Once a Crooked Man (28 page)

Harry lay back down on the sofa. “When did you lose me?”

“At the car wash,” replied Frank.

“But not for long,” said MacAvoy, taking out his notepad. “We had this apartment staked out. Our agent saw several individuals enter and leave the premises. One of them was Detective Carswell.

“Subsequently a male individual came out and procured an envelope from the driver of a vehicle. He dropped in what appeared to be a bunch of keys and handed the envelope to the driver of another vehicle that came past. Our agent made the decision to follow the second car.

“He observed the envelope taken aboard a boat. We proceeded to track this boat from a mobile unit on the West Side Highway. You were observed going aboard at the Seventy-ninth Street marina. So I called up a chopper from Governors Island. The pilot radioed a description of you in the stern but reported that you seemed okay, so I told him to leave. The boat was checked when it docked midtown, but you were not on board. Gave us a nasty surprise.”

“I jumped off.”

“What?” said Luigi.

“I had to jump off.”

MacAvoy gave him a quizzical look.

“If I hadn't, I'd be fish food by now.”

“And you swam ashore?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“I'm impressed,” said Frank.

Luigi gave a whistle. “You must be pretty fit. You work out a lot? I wish I could—”

“Lou!” said MacAvoy.

“Sorry, Marty,” said a chastened Luigi.

MacAvoy turned to Harry. “Is there another way in or out of here?”

Harry pointed in the direction of the kitchen. “The fire escape. What's going on? Why did Lizzie come back here?”

The agent frowned. “It was her idea. She realized you didn't have any way to get in touch with us and she figured if you were in any kind of trouble you'd go home. If our agent hadn't followed the car with the envelope she probably wouldn't have disappeared. But then we would never have picked up your trail. Best guess is that she surprised whoever trashed this place. Right now we have no idea where she is.”

Harry got up and went into the kitchen. This was a Comedy of Errors. He picked up an unbroken glass from the floor and filled it with cold water. Sitting down, he took a long drink. The cases were as he'd left them except one of them was open. The camera had been taken out and put on the table. Harry glanced down and saw that the lining was happily untouched.

The three agents trooped in. “So what happens now?” Harry asked.

Luigi and Frank looked at their leader.

“We haven't really decided that yet,” said MacAvoy. “Why don't you take a shower and get some things together? I don't think it's a good idea for you to hang around here.”

Harry was finding it hard to think straight. “And then what?”

Luigi spoke up. “What do you know about the Witness Protection Program, Mr. Murphy?”

MacAvoy gave his IRS agent a disapproving look. “I don't think we need to go into that just yet, Lou,” he said sharply.

“I only know what I've seen in the movies,” said Harry. “New identity, new background, a new home far from the scene of the crime. A monthly check. Plastic surgery. Boredom followed by paranoia and madness. What makes you think I'd go along with that?”

“You don't really have a choice,” said Frank. “Take a look around you. As soon as the word is out that you're alive they'll come looking. And in my experience these guys don't make the same mistake twice.”

“Look,” said MacAvoy. “Why don't you take that shower? Then we'll all go back to the office. After a bite to eat and a hot drink we can talk this over.”

“If that's what you think best,” said Harry.

“I really do,” said the agent.

Once again the Fates flew in and altered the direction of Harry's life. This time with a toothbrush. In the shower he rinsed the soap out of his hair and reached up to the plastic cup on the wire shelf. But it only contained toothpaste, so he left the water running and stepped out to get the brush he kept by the basin. But whoever had trashed the place had dumped everything on the floor. Donning his robe, he headed barefoot for the kitchen where he kept extras. MacAvoy's voice stopped him two paces from the half-closed door.

“We have to face it, Frank. What started a few days ago as a routine arms deal assist has become a politically sensitive situation. If there is a foul-up and Carswell is injured or made inoperative, I want a total blackout. We know nothing. You hear me? We're not involved. And we never were. And keep the paperwork to a minimum. I don't want anyone asking awkward questions later on.”

“Whatever you say, Marty,” said Frank.

