The man standing on Grafton’s porch must have been frustrated. The party was unexpected. The witnesses might be a fatal problem. And he still wasn’t in Grafton’s house.
He turned back to the door, worked on the lock.
Jake tried to remember if he had used the key to lock the dead bolt or merely pulled the door shut until it latched.
No dead bolt, apparently. Thirty seconds after he attacked the lock, the man on the stoop opened the door. And disappeared inside.
There were at least eight people on the porch of the house across the street, drinking beer, laughing, talking loudly over the music. There was an elderly lady who lived on this side of the street who routinely called the police when parties got loud. Jake wondered if she was there tonight. If she was, this situation could get interesting.
The man in front of Jake picked that moment to move to a position where he could get a better view of the party. When his back was completely turned, Jake extracted the muzzle of the submachine gun from the bush and leveled it.
“Freeze,” he said in a low, conversational tone, “or I am going to splatter you all over that car.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
We locked up the van and strolled across the street to a bar on the corner. Inside were small tables along the window where we could watch sidewalk traffic and people coming and going from the Hilton. If I craned my head I could see the side of our parked van. There was a television truck of some kind in front of it, so the side was all I could see. Willie Varner ordered a beer and I ordered coffee.
When the waiter left, Willie said, “Okay, man, what’s going down?”
“Grafton says he’s got it.”
“Got what?”
“It, goddamnit.”
Willie nodded vigorously. “Fuckin’ it, man. He’s got it and I’ve been lookin’ for it all my life. That what you’re sayin’?”
“Yeah.”
“So why’d we bail out of the van?”
“Shit happens.”
“You mean there’s a good chance another bunch of assholes are lookin’ for us?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Why take a chance when we can sit here drinking beer and good coffee?”
“Well, I’m here to tell you, I really hope Grafton does have it! I’m tired of that crappy little motel room in New Jersey and tired of New York and tired of that van and tired of you.”
“Okay.” I was watching people on the street, looking for folks I might recognize. Didn’t see a one. Amazing, isn’t it, how with all the millions of people in New York, everyone is a stranger.
The drinks arrived, and Willie drank deeply of his beer. When he put the mug down he sighed. “I want to go back to the neighborhood, man, where I can sit at my window and watch the kids sell crack. Watch the po-lice hassle the niggers ’cause they’re poor and black. Watch the winos get drunk and vomit and sleep it off on the sidewalk. Watch the buildings crumble down.” He took another long swallow of beer.
“Home sweet home,” I said.
“Manhattan ain’t America. Too busy, y’know? Ever’body goin’ somewhere to do somethin’, ever’body in a hurry, all day, all night, ever’ day. Never stops. Wears you out just watchin’.”
He finished the beer and signaled the waiter for another. I called Sarah Houston.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.”
“We’re in a bar across the street from the van. Keep an eye on the penthouse video, will you?”
“How long have you been there?”
“Oh, ten minutes or so.”
“Then you missed the show. Zooey Sonnenberg went into Royston’s suite five minutes ago. You would have thought she was Britney Spears or the queen of Xanadu from the way those fools were acting.”
“I have a weak stomach. Glad I missed it.”
“So why are you in a bar?”
“Grafton thought it would be a good idea. He’ll be here in a couple of hours. I’ve got my cell.”
“Stay sober,” she remarked, and hung up.
Willie wiped the beer foam off his lips and asked, “What’s the it that Grafton’s got?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or you ain’t tellin’.”
“One or the other.”
For Jake Grafton time seemed to stop. The gunman ten feet in front of him against the car was frozen like a statue, across the street was another gunman who didn’t know what was happening on this side, and two killers were double-parked near his house while they searched it, looking for him and Callie and the Russian archivist. Both sides of the street were lined with cars. Over this tableau floated the sound of rock music, loud voices, and laughter. At least ten people were crowded onto the porch of the party house, having a fine old time.
“Are you Grafton?” the man in front of his gun muzzle said, barely loudly enough to be heard.
“Yes.”
“It’s Goncharov we want, not you and your wife.”
When Jake didn’t reply, the man shifted his weight slightly. “You’re one trigger squeeze away from the Pearly Gates, Jack,” the admiral said softly, which stopped all movement.
“Tell us where Goncharov is and we’ll let you go.”
“You’re not a very good liar.”
“These are very heavy people. Regardless of what happens here in the next few minutes, if they want you, you’re dead.”
“They want Goncharov and he’s still breathing.”
“Not for long.”
Seconds ticked past. One of the women on the porch began taking off her blouse as her audience clapped and urged her on.
“How long are we going to do this Mexican standoff?” the man asked.
“Until I let you move.”
Jake could see him breathing deeply, thinking.
“Maybe you should drop the weapon before you get tempted.”
The man released his gun, and it fell with an audible clatter on the gravel. In the darkness it was hard to see what it was, but it appeared to be a submachine gun of some sort.
“You know,” the man said, his tone matter-of-fact, “I’m thinking of walking across that boardwalk and up the beach.”
“Your funeral.”
“Those guys come out of your house, they’re going to come looking for me and the guy across the street.”
“I’ve got enough bullets for them, too.”
The girl on the porch threw her bra onto the lawn as her audience cheered appreciatively.
“When they come out of that house,” the gunman said just loudly enough for Jake to hear, “I’m going to leave my weapon where it is, get up, and walk toward the boardwalk to the beach.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You won’t shoot me in the back.”
“This isn’t a cowboy movie. Why don’t you just lie down right where you are and put your hands behind your head? Tomorrow you’ll still be alive.”
Perhaps the man would have obeyed the admiral if he had had time to think about it. But time was up. A bus braked to a halt on the highway, blocking the entrance to the street, and a dozen soldiers carrying weapons piled out of the door and came running down the street.
The man in front of Jake simply started to his left, toward the boardwalk and the darkness beyond it. He walked normally, his hands at his sides.
Jake Grafton pointed the MP-5 at the center of his back and pulled the trigger. The silenced weapon bucked and coughed; five bullets hammered the gunman to the ground before Jake released the trigger.
“There’s two of them in the house,” Grafton roared at the top of his lungs.