Karpankov didn’t seem to get the play on words, though.
Dixon kept his face still — you had to when dealing with people like Karpankov — but his pleasure was growing by the second. He’d been hoping for a year that Karpankov would bring him in on some project, any project. But Newark? Jesus. That was Boardwalk. That was Park Place.
“But I need a favor, Hal.”
For a piece of Newark, he’d definitely help Karpankov out. Whatever the task. He sat forward, frowning with pleasant anticipation.
“Anything.”
But details of the carrot, or stick, were delayed.
Karpankov’s phone rang and he said a polite, “Excuse me.”
“Go right ahead.” Dixon looked at the dog; the dog looked back. Dixon was the first to disengage.
He lifted one shoulder then the other, adjusting his gray suit jacket. It was tight and the cloth was thin wool, too thin for the day’s chill. He’d realized this as soon as he’d left the house but didn’t want to go back for his overcoat. The wife. His shirt was a pastel shade of blue that some people probably thought was too gaudy. Dixon didn’t care. He wore bright shirts; it was his trademark. Yesterday pink, today blue. Tomorrow he’d wear yellow. The canary yellow. It was his favorite. And he always wore it on Sunday.
The Russian ended his call. Then, as always happened in discussions between men, Dixon knew, the mood changed, unmistakably, and it was time for serious horse trading. Karpankov put his fingers together, like he’d buried the pleasantries and tepeed dirt over their grave. “Now, I’m aware of something.”
“Okay.”
Karpankov often said that. He was aware of something.
“Have you ever heard of the October List?”
“Not familiar. Nope. What is it?”
“I’m not exactly sure. But I do know this: It’s a list of names of some people who’re powerful. And dangerous. About thirty, maybe a few more. I’ve heard some of ’em I might’ve done business with in the past.”
“October List. Why’s it called that?”
A shrug. “Nobody I’ve talked to knows. A mystery. It could mean all hell’s going to break loose in October.”
“Next month.”
“Next month. Or maybe it’s that something big happened last October and there’re plans in place as a result. Now, Hal, I want that list. I need the list. But I can’t have my people do it—’cause I may have a connection. Those people I’ve worked with. You don’t have any connection.”
Because I’m smaller fucking potatoes, Dixon thought. But that didn’t bother him. He nodded eagerly, like a dog. Well, a normal dog, not the big fucker in the corner.
The Russian continued, “Now, here’s the thing. I heard from Henry — you know Henry, my facilitator?”
“Right. I know Henry. Good man.”
“He is, yes. He heard that there’s a woman lives in the city has the list or knows where it is. You get the list from her, then you and me, we’ll go half and half on the Newark project.”
“Fifty percent?” Dixon blurted. “That’s very generous, Pete.”
The man waved off the gratitude. “This woman’s name is Gabriela McKenzie. She was the office manager of the prick who kept the list — he’s skipped town.”
“You have her address?”
“Upper West Side but she’s not there.” Karpankov tepeed his fingers. He leaned forward. “She and some guy she’s with’re keeping low, but my sources say they’re in the city somewhere. His name’s Reardon. My people tell me they’ll find out their location tonight or tomorrow and let me know.” His voice lowered further, and he put his hands flat on the table. “Hal, I heard you were the go-to man when it came to life in the streets, you know what I mean? Life in the trenches.”
“I try,” Dixon said modestly. “I know my way around.”
Karpankov cleared his throat. His eyes slid away to a model car on his desk, one of the six Fords, an Edsel. “And you’d do whatever you need to, to get the list? You have no problem with that, do you? Even with this person being a woman. And innocent.”
“Not a problem at all.” Dixon meant this, though he didn’t add he already found the task a turn-on.
“She’s going to be skittish.”
“Girls get that way. Especially depending on the time of month.”
Karpankov smiled. “I mean, she’ll be cautious. I’m not the only one who wants the list. There’re some other people after it.”
“Sure, you get me her location, and I’ll take care of it.” Dixon frowned as he considered the job. “So she knows people are looking for her?”
“That’s right.”
“You know one thing I’ve done works pretty good especially with the ladies? I tell ’em I’m like a deacon in a church. It gets their guard down. I even carry a Bible around with me.” He fished the little black book out of his breast pocket.
“Smart, Hal.”
The man beamed. “That’ll let me get up close. Then I pull out my piece and get her into my car. Take her to one of the construction sites, and go to work on her. She’ll tell me where the list is. And after? We’re pouring concrete Monday at the shopping center. They’ll never find the body.”
“Good.”
“And the guy with her? He connected?”
“No, just some businessman she’s sleeping with, I think. I don’t care about him. But...” A third tepee.
“I’ll take care of him too. Probably better just to shoot him.”
An approving nod from the Russian. “I’ll call you as soon as my people find her.”
The men rose and shook hands again, even more energetically this time, and the gold links clinked dully. Seeing Dixon grip his master’s hand so fervently, the dog stood. Dixon released and stepped back immediately.
“It’s okay,” Karpankov said. “He likes you.”
Yeah, Dixon thought, for a main course. He smiled at the dog, who was content to stand and stare.
In five minutes Hal Dixon was outside on the cool, windswept street, tugging his light suit around him. He was relaxing now that he was away from organized crime overlord Peter Karpankov and Godzilla. He began down the street with a jaunty bounce, wondering who he could sell the October List to once he made his own copy.
III
Sunday
Chapter 21
The Warrior
8:30 A.M., SUNDAY
1 HOUR EARLIER
HE HAD A SENSE THAT SOMEBODY WAS WATCHING HIM.
Frank Walsh was walking toward his apartment in the West Village, aware of a man in his forties, large, with curly blond hair sticking out from beneath a baseball cap, wearing a dark overcoat. The man was on the opposite side of Hudson Street, walking in the same direction. But it was odd, the way this guy was walking. Anybody else would have been looking down at his feet or ahead or at the windows to his left. This guy, though, was glancing pretty frequently at the sparse Sunday-morning traffic. Like he was worried about cars following him.
Worried why? That cops were after him, a mugger? A killer?
Or was Mr. Overcoat studiously avoiding looking at his own target: Franklin Walsh himself?
The thirty-year-old knew about stalking up on prey, about fighting, about attacking. About survival.
About blood.
His instincts told him this guy was trouble.
A fast glance but the man seemed to anticipate this and looked away. Frank got only a look at a round face and that creepy hair — tight blond curls, slick. But this was the Village and weird was the order of the day.
Then Mr. Overcoat paused to look in a window, head cocked with what seemed to be legitimate curiosity. So maybe he was just another local. Frank told himself to stop being paranoid. Besides, he knew how to take care of himself. He felt the knife in his pocket, tapped it for reassurance.