Around eleven-thirty I got out and walked through the parking lot, taking my time. Inside the complex I stopped at a news kiosk and studied the magazines and papers. I purchased the latest Time, then walked over to the shoe-shine stand that faced the elevators as well as the indoor entrance to the bank, sat up on the throne, and gave my shoes a treat.
Eight minutes later, as I was appreciating the rhythmic snapping of the soft cloth as it put a final high shine on my right shoe, the elevator doors opened and Mr. Bradley Davison appeared, briefcase in hand. He went through the bank’s glass doors, turned right, and headed for the small room that contained the safe-deposit boxes. Five minutes later he was back out, briefcase still in his hand. He walked to the elevator doors. As if cued, they opened and Bradley disappeared. I paid for the shine, stepped down, and walked over to a bank of phones. I dialed Nora Davison’s number. When she answered, I identified myself. She paused. I could hear her take a deep breath, then she asked what she could do for me.
“Did your husband tell you that he’d be late tonight?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “he called just a little while ago. He said there were a couple of people in from Bulgaria or somewhere and he had been asked to take them out this evening. He said he probably wouldn’t be back until after midnight.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Is something happening?” she asked. “Is Brad in any danger?”
“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “I think he’s going to make another payoff tonight. He’s made them before and apparently nothing happened. No reason to think anything will this time.”
“No reason to kill the golden goose,” she said, her voice fragile.
“Something like that,” I said.
“You’ll be watching him, won’t you?” she said, her voice rising.
“Yes, I’ll probably be around somewhere.”
“Don’t let anything happen to him, Mr. Taylor. Please.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t like Bradley Davison. I didn’t like how he made his extra pocket money. In my mind, it was simple poetic justice that someone was blackmailing him. He was getting what he deserved. Maybe he deserved a lot more for all the pain and suffering he had helped to cause.
“Nothing will happen to him,” I said before I even knew the words were out of my mouth.
We were in a Ruby Tuesday’s about a mile from Davison’s offices. He sat at the bar, working on his third scotch. I was at one of the small stand-up counters along the wall, sipping on my Coke, watching him. He was an unhappy man who obviously didn’t want to be late for an appointment. He kept on checking his watch every few minutes, and in between he’d cast worried glances up at the large neon clock that hung over the bar’s cash register. When he wasn’t busy with the time, he kept patting the briefcase that sat on his lap.
Ten minutes later we were out of there. I had a tight tail on him. The evening traffic was still heavy and I didn’t think there was any chance he’d catch on that I was behind him. I was just another set of headlights in his rearview mirror. We got on the expressway and headed east. I turned my radio to a jazz station and settled back, following Bradley’s lead. We swept through the city on the elevated portion of the expressway and look the service branch that led to only one place: the airport. When the airport’s exit came up I followed him down the ramp and into short-term parking. He pulled a ticket from the machine, the gate went up, and he drove through and turned right. I followed and turned left, keeping an eye on his car in my rearview mirror.
I actually got to the terminal before him. I was studying the Arrivals board when he walked through the automatic doors, briefcase in his right hand. Years ago, I would have assumed I was about to see a drop made in one of those public storage bins, the ones you feed quarters, shove your bag into, then lock with a little red key. However, these days, most airports have done away with them. Too easy to stash a bomb and just walk away.
I followed Bradley. He stopped at a Chik-Filet stand to check the time, then proceeded down the hall and stepped inside a bar area called The Flight Line, where everybody took off before they took off.
The bar was crowded. A lot of airports have also banned smoking, fearing, I guess, that people’s lungs might explode right there in the lounge and there’d be a nasty lawsuit. Our airport was still this side of smoker civility: it allowed people to light up in the bars. Hence, the crowd. Added to the usual number of people who needed a couple of pops just to get on a plane were the smokers, some stoking up on nicotine prior to boarding, others just having gotten off and reacquainting their lungs with carbon monoxide and other valuable gases.
Bradley looked around. Several tables were open, but there was no room at the bar. This apparently didn’t please Bradley. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looked at his watch, then glared at the occupied stools. I was less demanding. I went to one of the tables. A woman with tired eyes and varicose veins came up and took my order. I had been good long enough. One beer and some popcorn wouldn’t dull my keen detecting skills. As the lady walked away, a man in a leather bomber jacket punched out his cigarette and pushed his stool back from the bar. Bradley was next to the stool before the guy could turn. The guy said something to Bradley, who took a step back, then hopped up onto the stool as soon as the guy cleared.
The waitress brought my beer. I paid, then grabbed a basket, opened the glass doors of a red and yellow popcorn cart, and scooped up a healthy helping. Back at my table, I commenced crunching and sipping as I wondered how Bradley was going to make the drop. Airports don’t like storage bins, and they don’t like packages, bags, or briefcases left around unattended. Security people are very paranoid these days.
I was enjoying my fourth or fifth handful of popcorn when Bradley stood, a scotch in front of him on the bar, the briefcase at his feet. He said something to the bartender, then turned and started walking in my direction. I almost choked on my popcorn.
He never glanced my way. Instead, he went directly to the popcorn cart, grabbed a basket, and opened the doors. He scooped up some kernels, waited a second, then dropped them back in. Then he scooped up some more, and dropped them in again. Picky eater. I was so fascinated, I almost missed the pickup. Just in time, I realized Bradley was stalling. I jerked my eyes back to the bar and Bradley’s briefcase was in the hands of a small man who was moving briskly out of the bar. I stood and passed Bradley, who was still sifting. Out in the corridor I looked for my man. He was halfway down the hall, moving with the flow. I followed.
There was no way I would be able to tail this guy once he got to wherever his car was, but there probably wasn’t any need. From the quick look I’d had of him, with his Eddie Bauer windbreaker and his cord trousers, I had a feeling I wasn’t dealing with a crime cartel here. If I could get his license plate, I had him.
We were outside. I followed as he walked toward One Hour Parking. A real sport, but then, he had twenty grand in the briefcase. I took out my car keys and held them in my hand. We were in the lot; I let him go down a row and followed down the next. He stopped once, looked around, stared at me, then looked away as I kept walking, jingling my keys. He stopped at a Lexus, beeped off the anti-theft, tossed the briefcase inside (what the hell, it was just another twenty thousand), and got in. He drove by me as I was leaning over attempting to unlock the door of an ’88 Mustang.