Deadly in New York (3 page)

“Is that the conflict?” Hawker put in. “Fister Corporation wants to buy, but the Germans don't want to sell?”

Hayes smiled. “Exactly. It's not an uncommon situation in the world of urban reclamation. But Fister Corporation has, unfortunately, uncommon ways of dealing with it.” Hayes raised his eyebrows and looked into Hawker's eyes. “Renard is a perfect example of their methods. Very professional. Very cold. And absolutely without mercy.”

“Then they've already chased the Germans out?”

Hendricks allowed himself a rare chuckle. “Jacob, permit me to explain to James about the Germans—he's obviously too young to remember much about World War II.”

Hawker listened with a wry expression on his face while the Englishman straightened him out.

“You must remember,” Hendricks went on, “that the Germans—using the resources of a country only the size of your Georgia—came all too close to defeating the entire world in a highly complex, highly mechanized war. Thumb your nose all you like at the taboo subject of racial traits, but the fact is, the Germanic tribes do not frighten easily.” The old Englishman chuckled softly. “Jerry gave us all quite a turn back in those days. Quite.”

“I stand corrected,” Hawker allowed. “The German families have
not
been chased out of The Bronx.”

“Less than sixty families remain,” continued Hayes. “And they're having a tough time of it. The head of Fister Corporation is Blake Fister. He achieved prominence in the tough world of New York real estate by the almost indiscriminate use of corruption and intimidation. From there, he pyramided his holdings into a billion-dollar international conglomerate. But he still keeps a firm hand on the home operation. He considers its continued success a matter of personal pride. If he somehow got beaten on his own home turf, Fister would lose no little esteem among his fellows in the world of international finance. And no one is more aware of this than Blake Fister.

“In the last month, the German families have been subjected to increasing pressure in the forms of threatening phone calls and personal attacks disguised as street muggings. To carry out his dirty work, Fister employs a Mafia organization of about twenty-two individuals who specialize in strong-arm tactics and murder.”

Hawker had grown increasingly interested as he listened. “Renard was from his security force?”

“Renard, according to my sources, is among the elite of the world's professional assassins. He contracts out and works totally alone. And, as I said, he is a fair example of what we can expect if we choose to butt heads with Fister.”

“What about the New York cops? Aren't they doing anything about it?” Hawker asked.

“I suspect the precinct police are sympathetic but powerless. They have a suspicion about what's going on, but they lack the manpower and money it would take to get evidence.”

Hawker stretched in his seat. The bright holiday glow of Grand Cayman Island was just ahead in the pitch of black sea, and Hendricks nosed the plane down as he started his descent toward Owen Roberts International Airport.

“And you think you can get the necessary evidence here?” Hawker said.

“With a little luck, I can.” Hayes smiled. “I own four of the island's four hundred banks, and that will be a start.”

Hawker returned his smile. “And I suppose I am to go on to New York and start sniffing around, try to organize the German families?”

As the plane touched, skidded, and screeched on the cement runway, Hayes clapped James Hawker on the back. “More than that, Hawk—much more than that. One man can't beat Fister Corporation, no matter how tough he is. I need you to come up with some kind of master plan so we can hit this bastard from more than one side. Use me. Use Hendricks. Hell, hire the New York National Guard if they'll go for it—but get the job done.”

Jacob Montgomery Hayes stood and got his nylon duffel bag from behind the seat as Hendricks swung open the door. Just before he exited into the balmy Caribbean night, he added, “And don't forget, Hawk—they know about us. Renard was proof of that. They'll be gunning for you. And they're going to throw the very best the criminal underworld has to offer right at your head.…

four

Little Cayman (Sunrise)

From the distance of his back porch, Samuel McCoy, manager of Pirates' Point Lodge, thought the figure on the beach was the corpse of a bottle-nosed dolphin.

Occasionally a dolphin would fall victim to one of the great rogue sharks of the open sea. Samuel had grown up in the Caymans, and he knew such things happen.

He finished his coffee, smiled at his wife, Mary, as he slid the cup onto the counter, then turned and walked barefoot toward the turquoise sea.

