Once a Crooked Man (12 page)

“Thanks for the warning,” the Colonel said. “You cut it a bit close though, don't you think?”

Harry's brain was working frantically with zero results. “It all happened so fast,” he said lamely.

“Usually does, old boy.”

A big grin spread across Villiers's face. He put a finger through a bullet hole in the doorframe. “Bastard came pretty close. That's the damn trouble with MAC-10s; they're apt to be a bit wild. Fortunate for us though. Look, I usually don't ask questions. Always seems to me that in our business, the less you know, the longer you live. But I am very curious to know how you became privy to the fact that I was about to be eliminated?”

A disquieting thought struck Harry. Villiers could be one of the bad guys. When he found out that Harry wasn't who he thought he was, he could take it unfavorably. For the moment it might be wiser to continue avoiding the truth.

“Well, it was like this,” Harry said. “I overheard a conversation. Put two and two together. Can't say more than that, I'm afraid, without getting myself in too deep.”

“I don't suppose you'd care to give me a hint.”

“If I could, I would. But I can't.”

“You're not one of Rocco's regulars, are you?”

Rocco? Where had he heard that before? Of course! He had written the word “Rocky” on his cellphone app. Apparently, Rocco had billing above the title. Villiers was waiting for an answer.

“Sorry, Colonel, that's classified,” he bluffed, as if he were under orders not to talk. The ruse worked.

“Understood,” said the Colonel. “So. What's the next step?”

Harry's mouth dried up in just the same way it did on those rare occasions when he forgot his lines on stage. He had received his cue. It was his turn to speak and his brain had no idea what was next. Milliseconds felt like minutes. Panic flowed through his veins and beads of sweat ran down his spine. As he did on stage, he improvised.

“I suggest … well … it would be best … if just we proceed as arranged.”

“Fine,” Villiers said brusquely. “I'll give Max a call. Let him know we've made the transfer.”

The last thing Harry wanted was for Villiers to call New York to tell them all about the nice man who'd just saved his life. “No!” he replied a little too loudly. “You don't have to do that; I'll take care of it. Rocco will be expecting me to … eh … report … in.”

Villiers accepted this without further comment and turned off the highway and up another incline leading to yet another garage. By now the rain had stopped. Leaning out of his window, he pulled a ticket from the machine and the orange barrier rose up and let them through. They wound their way up the scarred concrete spiral and stopped in the far corner of the fourth level beside a battered old gray Ford Escort. The number plates were very dirty and the radio aerial a twisted wire coat hanger.

“This is where we change vehicles, old boy,” said Villiers as he switched off the ignition. “Excuse me.” Stretching across, he flicked a catch on the dashboard and a panel flipped down revealing a Browning 9mm complete with silencer and two spare clips. When he pressed a second catch the whole apparatus dropped into his hands. Cradling the mechanism under his arm he climbed out and walked over to the Escort.

Harry joined him as he opened up the trunk. Inside were the spare tire, a tool kit, a brown leather suitcase and a battered cardboard box. Villiers handed Harry the keys and told him to unlock the doors. Once they were open the Colonel handed him the suitcase.

“Here you are,” he said. “Put it on the backseat for now.”

The case was heavy. Harry opened the rear door and heaved it in. Villiers rummaged about in the cardboard box and pulled out a black broad-brimmed hat and a furry object.

“Put those on!” he barked, throwing them over.

Harry pulled on the hat as far as he could but it was a tight fit. The fur was a fox stole with a little shiny snout and a pair of beady eyes. Everything reeked of mothballs. Villiers donned a workingman's cloth cap and a dirty old coat. He took out a bushy mustache, peeled off the backing and stuck it on.

With a large rag he gave the Jaguar a thorough wipe, both inside and out. “Just a precaution,” he observed. “You never can tell.” He threw the cloth back into the trunk of the Escort and banged it shut.

A billowing cloud of blue smoke followed them down to the exit booth. Villiers produced a second ticket from his pocket and paid the required fee. The attendant would remember little of the elderly suburban couple who motored sedately away.