A routine arms deal assist? This was a new twist. And another piece of the Lizzie puzzle. Harry tiptoed away. MacAvoy's concern for Lizzie's well-being was clearly not as deep-rooted as his. Cleaning his teeth could wait.

Turning off the shower he ditched the robe. In the bedroom he put on some underpants, a pair of trousers and a shirt. As he crossed towards the living room he cleared his throat.

“Look, guys,” he said, and pushed open the door. “It's going to take me a little while to get all my gear together. Can you send someone to pick me up in a half hour? Shouldn't take much longer than that.”

MacAvoy looked doubtful. “I don't know, Mr. Murphy. I'd hate for anything to happen to you.”

“One of us should stay with you,” said Luigi.

“No need. I'll be fine.”

MacAvoy was unconvinced so Harry feigned emotion. “I need a little time alone,” he said quietly. “I don't know when I'll be able to come back here. After all, this is my home.”

Luigi was moved by his performance. “Come on, Marty; give the man a break. He swam out of the Hudson for God's sake! And he's right. Who knows when the hell he'll be able to come back here.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a well-worn wallet and handed Harry one of his cards. “If you hear or think you hear anything, call my cell. We'll come running. And for that matter anytime in the future when you need help, give me a call. Twenty-four-seven.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, and put the card in his pocket. “Tell me, Lou,” he asked, “why don't you carry a gun like these guys?”

“But I do!” The IRS agent pulled up a pant leg. “I keep it strapped to my ankle so I get to duck when the shooting starts!”

“Okay, Lou, you win,” said MacAvoy. “Right, Mr. Murphy. Thirty minutes. But to be on the safe side I'm going to have Frank here wait for you downstairs and keep an eye on the entryway. You can let him know when you're ready to leave.”

As the trio headed for the door Harry called out, “What exactly is Detective Carswell doing here in the States?”

They all stopped. MacAvoy turned. “I thought you knew. The Brits have made a direct link between a possible sleeper cell group in the UK and a terrorist organization in Yemen.”

“Al-Qaeda?”

“Most likely. Detective Carswell told us she is here to gather evidence. She said that with your help she would be able to prove conclusively that money donated by individuals here in the United States is going directly to purchase arms and ammunition which are then used to assassinate both British and American targets.”

“That was why she came here? The money is for an arms deal?”

“That's what they told us. You know different?”

“No. Thanks. I'll see you in thirty minutes.”

Harry shut the door and sat down on the floor.

Lizzie had lied to him. Her beekeeper boss had lied to him. All that talk of the IRA when it was all about weapons going to Al-Qaeda. Or was it?

His watch told him he had twenty minutes to pack up if he was going to leave by himself and thirty if he was going to capitulate and go with Marty and his boys. Did he really want to become a part of the Witness Protection Program? To disappear? To start life anew in Butt-fuck Idaho? It would mean quitting acting. His face was much too recognizable. They might have to surgically change it. Well, there was no fucking way he would ever do that.

To hell with the program. His salvation and the truth lay with Lizzie and she was probably in the hands of the bad guys. Well, he knew as much as anyone else as to where she might be. Perhaps it was up to him to go out and get her back.

With nineteen minutes to go he scrambled to his feet. Digging out a box of lawn-size garbage bags, he threw it on the living room table and strode into the bathroom to collect some toiletries. As he did he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His hair was a wild tangled mess and he needed a shave. But the image gave him an idea.

Every so often Harry was asked by friends if there was any special role that he would like to play. Along with Hamlet, Sam Spade and Scrooge was a desire to play a vagrant. If the part called for him to be mentally impaired, so much the better. Such parts were Oscar or Emmy shoo-ins.

On the walk from the
Intrepid
museum back to his apartment he had experienced firsthand what it was like to be a drifter on the streets. If he adopted such a character and found a place to live rough he could virtually disappear.

Into a black garbage bag he stuffed his oldest shirts and an old tweed jacket that had seen better days. Then he added his raincoat and folding umbrella. In case he needed to look clean and respectable, he threw in a Windbreaker, a clean pair of pants and a couple of button-down shirts. On these he laid his passport, a sharp knife, a spoon, a fork, a can opener and the portable radio he used at baseball games.

