshirt that exposed his thick arms to the shoulder.
The two of them sat in the cramped extra bedroom of Jorge's apartment that doubled as a business office. Down the hall his wife was clearing dinner while his two sons played the latest Mario; the apartment was redolent of spicy meat.
Jack fast-forwarded the tape, stopping and starting until he heard a new voice.
"How about this guy?"
Another head shake. "No. Not Ramirez."
"Better be soon," Jack said. "We're getting to the end of the tape."
Jorge had had one of his cousins slip the flyers under all the doors in Ramirez's building. The overkill had been necessary to keep Ramirez off guard. The flyer used the Hudak Realty letterhead but substitute a voice mail number Jack had rented, saying it was the direct line to David Johns, the Hudak agent who had an exclusive on this property. Jack had left an outgoing message saying that Mr. Johns was with a client and would get back to you as soon as possible.
He'd brought a tape of all the calls to Jorge's apartment.
"Maybe he's not interested," Jorge said.
"If what you told me about him is true," Jack said, "he'll call. He won't be able to resist. Just look at all these other—"
"There!" Jorge said as someone new spoke from the tape player. "That's him. That's the hijo de puta!"
Jack didn't know much Spanish, but he knew what that meant. He leaned back and listened to Ramirez's smooth, lightly accented voice. Obviously he'd been in the country longer than Jorge.