“My name is Joe Dunn,” Watkins said, flipping open his billfold to reveal a bogus ID. “I’m a private investigator and part-time bounty hunter. This man is my prisoner.”
“Carol. Pleased to meet you,” the woman said without fear, her expression now one of respect.
“Before I take him in and waste everyone’s time, I need help in identifying for certain that he’s the one I’ve been after. People have told me that an older man named Lionel can do that and that he lives around here. There’s a hundred-dollar bill in it for anyone who can point me to him.”
“Lionel’s his first name?” she asked, carefully avoiding any eye contact with Will.
“Yes, ma’am. I don’t know his last. Here’s the hundred.”
Watkins slid the bill out just far enough for Carol to confirm the denomination. Still, she shook her head.
“I guess he doesn’t buy flowers,” she said.
“Well, thank you very much, anyway,” the huge killer said, as civil and composed as a diplomat.
It seemed to Will that some connection had formed between Watkins and the slender florist.
“Wait,” she called out as they approached the door. “Let me call my mother. She’s Bethany. This used to be her shop. She knows almost everyone in this neighborhood.”
She took the phone out from under the counter and dialed.
“You’re doing fine,” Watkins whispered harshly. “Just keep it that way.”
“You know, you’re really quite charming when you set your mind to it,” Will replied, winking at Watkins conspiratorially. “I think she digs you.”
“Shut up.”
“I told you my mother would know,” Carol called out from behind the counter. “She thinks the man you want is Lionel Henderson. He’s a widower. Very dapper dresser, Mother says. Goes to her church, but not too often.”
“That sounds like him,” Watkins said. “Find out if she knows where he lives.”
Carol asked her mother, then hung up and searched through a low, two-drawer file cabinet.
“Mother says he’s bought flowers here. If he has, she probably has him on file. She kept incredibly accurate records for promotions or Christmas cards or whatever. I’m not doing nearly as well at that as she-wait, here he is. Lionel Henderson, two-thirteen Spruce Street, apartment six. Just down the street that way.”
She wrote down the name and address and handed it to Watkins. Will read the attraction in her face but still had trouble understanding it. Perhaps nearing forty she had pared down her requirements. Perhaps his knowing that the behemoth killed people for a living had something to do with his underappreciating the man’s desirability.
“Here you go,” Watkins said, taking the card and handing over the Ben Franklin.
“Don’t you want to wait and see if it’s the right man before paying me?”
“If it’s not him, you can still keep the money for being so. . helpful.”
“That’s my card. The number of the shop is on the other side.”
Oh, enough already!
Will twisted his wrist to stop the manacle from chafing, and his captor shot him a sideward warning glance.
“Perhaps we’ll see each other again,” Watkins said, continuing the dance.
“That would be very nice.”
The florist and the thug, Will thought savagely as they headed out to the street. The walrus and the carpenter may no longer be the most bizarre pairing ever. They paused long enough for another check-in call to Gold and then headed down Spruce.
Number 213 was a deteriorating four-story brick tenement, absolutely nondescript except for three cement gargoyles jutting out from just below the roof. In the gloom of approaching dusk, it was impossible to appreciate the detail of the sculptures, but from what Will could tell, they were as unique as they were incongruous. He wondered briefly about the building in its earlier days, proudly displaying its unusual art. Then he pictured himself in his earlier days, poised beside the operating table, ready to lead a team of technicians, nurses, and physicians into battle.
The foyer of the building was surprisingly clean, with mailboxes that were locked and a row of a dozen or so bells, identified by black plastic labels. The inside oak door was also secure.
“L. Henderson,” Watkins said. “Here it is. Apartment six, just like the nice lady said.” He undid the handcuffs. “Don’t do or say anything stupid. Just follow my lead. I don’t want to have to kill you, but if I do have to shoot, it will be to your spine first, then your knee, then your balls. Got that?”
He reached into his jacket pocket, assuring himself, it seemed, that his gun was positioned just the way he wanted it to be.
“Watkins, just remember,” Will said, “your boss promised you wouldn’t hurt this guy. He’s an old man and he doesn’t have any idea what this is all about. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Yeah, sure,” Watkins mumbled, pressing the bell.
Don’t be home, Lionel! Will screamed silently. Don’t be home! He knew it made little difference. Sooner or later, the dapper little man would return, and Watkins would be waiting. Still, Gold wanted the X-rays ASAP, and that was more than enough to root for any delay.
Watkins pressed the bell again. Nothing.
“I guess we’ll just have to-”
There were sounds from inside the door, and moments later Lionel opened it. His gaze was drawn first to the huge black man, but quickly he fixed on Will. Recognition took only a second.
“Well, if it isn’t the mystery man.”
“Will. My name is Will.”
“You all right? You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine, Lionel.”
“I never thought you’d get away from those Cobras. I’ll bet they tried some sort of double cross, right?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s just like them. Well, at first I didn’t know how you’d find me, then I remembered telling you my name. Ain’t too many Lionels around here.”
“My name’s Dunn,” the killer cut in, “Joe Dunn. You have a reward comin’ to you for keeping that envelope safe.” He smiled his most disarming Buddha smile. “You do have it, right?”
“Oh, I have it, all right.”
“Well, then, may we please come up and do some business?”
Lionel looked from one of them to the other, then erroneously decided they were no threat. He led them up a flight and into a little apartment that was as fastidiously kept as the man himself. The living room-an overstuffed sofa and easy chair set in front of an ancient console TV-was decorated mostly with framed photographs of various permutations of a large family. The dapper groom in the handsome wedding photo gracing the top of the TV was clearly Lionel, his arm around the waist of a lovely young woman who exuded charm and dignity. To one end of the living room was a closed door that almost certainly led to the bedroom. To the right was a neat, surprisingly large eat-in kitchen.
“Why don’t we go into the kitchen?” Lionel said. “I can make you both some tea if you like.”
“That would be f-”
“We’d really love to stay for tea, Mr. Henderson,” Watkins cut in, “but we have a doctor waiting to see those X-rays.”
“Is that what’s in that envelope? X-rays? I thought about bringing it to the police, but they haven’t been much help to folks from this neighborhood, and the Cobras have a way of finding things out, so I decided that-”
“Please, sir,” Watkins pleaded, “the envelope?”
Will wondered why Watkins wasn’t speeding things up by flashing the reward money the way he had in the florist’s shop. The only explanation he could come up with was disturbing-very disturbing. The big man needed to play the reward card to get through the door, but now that they were inside, there was no longer any need. The moment they had the envelope, the moment Watkins was sure the films were there, Lionel was a dead man-and quite possibly, Will was, too.