Recoil

Roger said, “Take it easy now. Don’t spook ’em.”

At Ninety-sixth Street it went out into the FDR Drive and they trailed it north in a coagulation of traffic toward the Triboro Bridge. Roger said, “Maybe you ought to tell me one more time where this is supposed to get us.”

“If we get the stuff from Cestone’s co

“You can buy the real thing on any street corner around here. I hear tell it comes in brand-name packages these days.”

The Mercedes led them across the Triboro and down the Grand Central Parkway. Heading for what? An airport?

But it went right past La Guardia and left the parkway at Northern Boulevard. He had a harder time keeping up now because he didn’t know this section. Fortunately the Mercedes was in no hurry.

Roger said mildly, “Those two boys ain’t hardly wet behind the ears no more, old horse.”

“I know.” He took Roger’s meaning: By now Belmont and Cestone probably knew they were being followed.

“Wild-goose chase maybe,” Roger said; “They could be just fu

“They’ll want to find out who we are and what we’re up to. Otherwise they’d have ditched us before this.”

“Meanin’?”

“Meaning they won’t just stop and blaze away at us. They’ll want to ask questions.”

“Figure we got answers that’ll satisfy them?”

“Well I hope so, Roger, because if we don’t we could be in a little trouble.”

“That’s real comforting.”

The quarry led them into a dreary endless commerce of used-car lots and franchise service shops, fast-food diners and cut-rate haberdasheries. Bayside, Queens.

A left turn at—what? He searched for the street sign: They’d need to know their way back.

Bell Boulevard. The sign was half hidden. He followed along, two blocks behind the squat gray limousine. They were twenty miles from midtown Manhattan; the area looked like the broken-down hub of an upstate industrial town. A corner of his mind was bemused by the realization that this was still New York City—a part that didn’t exist outside the minds of the people who inhabited it.

It was nearly four o’clock. The rain was intractable. The wipers batted noisily, keeping tempo to the chug of his pulse.

Roger said, “If push comes to shove, you distract ’em and I’ll rush ’em.”

“Other way around, Roger. It’s my party.”

Fat women browsed under the awnings of open-front vegetable shops, waving flies off the fruit, squeezing things experimentally.

“You hear me?”

“All right, old horse, I hear you.”

Just ahead of them a bright yellow car pulled out of a parking space. He almost collided with it. His tires skidded on the oil-wet paving. The car, something from a drag strip, made an ear-shattering roar and slithered wildly away, spewing a wake that sheeted across Mathieson’s windshield and blinded him. Roger grunted: “Weasel.”

When the wipers cleared it away he had a glimpse of the Mercedes turning right.

The yellow racer veered away, leaving a scalloped set of tracks in the wet. Mathieson slowed when he approached the intersection where the Mercedes had turned. A warehouse on the near corner; an abandoned five-and-ten on the other, its windows exed with the white paint of condemnation. He made the turn.

Right ahead of him the street bent out of sight around a forty-five-degree turn.

He accelerated a little. This might be what they had been waiting for.

There was no curb: The street skirted close by a heavy brick corner of the looming warehouse. He had to twist the wheel hard through the abruptly narrowing gap.

The paving was chuckholed and muddy. In front of him the street petered out: a morass and a cul-de-sac against a high mesh fence. Rain coursed down past the fence—he had a vague gray-green impression of earth falling away: an old embankment, a railroad cut or canal or highway.

There was no sign of the Mercedes.

Roger had time to say, “Hoo boy. They’ve done this before, old horse—they had this set up.”

Because there must have been a Dead End sign at the corner back there and they must have had it removed.

Behind him in the mirror as he stopped the car he saw the gray bulk of the Mercedes ooze out of an opening in the brick wall and position itself crosswise in the neck of the alley. Like a stopper, bottling them in.

“Boxed like sheep,” Roger said contemptuously. “Shee-yit.”

Cestone and Belmont came walking forward in the rain.

He looked at Roger. Roger lifted his eyebrows. “Might as well, old horse.”

They got out of the car to meet it.

2

Bleakly he watched the gun in Belmont’s hand. Cestone looked them up and down, nothing in his face moving except his eyes. Cestone had his hatless head lowered against the rain and his hands in his coat pockets.

The two men stopped three paces away. Roger edged away from Mathieson. He saw Belmont’s lip twitch—in amusement? Belmont kept wiping water off his forehead with his free hand.

Cestone never touched his face. Possibly the nerves were gone.

“What you people want with us?” Cestone’s voice was petulant and high-pitched. Behind him the Mercedes blocked the entire width of the only exit. Its wipers flapped steadily.

“I want to talk to you,” Mathieson said.

“Me? I don’t know you, man. Who are you? What you want then?” Cestone’s speech had curious rhythms: It was almost Jamaican.

“A little business.”

“You had to shadow us all afternoon? Why don’t you just come to me and say, Gregory, I want to talk a little business? Why don’t you just do that?”

“I’m doing it now,” Mathieson pointed out.

“What kind of business, man?”

“We want to make a co

Cestone uttered a sound that might have been a laugh. It chilled Mathieson because the face displayed nothing at all.

“What kind of stupid cops are you?”

“No cops.” Mathieson held both hands out from his sides, palms out. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Roger take his hands out of his pockets, empty.

“No cops. Look, we figured we’d follow you to your man and make our own co

“That’s a load of shit, man.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You don’t look like no junkies.”

“It’s for somebody else.”

“Sure it is.”

Belmont showed his teeth. “Who?” It was the first word he’d spoken.

“What’s the difference?” Mathieson said. “You wouldn’t know her. We’re both from out West.”

Cestone said, “I don’t buy this, man.”

“Please listen to me. Either we’re cops or we’re not. If we’re cops you don’t want to shoot us—you’d get heat all over you. If we’re not cops then we’re telling the truth. What have you got to lose? Either way you’re going to have to let us out of here.”

“Man, I don’t have to let you do nothing. I can leave you here all shot to pieces. Nobody ever knows it was Cestone.”

“If we’re cops then the rest of the cops know who we’re shadowing. But then if we’re cops we wouldn’t travel alone, would we. We’d be wired—there’d be a radio truck out there on Bell Boulevard listening to this conversation and they’ve heard your voices and your name.”

“I didn’t see no radio truck,” Belmont said.

Cestone glanced at him. “I think we rough them up a little, teach them about tailing people.”

Mathieson said, “Take it easy. We haven’t done anything to you. We only want to talk.”

“You a

“I wasn’t trying to—”

Belmont scowled. “Wait a minute, Gregory.”

“What, man?”

“Wait a minute—wait a minute. I know him.”

“Who?”

“He’s changed his face a little. I ain’t seen him in years. But the voice—yeah, it’s him. Merle. Eddie Merle, the lawyer. Gregory, there’s a contract out on him.”

3

Right now had to be their move because Cestone was still absorbing the slow process of the chauffeur’s recognition and both men were in the grip of surprise.