The Undertaker

I ran west through the trees doing my best UCLA tailback impersonation, cutting left, cutting right, blazing my way through the USC defense. Overhead, the leaves, the big branches, and the misty rain did the rest. Up ahead I saw Sandy. We made eye contact and I continued running through the grass and trees in case they had other shooters stationed around the park. But before I was halfway to MacDougal Street, I knew I was out of range and out of danger. The farther away I got from the arch though, the clearer it became that the gunman was aiming for Billingham, not for me.

This was Rico Patillo's handiwork again. It was unlikely anyone knew I was here. After Boston, if they thought I was anywhere around here, they wouldn't have used a long gun, they would have surrounded the park with an army, because Charley was right. They wanted those flash drives and they needed me alive to get them. It wasn't the same for Charley. Maybe his TV time in front of the Hardin Commission spooked Rico and he wanted to make sure the lawyer never did talk. Maybe Rico wasn't taking any chances. When Jimmy finally did get out of Marion, it would be in a hearse. And the simplest solution to all those problems was to take Charley out, now.

Sandy's path and mine converged at the corner on MacDougal Street. I grabbed her hand and we ran up Fourth without breaking stride until we were two blocks west of the park. That was where I stopped and pulled her into a doorway to catch my breath.

“What happened back there?” she panted along with me.

“Somebody took a shot at Billingham.”

She wrapped her arms around me. “I was so afraid. You scared the hell out of me.”

“Not as much as it scared the hell out of Charley!”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah. He was hit in the back by a sniper with a rifle, somebody up on one of the roofs. But the fat bastard was wearing a bulletproof vest, if you can believe it.”

“Has he got two more?” she asked.

“No, but he's got our umbrella.” I looked down at her, but she didn't find that very funny. “The bullet knocked him down and he probably peed in his pants, but he'll be okay. He thinks I saved his life and that's even better. He owes me now.”

“So they weren't shooting at you?”

“I don't think so. I think they were after him. So, let's get out of here.” I took her arm and we walked quickly toward Sixth Avenue, looking to all the world like two shadowy city stick figures heading home from work.

“What did he say?”

“This whole thing is about Panozzo's books, those damned flash drives. Tinkerton, Rico Patillo, Gino, Billingham, and even your pal Hardin have all been looking for them, because Billingham says there's a lot more on them than we think. They tie in all the other east coast families and they're dynamite, add in the payoff lists and they are raw power.”

“And he had no idea they were in your pocket, only a few feet away?”

“Maybe, but it seems I'm the rock everybody wants to turn over now.”

“So what are we going to do now?”

“See Hardin. He's our last chance.”

We reached Sixth Avenue and saw a sign for the subway. Unfortunately, there were two battered, New York City Transit Authority Police cars parked on the sidewalk in front of the entrance with their doors hanging open and light bars flashing. I put my arm around Sandy and we gave them a wide berth. Three exasperated white Transit cops in torn and disheveled blue uniforms were wrestling a huge and very angry black woman up the stairs. She must have weighed three hundred pounds, and she was wearing a short-short, orange, patent-leather mini-skirt, a tube-top that looked like she had been shoplifting basketballs from a sporting goods store, and a pair of chrome handcuffs. Kicking, cussing, and spitting, she was a load, as the two Transit cops pushed her up the last few stairs, dragged her over to one of the cars, and jammed her into the back seat.