Changing into a pair of well-worn blue jeans and a faded “I Love NY” T-shirt, he checked to see if his ATM and credit cards were still in his wallet. They were sticky but usable. Back in the bathroom he climbed on the edge of the tub and reached up to ease aside a panel in the ceiling.

About two years earlier Harry had been hanging up a pair of his socks to dry when a drop of water hit him on the head that wasn't from his socks. Unable to locate the leak or the building superintendent, he called a stage manager friend who was good at plumbing. To reach the pipe the friend cut a square hole in the center of the ceiling. When the repair was done Harry had covered the hole with a panel of thin plywood. Once painted it was hardly noticeable. Now it was the perfect place to hide the money.

Back in the kitchen he took out the camera and sound equipment and sliced away the linings of the three cases. The bundles of notes fitted neatly back into the suitcase. The clock on the microwave showed he had five minutes left. He quickly replaced all the gear, closed the cases and put them back under the table.

Balancing precariously on the edge of the bathtub, he slid the leather case through the opening, pushed it back out of sight and replaced the panel.

Opening the kitchen window, he climbed out onto the fire escape with the plastic bag over his shoulder. Below, the alley was deserted.

As he walked along the road, he realized he had to make himself very scarce while he planned his next move. MacAvoy would come looking. The first rule of battle is know your enemy. Harry had scant knowledge of any of his adversaries. The second rule was to have overwhelming superiority. That was a joke. The third called for an overall strategy. That would have to come later. The fourth demanded he have an exit strategy when everything went wrong. That he had. He would crawl back to MacAvoy, beg his forgiveness and ask for a ticket to Idaho. But first he had to find a secluded spot where he could set up home.

From outside the Food Emporium he purloined the oldest functioning shopping cart he could find. Dumping in his bag, he trundled off along the sidewalk taking deep breaths of the early-morning air.

Harry had spent most of his daily life uptown and had missed the urban change that had taken place along the lower shores of the river. What he remembered as an area of abandoned piers and broken-down warehouses was now gentrified with luxury apartments, office buildings, green grass and wide paths for running, jogging and biking.

The neighborhood may have been cleaned up but not the natives. At Twelfth Avenue and 34th Street Harry was accosted by a vagrant with primeval smells emanating from every pore and orifice. Harry was surprised to see him panhandling so early in the morning.

“Can you spare some small change please!” the man wailed. “I need to get something to eat.”

“Where do you sleep?” asked Harry.

The man extended a shaky hand. With glazed eyes he swayed from side to side like a metronome. “Can you spare some small change?” he repeated loudly. “I just need something to eat.”

“Yes, I know that's what you need,” said Harry. “But I need to know where you sleep.”

The bum's demeanor changed “What the fuck are you talking about?” he said angrily, dropping all pretense. “I just want some fucking small change, man! Are you crazy?!”

“No. I am not,” replied Harry forcefully. He pulled out his money clip. “I'll pay you.”

At the sight of money the man stopped walking and his shoulders jerked. Harry peeled off a bill and tore it in two.

“Shit, man!” he yelled. “What are you doing? That's a fucking fifty!”

Harry held out one of the halves. “Show me where you sleep and you get the other half.”

The proposition was considered and after more bodily spasms was accepted. A sooty hand thrust the torn piece into a pant pocket. Muttering something about man's inhumanity to man, the bum walked fast to the end of a narrow alley that led away from the river. On either side were the back walls of the few remaining derelict buildings. The bum pointed up the alley and held out his hand.

Harry said quietly, “Show me.”

They trudged to the far end past piles of discarded cardboard boxes, where the bum pushed aside a rusty sheet of corrugated iron to reveal a vertical slit that had been hacked through the wall. Both men edged through the tiny opening. In what had once been a kitchen were signs of recent habitation. Beer cans, piles of newspapers and empty food containers littered the floor. Harry's reluctant companion pointed to an exact spot in one corner.