I am walking blind into this situation with no idea what kind of scenario awaits me up there. I don’t know the exits; I don’t know how many hostiles. Weapons, intentions, bargaining positions. Nothing.
The odds are good that things will not escalate in a shi-shi SoHo establishment. What kind of moron would kick off a gunfight in a place like the Masterpiece?
The elevator has mirrored doors and I study myself as the lights flicker upward toward PH, trying to decide which version of Daniel McEvoy I’m gonna present to whoever is on the other side of the doors.
I’ll give them a blast of ice-cold professional, I decide, but then reconsider. Let these guys underestimate me. Play it big and dumb, like a guy trying to look professional who is actually out of his depth. Keep the mouth under wraps. Speak when spoken to and no backchat. This was what Mike had advised:
Remember, act stupid, McEvoy. I want Mr. Shea to feel this letter is being dropped off by a shaggy dog. So none of the usual back-answering bullshit. The more stupider you are, the faster they let you leave. If they ask you specifics about my operation, you ain’t got any. Clear?
More stupider? This guy runs an organization?
I do a little shadow boxing in the elevator to get my blood up, then practice my chosen look in the mirrored doors. I want Mr. Shea to see a guy who’s big and dumb but trying his darndest to look bigger and less dumb. It’s time to accept that I’m going through with this drop and use whatever skills I have to ensure I come out the other side.
In other words, I need to become a soldier again.
The elevator tells me in the sexist voice I have ever heard that we have reached the penthouse. At this point most elevators would ding but this one actually sighs, which almost breaks my focus.
Soldier, I tell myself. Stupid soldier time.
The doors open onto a corridor with plush red carpet like you’d get spilling out of the queen’s plane, and there are three guys on sentry duty.
These guys ain’t military, two of them are sitting down for Christ’s sake. One of the sitters is eating chicken. But the third sentry is in my face, waiting right there by the door, big smile all ready. One of those hearty smiles favored by people in public office. It comes on like a lightbulb but there isn’t any warmth in it.
I size him up from behind my dumb trying to look not dumb eyes. He’s big but a little soft, should’ve moved up a shirt size a while back but is holding on, strangling the buttons in their holes. He’s got a flat face and a weird constellation of teardrop freckles that look like he shotgunned someone close quarters and got spattered. He’s light on his feet and I can see muscle in his shoulders and arms. Also, I hate to say it, but there’s plenty of smarts in those eyes, which is the best weapon of all, at close quarters. From far out, a good scope and steady hands will trump smarts every time.
“I got the package,” I say, trying to sound gruff. “For Mr. Shea.”
The guy speaks and I am surprised to hear actual first-generation Irish-Irish. Maybe he emigrated on account of the recession, but I doubt it. I bet he threw a few things in a holdall and skipped the country with the laser eyes of law enforcement searing the seat of his pants.
“We were expecting you, Daniel. We have been for the past couple of hours. Mr. Shea is getting antsy.”
I don’t even bother offering a platitude. I give him a shrug that could mean traffic, fuck you or both. That’s what I like about shrugs: their ambivalence.
The guy beckons me out of the lift and my toe catches on the lip, which kind of puts a dent in my tough-guy routine, but also gives me an excuse to stumble forward and slip the lightweight Kel-Tec concealed in my paw into his jacket pocket.
“Easy there, big fella,” says the guy, like I’m a horse being led to the bolt room.
He pushes me away, gentle, then raises his arms high, wiggling his fingers.
“You trying to lev’tate me?” I ask, figuring my mispronunciation puts the comment in dumb guy trying to be a smartass territory.
“Just get ’em up,” he says, so I do. And he moves in for a thorough frisk. This guy knows how to frisk, I’ll give him that. In some cultures we’d be married now. It takes him five seconds to locate the two remaining weapons and a couple of probing minutes to ensure that there aren’t any more. No gentle hands here. This ain’t JFK. Nobody’s gonna be pressing molestation charges.
“You came prepared,” he says and passes my weapons off to one of the chair goons who gets chicken grease all over the holster before tossing the hardware into a bucket under his chair. Greasy fingers on my stuff is one of my pet hates and the only reason I hold it together is because those guns haven’t been in my possession long enough for me to consider them mine.
“Prepared is my middle name,” I say, which I figure sounds stupid enough to cancel out the levitation crack.
My frisker’s laugh is about as warm as his smile. “Really? That’s nice, Daniel. Now, why don’t you get your prepared arse into Mr. Shea’s office?”
Arse. Now there’s a word you don’t hear enough of.
“Couldn’t I just give this envelope to you?” Might as well ask.
“Nope. This is one of those in person situations. Mr. Shea is anxious to meet you.”
I am anxious to meet absolutely no more new people today.
“Okay, let’s get this over with.”
I walk toward the door, each step laden with doom, which sounds melodramatic, I know, but that’s how it feels. The tension churns my stomach and I am gripped by an almost irresistible urge to take on this group of sentinels, and then knock on the door and introduce myself to this Shea person. The seated guys hop to attention like they can read menace in my aura and treat me to vicious squints. I may have rushed to judgment about these two with all their sitting/chicken scarfing. Vertical, they look pretty formidable. My urge to violence fizzles out and I decide to let this situation play out a little more.
“You guys stay out here and watch the elevator,” says Spatter to his boys. “On your toes, please. No more bloody KFC.”
They’re staying outside. This is good, unless something is about to happen in the room that Spatter does not want anyone to witness.
The thing about witnesses is they never start out that way. People see nothing and know nothing until law enforcement types help them remember. Most people can be pressured into turning, and a good boss knows that. So if mortal injuries are about to be inflicted, the less people who see it the better.
The door is cast iron and ornate and I realize that it is a scale reproduction of the hotel’s façade right down to the arched entrance.
“It’s a little hotel,” I say, ladling on the stupid.
“That’s right, Einstein,” says Blood Spatter, shouldering me out of the way, which gives me that one second of up close I need to reclaim the little nine-millimeter from his jacket pocket. He doesn’t feel a thing and I feel a kinship with the tiny Kel-Tec now; this gun is truly mine as we’ve been through shenanigans together.
Now I have seven surprises for Mr. Shea and his boys, I think, slotting the featherweight pistol into my own pocket. Seven, and one in the pipe.
I don’t want to kill anyone if I don’t have to, but to be honest I’m less anti-homicide than I was yesterday. If I even smell rubber, then the gloves are coming off if you’ll pardon the expression.
This day is turning into a long series of confrontational meetings with angry men. It seems that no matter how far up the food chain you go, the head honcho is always a bag of insecurities just itching for some poor sap to underestimate his importance. This place, the Masterpiece, is pretty top end, but I just bet this Shea guy has a “high and mighty” routine he would switch on for all and sundry right down to the pizza boy. I never met a boss or an officer who was comfortable in his own skin.