In the distance the metallic ringing of police cars and ambulance sirens crisscrossed. After about two miles, Villiers drew into a deserted side street, stopped the car and pulled on the handbrake. From his belt, he pulled out the Browning, pushed off the safety catch and cocked it with a snap. In the confines of the car it was a very loud noise. It made Harry jump, fart and shit his underpants ever so slightly.

Like the trained soldier he was, the Colonel was simply making sure the mechanism was in working order. The gun disappeared into the depths of his clothing.

Harry hoped he didn't smell too bad. It would take a lot of explaining.

Mercifully, Villiers got out and slammed the door. Hanging from the rearview mirror, a pair of fuzzy dice and a Saint Christopher medallion swayed together in protest.

The Colonel bent down and spoke to him through the open window.

“I'll leave you here. I'm going to disappear for a while. Make myself less of a target. I'll be in touch later. Leave the car in Myrtle Road. It's close to Hounslow East tube station and from there it's only a short ride to the airport. Throw away the keys. I have others if I need them.”

He reached in and shook hands.

“It's all yours now, Murphy,” he announced. “The best of British luck to you! And thanks again. I owe you one. Be sure to give my best to Max.”

Rising to his full height, the Colonel strode off down the street humming his regimental march.

Harry got into the driver's seat. The glass eyes of the stole stared accusingly from his lap. He snatched it off and flung it into the backseat, the enormity of his predicament throbbing in his head. What the hell had he got himself into? In less than an hour he'd been an accessory to two attempted murders, two witnesses knew his name and four people had seen his face. Two of those had even given chase. So much for avoiding trouble.

Although the damage in his pants was minimal, the inside of the car was beginning to smell like a blocked drain. The hotel would be the safest place to change. Harry glanced at his watch. It was only ten minutes to nine. Checkout was at noon. Nobody knew where he was staying except Larry Parker, and he certainly wouldn't give out information to anyone. Larry would never do anything that could be bad for business.

Harry moved to the driver's seat, checked out the controls, started up the engine and headed west. Miraculously, he found a free space two blocks from the hotel. From the parking meter he purchased a ticket for two hours and left it on the dash. Grabbing the case, he shuffled along with his legs slightly apart trying to ignore a growing itch. He collected his key from the deserted lobby and climbed up the narrow stairs to his room, where he dropped the case on the bed and stripped off all his clothes. Wrapping his dirty pants in the sports page of
The Telegraph,
he dumped them into the wastebasket.

The shower felt great after his exertions and he lingered under the hot water, careful to direct the flow towards the inner wall to avoid another flood. Common sense finally urged him to get moving.

He was about to pull on some socks when he remembered the suitcase. He tried the catches and they sprang open with a snap.

The sound that came from Harry's lips when he lifted back the lid, suggested to an elderly gentleman three rooms away that a guest of the hotel was in the throes of passion. When the cry died away Harry lifted out bundle after bundle of hundred-dollar bills. Turning the case over, he dumped them out on the bed and let the case fall to the floor. He figured each packet was about ten thousand dollars.

There had been three rows of five with ten in each pile. The case contained about a million and a half dollars in US currency.

There was a knock on the door. A key was thrust into the lock and turned.

Harry pulled the towel from around his waist, threw it over the money and grabbed his hairbrush. The door was opened by a young freckled-faced maid in a white apron.

Harry turned full frontal and casually brushed his hair.

“Come to do the room, have you?” he asked.

The elderly gentleman three rooms away heard another strangled cry which confirmed his earlier suspicion. This time the pitch was female and decidedly orgasmic.

 

26

Rocco was angry. He was not used to failure. Santiago's killing had gone so smoothly, and now this fucking Villiers fiasco.

The important thing was to keep himself focused and avoid any more mistakes. When the ambulance left the Mews, it had come right past where he was parked, sweeping by him with bells clanging and lights flashing. Rocco had waited only seconds before following. When it had finally pulled into St. Mary's, Rocco had driven past the entrance and pulled to a stop where a mother balanced her baby on her hip as she fumbled with the keys to an old Volvo wagon. The moment she had driven off he had reversed into the spot and paid for three hours of parking.