As he neared the beach, he hesitated, confused.

The figure was not that of a dolphin, he realized. It was a man. A man dressed in a blue leisure suit. The man lay half in the water, his face a chalky white, looking skyward.

Samuel began to run. He splashed into the surf beside the body and grabbed the man by the shoulders and pulled him out onto the beach. He recognized the man immediately: a guest, a Frenchman who had registered under the name of LeBlac and paid cash in advance.

As Samuel had told his old friend Jacob Hayes, there was something about this Frenchman he did not like. Something about the man he did not trust.

As he ripped the Frenchman's shirt away to check for a heartbeat, something high on the surfline caught his eye. Something no one but an old Caymanian would have noticed. It was the bloated carcass of a small, multicolored fish.

A scorpionfish.

Samuel immediately checked the man's feet. He was wearing shoes.

But then he saw the Frenchman's right hand, and he knew. The hand was swollen to three times its normal size, and bright-red rays traced their way up his arm, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

As Samuel bent to check the man's pulse, he heard a scream of surprise. He turned to see his wife running toward him. She was a handsome, nut-brown woman of Indian descent, and she ran heavily.

“Oh, Samuel! What has happened? Is he … is he …”

Samuel McCoy held his wife, calming her. “He picked up a scorpionfish, I guess. Not much we can do about it now, Mary. No need getting upset.” He looked at the Frenchman and shrugged. “I'm just sorry it had to happen here—”

He stopped in midsentence, his eyes frozen on the body. Had it moved?

Immediately he dropped to his knees and pressed his ear against the Frenchman's chest. The beat was so frail, he couldn't be sure. He touched the man's neck and held his ear close to the Frenchman's mouth, hoping to feel the slight warmth of exhalation.

But instead, he heard a distant garbled whisper. A single word. A word more like a groan. It seemed to originate within the very bowels of the assassin, like an oath.

Hawker …

Samuel McCoy's eyes grew wide. “Mary!” he said quickly. “Go for help. Now! Call Cayman Brae for a doctor!”

“Oh, thank God,” she said out loud as she ran back to the lodge. “Thank God he is alive.…”

five

New York City

To the passengers aboard the Trans World Airlines 747, the setting sun seemed to transform the endless gray canyons of the city into an inferno of molten steel and blazing glass.

James Hawker stared out his porthole window in first class and forced himself to ignore the fiery light that bathed the Statue of Liberty, the United Nations Building, and all the other landmarks associated with New York.

Instead, he made himself memorize the area as he would a topographical map: a field of battle.

Manhattan was a thin island jammed between the Hudson River and the East River. To the east were the endless crackerbox suburbs of Queens. Brooklyn was a haze of industrial smog to the south that seemed to extend far out into the Atlantic. To the north, separated from Manhattan by the narrow Harlem River, was The Bronx—a wasteland of slums, broken industry, and bleak brownstone houses.

Satisfied he had the geographical chunks fixed in his mind, Hawker settled back and relaxed as the 747 seemed to gain speed, locked down its landing gear, and roared earthward toward the cement expanse of LaGuardia.

After an hour of baggage lines and surly people, Hawker exited the airport. The night was oily with heat and smog.

Outside LaGuardia, the shuttle buses and private cars were bumper to bumper, blaring at each other.

Hawker walked to the first yellow cab in line and tapped the driver on the shoulder. The driver was black and he wore an ornate western hat. He lowered the tout sheet he was reading.

“I don't go to no Yonkers or Mount Vernon,” the driver said immediately. “And I don't carry no bags.”

“You're in luck,” said Hawker as he opened the back door and slid his duffel bag in. “The Bronx. Rhinestrauss Avenue. You know it?”

“Shi-i-i-t.” The driver smiled. “I growed up not ten blocks from there.” As he started the meter and jammed the car into gear, he looked over his shoulder at Hawker. “What I want to know, mister man, is why a dude like you wants to go to that shithole? I know a fine hotel up near Fordham I could take you. Plenty college girls, 'case you get lonely—”

“I'm going to Rhinestrauss,” Hawker interrupted. “I'm trying to broaden my horizons.”

