“Everything all right, officer? We’ve had our IDs checked already,”
“Sorry, but you’re in violation,” the cop pointed back in the direction of Broadway. “You’ve stopped under the ‘no-stopping’ sign.”
He bent down and peered inside. He saw Binelli, nodded and reached into his pocket for a receipt book.
“I want you to cut the engine and step out of the car,” Binelli heard as he went back to his newspaper. He lowered it rumpling the paper to attract the cop’s attention.
“I’m afraid I’m pressed for time, officer,” he said, impatient. “You can follow us if you wish and write us a ticket when we arrive.”
The officer stepped back, undid his holster and laid his hand on his gun.
“Step out!” he shouted.
Binelli knew he’d overdone it. No sense arguing: the Shelby case had the police on their toes. They’d already lost several patrolmen, a whole station had been razed to the ground, and now the Feds had taken over their case. Any moment, the President would arrive, and he wasn’t going to commend them, either. Quite the opposite: heads would roll.
“Let’s get out,” Binelli ordered, then added under his breath, “Get this motherfucker’s badge number, and I expect him out of the department by this time tomorrow.”
His order distracted the bodyguard. It took him a split second longer to get out of the car and open Binelli’s door. The bodyguard never made it. He shrieked and collapsed in his seat.
The next moment, the driver was pushed back inside. A bone snapped with a crunch, followed by a shriek and a honk as an assaulting hand brushed the steering wheel.
A brightly-clad figure flashed behind the window to Binelli’s right. The door flung open, and the large heavy worker in the dust mask jumped onto the seat next to him.
Easily moving his wrestler’s body, he helped the traffic cop to drag the stunned driver into the passenger’s seat. Binelli had no idea what was going on. He just stared at his staff hunched up in the front.
The traffic cop pulled his helmet off exposing a gray crew cut. He peeled off his uniform and threw it in the back.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Fine,” the worker boomed into his mask. “May I?”
Binelli startled. They removed his fedora and replaced it with the hard hat.
“Hurry up,” the cop said as he changed into a business suit.
“Where did you get the bike?” the wrester slammed Binelli’s fedora onto his head and pulled off his orange jacket. “The agreement was, you’d get a patrol car. You were late, too. You nearly missed us.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“One of those things.” The driver’s seat slid toward Binelli, its back stood upright. The fake traffic cop adjusted the steering wheel and buckled up. “Don’t worry, no bones broken.”
“And-” the wrestler stopped. His brother in crime turned, peering at Binelli between the seats, and added that the chloroformed bike owner was now sleeping it off in a grocery backroom nearby.
Now the fake cop wore a business suit a shade lighter than Binelli’s driver. He started the car, backed up, nearly hit the bike and turned the steering wheel all the way to the right. The tires mounted the sidewalk, and the man stepped on the gas.
The massive car lunged forward, bouncing on its shock dampers. The front wheels skidded, the bumper brushed the pavement, and the car dashed out onto the intersection jumping the already flashing green traffic light.
The limo straightened up. The momentum pushed Binelli into the seat, the hard hat saving his head from hitting the door. Someone jerked him back up.
“Take your clothes off,” the wrestler said.
Binelli still couldn’t make out his face from behind the dust mask and hat.
“Don’t make me ask you twice,” the man said.
Binelli’s throat made a gruff sound. He tried to move but fear paralyzed his muscles.
“Sorry, Joe,” the wrestler looked into Binelli’s eyes. “You’re obliging me.”
He raised his hand. Strong fingers squeezed Binerlli’s throat. The world started to fade. The last thing he heard was the driver’s “What a muppet!”
The elevator went down, silent but for the rustle of the aircon. Only the floor numbers flashing on the screen told Frank it was moving. The hidden stare of the camera made him nervous. He looked down, his hand feeling the edge of the fat file under his arm. Maggie stood by his side. Together they were descending to Memoria’s underground parking lot.
“They only check cars when they pass through the gate,” she mouthed and touched his hand.
He looked at her. Maggie gave him a reassuring smile.
“They never check the manager’s car. That would be against company rules. We’ll make it. Just do as we planned and try to merge in with the others. You’re already in.”
Frank nodded. Easier said than done. He couldn’t shrug off the feeling that they could be exposed at any moment. He smoothed out his auburn wig and fingered the file again.
“In ten minutes, the media accreditation will be over,” Maggie reminded. “They’ll seal the building. We’ll have twenty minutes.”
“I know,” Frank squinted at the girl. Her face was calm. A smile played on her lips. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“What for?” Maggie looked up at him.
“For all your help, all of you. For believing me. For not asking questions. I’ve dragged you all into this. You could have opted out…”
“It’s not that,” her face turned serious. “Uncle Max saved Dad’s life during the war. Had Dad died then, I wouldn’t be around, either. I never forget that. Uncle Max is my family.”
Her words hurt him.
“Mine, too. More than anyone,” Frank admitted. “My parents died young. And how about-” he stopped, but Maggie must have read his thoughts. She answered,
“My Mum died, not so long ago. Cancer. Dad couldn’t get over it. Had it not been for Uncle Max…”
The elevator reached their level and chimed. The doors slid open, exposing dimly-lit rows of columns supporting the concrete ceiling. The underground parking stood empty as most of the staff had obeyed the management orders and stayed at home.
Frank and Maggie walked out of the elevator and stopped in the driveway, looking around. From afar, a motor purred. Tires squealed on the tarmac. Xenon lights sliced the vast darkness.
The next moment, an armored limo braked in the driveway. The back door swung open, letting out a tall stocky man. He wore an unbuttoned light gray coat and a fedora hat. Large shades concealed his face. Under the coat, Frank could see a striped black suit and a bright-blue tie on the man’s dress shirt. A diamond glistened in his tie clip.
Maggie clasped Frank’s hand. Her nails dug into his skin as she stared, breathless, at the arriving manager.
“How about someone helps me with my stuff?” a familiar deep voice echoed in the parking lot.
“Dad!” Maggie exhaled.
“Pardon?” Barney pushed his shades to the end of his nose and looked around. “What was it you said, Ms. Douggan?
“Oh. Sorry, sir. I’m so sorry.” Maggie’s stilettos clicked on the concrete as she hurried to the car. “I’m so nervous, sir. It’s such a special day for all of us…”
Frank let out a sigh of relief. He’d already imagined this was the real Binelli, therefore their plan had failed. All the consequences had flashed through his head. He didn’t expect Barney to be so good at impersonating. It was strange to see him without his mustache and wearing an expensive suit and coat.
Frank strode toward the girl and handed her the file. He nodded to Douggan/Binelli and glanced inside the car. The driver and the bodyguard lay bound on the floor, and the half-naked manager, on the back seat.