Chips? No chips?
No chips, he decided. And continued to stare.
He took a breath and sensed something smelled off. Not spoiled food. What? He looked around. Noted the old scabby table, plumbed steady with folded Post-it notes under one leg. His hat sat on it. Was the hat gamy? He smelled it. Yep, that was it.
Did Greek fishermen really wear Greek fisherman hats? he wondered.
He’d have to wash it, he guessed. But would that take the good luck away? He’d worn it during the fight that morning. He slipped it into a Baggie until he decided.
Back to the Titanic cabinets and the fridge. No chips, but not doing the celery thing. Celery is evil.
An apple.
Frank snagged a shiny red McIntosh, huge, and a bag of Ruffles and loped back to his cluttered desk, snug in the corner of his bedroom. Just as he sat in the plush chair, he thought: Hell. Forgot the beverage. The. Beverage. He returned to the kitchen and got a Diet Coke from the chair beside the table, filled with magazines and books, piled high.
He glanced at the present Gabby had sent him. His heart stuttered. Man, he was in heaven.
Gabby...
How much have we lost? he wondered. Squeezing his belly. Six pounds in the past month. If he weighed himself after peeing.
He munched and sipped, wished the soda was cold. Should have fridged it. Why do I forget things? Frank Walsh knew he had trouble focusing, but he also took pride that it was a negative compensation for being so talented in other ways.
Like his knives.
He regarded his specimens of cutting-edge weapons, which took up two bookshelves.
When was the curved kukri going to arrive? He thought of the beautiful blade — the picture on eBay had depicted a classic Nepalese army knife.
Then he returned to reality.
All the fucking Post-it notes I keep buying. Have to remember to use them for more than propping up table legs.
Write: Put the soda in the fridge.
How hard was that?
He slowed down on the chips. Take your time. Write that down too. Don’t eat another until you’ve masticated and swallowed the one you’re working on. He noted that the soda — because it was frigging warm — had sprayed onto the Samsung monitor when he’d opened the can. He wiped the glass with an old T-shirt, aromatic with Windex he kept beside the computer. He’d have to wash the cloth soon. That was gamy too. Like the Maybe Greek Fisherman hat.
Write it down.
He would.
Frank didn’t write it down and returned to the computer, unable to stop thinking of the knife fight again.
Oh, it was beautiful. Choreography. Dance. Beautiful.
His knife sweeping down then stopping halfway as his victim went into a defensive posture — which Frank had anticipated.
And he’d then spun around backward and whisked his steel blade along the exposed neck.
Blood flew and sprayed and danced into the sky.
Then fast — you never hesitated — he leapt to the right and slashed again on the other side of the neck.
And the dying eyes stared, motionless for a moment. Then closed slowly as the pool of blood spread.
Wait, Frank Walsh thought. Was that his phone? He grabbed for it.
No.
He’d hoped Gabby would call.
Well, he knew she’d call. But he meant now. This moment. He stared at the phone, willing it to ring. It didn’t.
He thought more about the coming Tuesday.
A brief fantasy played itself out: The doorman, Arthur, ringing on the intercom and saying, “There’s somebody here to see you. Her name’s Gabriela.”
Frank Walsh would smile. “Send her up.”
And he’d be waiting for her in his black jeans and black shirt — his best look, his thin look — teeth brushed and hair sprayed and body deodorized. His fisherman cap would be in a Baggie, if he hadn’t washed it first, which probably wasn’t going to happen.
He’d pull out the present she’d just had delivered today.
She’d turn her beautiful, piercing eyes on him. And they’d crinkle with fun and flirt. She’d say, “I’ve never seen your bedroom, Frank.”
He looked at the note that accompanied the gift.
Dear Frank. Thinking of you...
Oh, man...
Then Frank revised the fantasy. In the remake, a slightly more risqué version, they sat on the couch, knees touching, and watched an old movie on cable, instead of going to the film festival. The present — he found himself actually stroking the box now — would play a role in this fantasy too. A central role.
They’d pick something noir to watch, of course. Maybe The Asphalt Jungle. Or Pulp Fiction. It would be like Travolta and Uma Thurman dancing. He loved that movie (though he always wondered: If Travolta was such a brilliant hit man, why the hell did he leave his machine gun outside the bathroom, for Bruce Willis to find it, when he went to take a dump?).
They could watch that, or Reservoir Dogs or Inglourious Basterds.
Or hell, they’d watch anything that Gabby wanted to watch.
They’d talk, they’d fuck. He pictured her crying with pleasure, maybe with a little pain.
And then they’d talk some more. She’d learn all about him, she’d learn who was the real Franklin Walsh.
He flopped down on the saggy bed and sent her a text. He thanked her for the present and then — he couldn’t resist — described what he had in mind for their date next Tuesday. He included a few suggestions about apparel.
All very tasteful, he decided.
Then he replayed in his mind the knife fight. Once, twice, again and again. The blood, the screams, the body twitching.
Mostly the blood.
Chapter 30
Out of Sight
2:10 P.M., SUNDAY
5 MINUTES EARLIER
The sky had changed for the worse.
The spongy clouds, which had been floating so benign and frivolous in the azure sky, were gone. Taupe overcast stretched from horizon to horizon, as if the air itself were tethered to the raw edge of these past thirty hours. The harbor was choppy, the wind rude.
Gabriela and Daniel were emerging from the subway. After the screams, after the chaos on Second Avenue not long ago, the police had appeared in droves. She and Daniel had had no choice but to use the subway system to flee, despite the risk of getting spotted by Transit Authority police. But no one had noticed them and, on the streets now, they maneuvered among families, tourists, shoppers, and lovers, trying to find cover in the crowds — just as the two fugitives had lost themselves in the various subway lines for the past half hour. They’d ridden to Harlem from the Upper East Side, then headed crosstown and finally south to Midtown.
From here they’d walk to the apartment that Daniel had told her about — the one his company, The Norwalk Fund, kept for out-of-town clients. It was presently empty and they could hide out there.
He now looked around carefully. “No police, no Joseph, no anybody else after us.”
Gabriela was solemn. “All the blood, Daniel. Did you see it?”
Of course he had. He squeezed her hand tighter. The pressure seemed to have meaning. But what? She couldn’t tell.
“Look!”
He too noted the blue-and-white patrol car speeding their way, the lights flashing urgently. Gabriela shucked the backpack off her shoulder and they veered, stepping closer to a store, putting a stream of passersby between them and the street.
The NYPD cruiser, though, sped quickly past, heading in the direction of the incident.