David finished the beer, dropped a twenty on the bar and handed Willie his card, asking to be notified if he came across any useful information.
"About what I expected," David said as they walked to the Mercedes. "A minus one."
In the car, he felt his cellular phone's vibration and checked his watch. It was five-ten.
"He just left," Kathy said, her voice a shade above a whisper.
"Who just left?"
"Nick. He said again he's going up to the North End. Are you still there?"
"We were about to leave, but not now. A white Park Avenue, right?"
"Right."
"Is he alone?"
"He left here alone. Did you find out anything?"
"Nothing more than I could have by phone. At least so far."
David drove up and down several dimly lit side streets, settling on the darkest one. He parked the car in shadows, a vantage point allowing full view of the moonlit Blue Rock and, if he leaned forward, the two other bars as well.
"Wake me if there's any action," Musco said, yawning.
David used the time to evaluate the encounter with Willie Daniels and the up-front behavior of Nick Medicore. Despite a minus-one answer and the blank face, big guy Willie knows more than he lets on. His face was too blank. And Nick? Why wouldn't professional police procedure dictate being up-front with a colleague? But if his intentions are other than professional, then the announcement to Kathy was pretty clever: eliminate any suspicion over his presence in the North End.
In an hour's worth of ten minutes, a white Buick angled into a parking space in front of the Blue Rock. David checked his watch; it was five-thirty. He decided to hold off waking Musco and arched back in his seat. Nick emerged from the car and walked around to the sidewalk. Under a lamplight, he tugged on the brim of his fedora, flicked a cigarette into the gutter and looked up and down the street. He took two steps back toward the curb and checked the crude and faded signs above the row of establishments.
David watched as Nick went into the bar to the left of the Blue Rock. He came out in three minutes. Nick repeated the procedure with the bar to the right before finally entering the Rock, staying three minutes, getting into his car and driving off.
David had a choice of tailing the Buick or questioning Willie. "C'mon, let's go," he said, shaking Musco. They reentered the cafe.
"Would you mind telling me what the fellow who just left wanted-or is it too personal?" David asked, after motioning Willie to the end of the bar.
"No problem. He flashed a badge and did what you did. He showed me two pictures and asked if I'd seen them in my place. I told him 'no.'"
David took out the photos. "Any of these?"
"Yeah, them two." He pointed to Foster and Corliss. "And this is the guy who came in," he added, pointing to Nick.
David left another twenty on the bar.
At the front of the Red Checker Cab Company, he thanked Musco and waved four one-hundred-dollar bills before him.
Musco snapped them up and said, "Ain't this getting expensive for you?"
"Yeah, but it's worth it. And there's more."
"More?"
"You're going to kill me for this, but I need you one last time, I think."
Musco folded the bills and slowly pinched their corners together. "You think you need me, or you think it's the last time?"
"I think it's the last time. I sure as hell hope so."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Can I call you in the morning with the exact time? First I have to be sure someone's where he's supposed to be."
Musco stared at the bills and smoothed out the corners. "I'll do it," he said, "but there's a hitch."
"Which is?"
"That I toss it in with today's work which you already paid me for."
David began the drive home with several burning thoughts surfacing from a conflagration of others. If it's not Nick, then most likely Sparky's not involved. But there's that Tokyo connection. And Bernie's no surprise. But what does Nick know about Sam Corliss?
Three blocks away, David stopped at a traffic light ten yards before the entrance to a railroad underpass. The area was desolate. The light seemed interminably red. He was momentarily more concerned with a temptation to run the light than with the silhouette of a tow truck parked near the cement embankment to his left. By the time the light had turned green, the truck lumbered from the shadows and faced the Mercedes head on. David recognized the Kermit eyes, and he felt a pulse flutter in his neck.
The truck inched closer. There was insufficient room to charge around and forward, and David gave only passing consideration to backing up because he was certain the truck would ram him in an instant. Instead, he would wait for the driver or drivers to confront him. But be ready. He pulled in his elbow from the balmy night wind and was thankful he hadn't chosen to drive with the top down this time. He reached for his shoulder rig, quickly changed his mind in favor of greater firepower and leaned to his right, toward Friday and its Blackhawk.44 Magnum. Before he could open the case, however, he ducked at the sound of two gun blasts and shattering glass near the front of the Mercedes. David elevated himself slowly, his eyes barely eclipsing the dashboard, and saw only darkness around the frog's eyes. The headlights! They shot out my headlights! Sons of bitches! David breathed in sucking swallows, and, despite an urge to charge out and retaliate in some fashion, he reasoned it would be the worst of his limited options. Should he fire a shot out the window to show he, too, was armed?
There was no time to exercise any option for as David lifted his left shoulder to free up its rig, he heard a popping sound and he winced from a stabbing pain beneath his collarbone-not unlike the sting of a wasp. He grabbed at the spot and felt the smooth contour of what he thought was a thin writing pen projecting from his shoulder, and, ripping it out, sank in his seat from the searing sensation of skin unwilling to let go. Then, instinctively, he locked the door and raised the window.
David thought his eyes were crossing as he twisted the "pen" in his hand. It was a dart needle. Television shows managed to flash through his clouding mind: Wild Kingdom, National Geographic Specials. Shows of lions and bisons stunned by tranquilizer guns for scientific study. In his progressive daze, he wondered whether his ear would be tagged.
David's head pounded and he tasted the dryness in his mouth as he smacked his lips, and he couldn't tell whether the car was spinning around him or he was spinning in it. His arms were both heavy and weak and he let them stay limp at his side. He smelled a lime cologne at the window but his head was too wobbly to turn. He wanted desperately to see not so much those who had incapacitated him as those who had shot out his headlights. He knew what was happening and he didn't know what was happening. Yet, he clung to one flimsy thought: that he had yanked out the needle almost on contact-before, he prayed, total damage had been done.
The pounding had ceased but David knew his eyelids contracted and some breaths had been skipped. He was aware of his heartbeat, however, and although it was steady and forceful, he had no doubt he would soon slip into a coma. Or, he prayed again, into a light and temporary sleep.
But before that, one last stab at looking out the window. He tried to force his eyes to rotate left but they were frozen forward. He then released what little positional strength he had to keep his body upright, and as he fell to his right, he was able to maneuver his head in the opposite direction for one fleeting glance. He saw three men leaning over, peering at him. They were dressed in solid black and medallions dangled from their necks. They were big, smiling and Asian. One looked in like a child at a candy store, his forehead and hands pressed against the glass. Above his right eyebrow was a small tattoo of a sword. Three of his finger tips were missing.