Once inside the hospital he had watched as the motorcyclist, plus his police escort, was wheeled out of the main corridor. Presumably on their way to an examination room.

Now as he waited, Rocco checked his watch. Before they operated, the medical staff would stem the bleeding, begin a transfusion and give the patient a thorough check before they dealt with the broken bones. In the States they would certainly take the time to MRI the patient. But not here. You never knew with the British health system. He definitely had time to report to Max. In a dilapidated telephone cubicle he dialed the code and number.

“Well?” said Max.

Rocco described exactly what he had seen and heard.

Max swore loudly. “You think you could deal with him?”

“Yes,” Rocco said. “But are you sure?”

“You bet I am,” said Max. “But no loose ends this time!
Capish?
Don't leave a fucking calling card.”

“
Ti penso io,
” said Rocco confidently.
“Lascialo a me.”

In the hospital cafeteria he bought a ham sandwich and a carton of milk and sat at a corner table to think and plan. Around him were several staff. As luck would have it, the security badges clipped to their white coats were not unlike the New York State driver's license.

He looked at his watch. There would be another delay between the time the police figured Eddie was important and the time reinforcements arrived. Until then, there would only be one cop keeping an eye on him and he would not be alert. With both legs crushed, the semi-conscious perp wasn't going to run away.

Rocco went back out to the street, walked to Edgware Road and located a hardware store. Three paces inside the door was a padlocked cabinet of Messermeister professional cook's knives. Rocco asked the helpful assistant for a six-inch flexible boning knife. When it was brought out he was careful not to touch any part of it with his bare hands.

A medical supply store supplied a box of powderless surgical gloves. As he paid, a rack of white canes by the register caught his attention. One that telescoped was added to his purchases.

At Ryman's he got himself a nameplate holder almost identical to the ones he'd observed at the hospital. From a street cart he bought a pair of cheap round dark sunglasses. As he walked back to the hospital, he slid his driver's license into the holder and distributed the rest of the stuff among his pockets. The knife still with its protective sheath went point down into his left inside jacket pocket.

Eddie was nowhere to be seen. To find out where he had gone Rocco would need to go into the Emergency Room. For this he needed a disguise, so in the gift shop he bought a bunch of flowers and went up the central stairway. Anyone who passed him would simply take him for a visitor. At all times he was careful to keep his face averted from the security cameras.

On a hook in the corner of a pediatric ward he found a white lab coat. Discarding the flowers, he slipped on the coat, pinned the holder to the lapel and pulled on a pair of the rubber gloves. From a nearby bedside table he picked up a small towel and tucked it into his left coat pocket. In the right he put the knife with the blade pointing down. In another ward he lifted a clipboard off the end of a sleeping patient's bed and retraced his steps to the Emergency Room. Confidently he pushed through the swing doors.

A well-upholstered black nurse passed by and Rocco stopped her. “Where'd the shooter go?” he asked.

She frowned. “What d'you say?”

He explained. “The guy with the fractured legs.”

“Oh, him.” The nurse shrugged and she nodded towards the far end of the room and a green curtain. “He's next. Soon as they call for him.”

Rocco returned his attention to the clipboard and glanced around. No one was watching as he sauntered towards his target. Fifteen feet away he put the clipboard under his arm and reached into his coat pocket. His fingers clasped the handle of the knife.

The doors at the end of the room wheezed open. An operating room orderly came in accompanied by a young policeman in a helmet and short-sleeved shirt. Together they drew back the curtain. Eddie was wheeled out of the room. Rocco let go of the knife and followed the gurney, keeping his head bowed as he flipped through the papers on the clipboard.

The little group trundled along a short corridor and stood waiting by the elevators. None arrived.

The orderly repeatedly pushed the button. “Bloody hell! They say they're going to fix the bloody things but they take their bleedin' time about it. Come on, I know another way.”