Hit List

48

Stone phoned for Fred and got into the car. “Yard of Ale, on East Fifty-third Street,” he said.

“I’m afraid it’s closed — being painted,” Fred replied. “How about P.J. Clarke’s?”

“Fred, I have inside information. The Yard of Ale is no longer being painted, and I have a reservation.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“Fred, drive.”

Fred drove and made it in no time. “Lose yourself nearby, until I call,” Stone said, then got out of the car. He was greeted by a large sign that read: CLOSED FOR REPAINTING. “Oh, shit,” Stone said, checking his watch: eleven fifty-five. He ran into the building through the office entrance. Dino was standing next to the door to the restaurant, and he had a man in a suit backed up against the wall next to the door. Dino had turned a bright red color.

“I can’t,” the manager was saying.

“You want to be fired?” Dino yelled. “I can speak to the owner.”

“I’m the owner.”

“All right,” Dino said, making a visible effort to control himself. “We...”

“May I speak, please?” Stone asked, flashing his badge.

“Yes, please,” the man said. “Who is this person?”

“This person is Dino Bacchetti, the police commissioner for the City of New York.”

“You mean he wasn’t lying about that?”

“He just looks like he’s lying. Has he explained the situation?”

“Sort of. He wants the painters out and the restaurant up and running.”

“No, he just wants it to look like it’s running for a few minutes, until we can capture the most wanted man in the city.”

“Just get the painters out,” Dino said through clenched teeth.

“I can’t do that,” the man said. “If you want the place to look like it’s running. The painters are the waiters.”

“Please make them look like waiters,” Stone said, “as quickly as possible, and ask them to set the tables for lunch, pronto. The tables will then be filled with police officers.”

“All right,” the man said. He stepped into the restaurant and shouted some words at the painters, who stared at him blankly, until he shouted them again. Then there was a bustle of activity as they went to work.

“You see,” Stone said to Dino. “You just have to be nice.”

“I was nice. The guy seemed to think I was some maniac.”

“We’ll give him a pass on that one,” Stone said.

“What kind of language does he speak?”

“I don’t know,” Stone replied. “Greek, Romanian, maybe.”

“Is Romanian a language?”

“Dino,” Stone said patiently, “start giving your people orders. Let’s make this happen.”

Herbie Fisher suddenly appeared at Stone’s elbow. “Where do you want me?”

“Out of here,” Stone said.

“Apart from that?”

“Over there at that table, with an ale in your hand,” Stone said. “When the guy arrives and you’ve identified him, pull on your right earlobe, like this.” Stone pulled on his earlobe.

“That’s your left earlobe,” Herbie pointed out.

“Sorry, like this,” Stone said, pulling his right. “If you’re not sure it’s the guy, pull the other one.”

“The left?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re confusing me.”

“If you’re not sure it’s the guy pull your left earlobe.” He demonstrated, correctly.

“Am I going to get paint on my suit?” Herbie asked. “It’s brand-new.”

“The New York City Police Department will reimburse you for any damages,” Stone said.

“Now, wait a minute...” Dino started to say.

“You shut up and get your cops at those tables, fast. And watch out for white socks.”

A bus outside unloaded, and groups of people, men and women, came inside and were directed to tables by Dino. Three of the men had to be asked to change socks.

“Looking pretty good,” Stone said.

“There’s no food,” Dino remarked.

Stone crooked a finger at the owner. “Give them menus and bread rolls, quick.”

“We didn’t order bread for today. We’re supposed to be closed for painting.”

“You have any boxes of breadsticks?”

“Maybe, but they’ll be stale.”

“Distribute them, please. I want them munching.”

“I’ll get some bread from the Greek place next door.” He disappeared.

“Why didn’t we just use the Greek place?” Dino asked.

“Because you didn’t think of it,” Stone replied. “It was your turn to think.”

As the clock wound down to 12:30, the place began to look like a restaurant again. Ladders and pails had disappeared, and the customers seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Herbie, across the room from where Stone and Dino waited by the door, tried a breadstick and spat it out.

“The roll, dummkopf,” Stone breathed. Herbie liked the roll better.

Twelve-thirty came and went. No Larkin. At twelve-thirty-nine, a man in a dark suit came through the front door, looked around and saw Herbie with his finger up, beckoning. He walked to the rear of the room.

“Mr. Krogar?” Herbie asked.

“That’s me,” the man said. Without sitting down he reached into an inside pocket and came out with several sheets of folded paper. “Look this over while I use the men’s room,” he said, starting toward the rear of the restaurant.

“Excuse me,” Herbie said. “The name on these papers is not Krogar, it’s Larkin, Sigmund Larkin. Who am I talking to here?” He pulled on his left earlobe.

“I’m Egil Krogar, the lawyer,” the man said.

“I’m going to need to see your client,” Herbie said. “I’m not handing over all this money to anybody but him.”

“Look it over,” Krogar said. “He’ll be here in a minute, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to relieve myself.”

Herbie glanced at Stone and shook his head, pulled his left earlobe again, then he started to read.

What the fuck is going on?” Dino asked.

“I don’t know. Herbie pulled his left earlobe, which means hold off.”

“That guy, Krogar, matches the description, sort of.”

“He seems skinnier to me,” Stone said. “Wiry, even.”

“So maybe he’s lost some weight.”

Herbie sat quietly, reading the papers. He turned a page.

Krogar returned and sat down. “Smells like paint in there,” he said.

“Okay,” Herbie said, “all this is neatly printed and legible. Where’s your client?”

“In the car. I told you he’d be here in a minute. Why don’t we order?”

A waiter stepped up to the table, as if summoned.

“I’ll have the choucroute garni,” Herbie said. “I recommend it.”

“Make that two,” Krogar said.

“What about Mr. Larkin?” Herbie asked.

“I’m Larkin,” the man replied.

“Okay, prove it,” Herbie said.

The man placed a United States passport on the table, open to the picture page.

“Right,” Herbie said, then pulled his right earlobe, and all hell broke loose.