Hawker settled back, amused. Visiting New York was like a trip into limbo, a maze of the lonely, the aloof, and the mad.

Everyone in New York was on the make. They always had an angle. The driver undoubtedly got some kind of kickback from the hotel near Fordham he had mentioned. And he probably had the same deal with a couple of prostitutes there who specialized in posing as coeds.

Hawker decided it would be an interesting city in which to live.

But he sure as hell didn't treasure visiting there.

Once behind the wheel, the driver was transformed from a hotel tout into a grand-prix enthusiast. He tailgated. He rode his brakes. He pounded on his horn and shouted out loud as he needled his taxi in and out of traffic.

They roared down Grand Central Parkway to Route 278 and the causeway over Ward's Island. Traffic was heavy into The Bronx, but the driver made good time—not that Hawker was interested in making good time.

Finally he tapped on the bulletproof glass that separated the front of the cab from the back.

The driver slid open the little door without slowing down. “What'cha need, buddy?”

“I need you to quit driving like your wife has big insurance policies on both of us.”

“My wife?” The driver flashed a grin of bad teeth. “Shit, man, she ain't got no insurance on nothin'. It's just that some dudes behind us either followin' us or want to race.”

Hawker glanced back over his shoulder. A black Lincoln Continental with tinted windows was right on their bumper.

“How long have they been there?”

“Since we left fuckin' LaGuardia, man.” The driver seemed to see Hawker for the first time. He said, “You look like the kind'a guy what's got some enemies, huh?”

“Maybe,” said Hawker. “First chance you get, hit the brakes. Make them pass.”

The driver seemed glad for the excitement. “You got it, mister man. Hang onto your B.V.D's.”

The two cars roared over the bridge and down Ward's Island's main road doing sixty. On the first open straightaway, the driver punched the taxi into passing gear, then immediately hit the brakes. The Continental skidded behind them, just missed their back bumper, and swerved past.

“Now,” said Hawker, “just do the speed limit and see if they try to get behind us again.”

The Lincoln raced on ahead, then turned suddenly onto a side street. As the taxi slowed for the toll booth near Downing Stadium, Hawker realized the Continental had gone around the block.

“They on our ass again,” the driver said, looking in the mirror.

“Yeah,” said Hawker. “I see that. We're not too far from Rhinestrauss Avenue, are we?”

“What's the address?”

Hawker told him.

“Shit, man, that's the fucking slums! Ain't nothing in that area but old wornout factories, retired krauts, and Puerto Rican niggers.”

“Don't worry about what's there. How long before we get to it?”

The black man touched the brim of his hat. He looked concerned. “Maybe ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Fine. But instead of driving straight there, I want you to drop me off on the backside of the block. Can you do that?”

“Hell, yes, I
can
do it. But look, mister, you just a fare to me. I didn't sign on for no
Dukes of Hazzard
show. I done been through Korea. I don't need this shit.”

Hawker folded a twenty-dollar bill and slid it through the little window. “You get another one when we get there. Okay?”

The driver checked the bill and jammed it into his pocket. “Hell, I do damn near anything for forty, mister man. Long as I don't have to kill nobody.”

“Don't worry,” Hawker said easily. “I'll take care of that.”

The driver began to giggle, but stopped abruptly when he realized that Hawker wasn't kidding.

Hawker unzipped his duffel bag and unholstered the .45 Colt Commander he had had customized by the artists at Devel Corporation. He had had them add a wide-grip safety and a Bo-Mar rear sight, as well as increase the clip capacity along with some other shooting niceties.

He had had no trouble getting the handgun back through Miami customs because he and Hendricks had flown the dark eastern corridor over Cuba to the States alone, in the Trislander.

The customs men had simply nodded at their sparse luggage and sent them on their way. At Miami International Airport, Hawker had checked his bag through to New York at the TWA counter, while Hendricks made arrangements to have the Trislander stored.

On their trip to Miami, Hawker and the old English butler had discussed a couple of scenarios for getting at Fister Corporation. Hawker's ideas tended to be more direct. Hendricks's plans leaned toward the oblique and outre.