Hit List

58

It was raining lightly, but steadily, as Stone got into the Bentley, and he was grateful for the umbrealla Fred had given him.

“Home, sir?”

“Yes, Fred. You were right about the rain.”

“The National Weather Service is rarely wrong,” Fred replied. Ten minutes later, they drove into the garage.

Stone went upstairs, undressed, and got into a nightshirt, then he propped himself up in his electric bed and tried to find a station with no news of Holly, which was making him more and more anxious as Election Day approached. He settled for an old movie he loved, but he didn’t get far into it before he dozed off.

He was awakened by his cell phone, charging beside him; the clock read 3:05 AM. “Hello,” he said hoarsely.

“You’re in bed already?” Dino asked.

“Most people are at three in the morning.”

“Hear that?”

“What?”

“Just listen.”

Stone took the phone away from his ear and listened. Rain was hammering his roof.

“Okay, I hear it. Anything else?”

“We’ve got a sighting of our boy and his BMW,” Dino said.

“Where?”

“Harlem, 125th Street, driving aimlessly, but so far, he has eluded my people.”

“That’s just great,” Stone said. “Call me back when he’s in custody.”

“I thought you might like to cruise uptown and join the hunt. There’s not much traffic in this weather, except for my guys on bikes and our boy Sig.”

“So, you noticed the weather?”

“What’s the matter? Do Nortons dissolve in the rain?”

Stone swung his feet out of bed. “Oh, all right.”

“Have you still got a handheld police radio?”

“Somewhere.”

Dino gave him a channel number. “That’s reserved for our motorcycles tonight. Keep in touch.”

Stone found the radio buried deep in his dressing room, on a charger. He got into his old motorcycle leathers, which still fit, he noted, grabbed some boots, a slicker, the radio and a light headset with microphone, and his .45 shoulder holster, then dressed and hurried down to the garage. He started the bike, and when he raised the garage door, he was surprised at how much rain was falling. He snapped on the helmet and pulled the slicker over it and drew it tight, to keep the rain from running down his neck. Then he tuned the radio and eased onto the street. The sound of the rain on the helmet caused him to up the radio’s volume, and he began to hear idle chatter from the cops who were out. He turned up Third Avenue and was greeted with a nearly empty boulevard, with green lights running uptown. He hurried to catch the sequence and was soon doing forty as the lights stayed green. The wind against his faceplate kept it fairly free of rain, so visibility was good.

When he got uptown there was more traffic on 125th Street, so he had to drive more carefully and wipe the rain off his face guard more frequently. He looked into some side streets and found cars still parked outside Rao’s, a tiny Italian restaurant on East 114th Street with a huge following. Stone had been on a waiting list for a table for years, but with no luck yet. There were only ten tables. Occasionally he would get a call saying there had been a cancellation, and he’d take it when he could get it.

He stopped outside Rao’s for a minute to stretch, and two police motorcycles drove up, one on each side of him. One of the drivers pushed back his own face guard. “License, registration, and insurance,” he said.

“Why?” Stone asked. “You’re looking for a BMW, and this is a Norton.”

“What’s a Norton?” the cop asked.

“A British bike that’s older than you are.”

“Are you Barrington?”

“That’s right.”

“We got word that you might be around. Are you on the radio?”

“I am.”

“We’ll get back to it, then,” the cop said, revving his bike. “You’ll hear about it, if we spot him.”

Stone put his bike on its stand and walked over to the Rao’s entrance and stood under the awning, just to get away from the noise of the rain. He took off his helmet and wiped his face.

The door next to him opened, and a voice said, “Stone, is that you?”

“Hi.”

“Why are you all dressed up like Evel Knievel?”

“New bike. Just seeing how it goes in the rain.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Could be.”

“Come on in. The help’s just sitting down to supper. We’ll feed you.”

Stone joined the big table and had a meatball and some pasta. The restaurant was famous for its meatballs. He kept the earphones on.

“What’s with the headset?”

“There’s a cop op on for tonight. I’m listening in.”

“What for?”

“You’ve read about the hit-list killings?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“That guy.”

“You mean he’s around here?”

“Could be. Last spotted in Harlem.”

He got up, walked to the front door, locked it, then came back. “That’s better,” he said.

They all continued eating. Stone declined the wine.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t like the wine?”

“I’m sure it’s great, but it doesn’t mix with motorcycles on a rainy night.” As if to underline his statement, a new wave arrived and drowned out conversation for a couple of minutes, then passed on.

Stone heard voices on his headset and pressed a cup to his ear to hear better. “...Harlem, heading downtown... Avenue.”

“You’re going to have to excuse me,” Stone said, standing and zipping everything up.

“Gotcha.”

“The food was wonderful, as always. When am I going to get a table?”

“When a few people die.”

“I figured.” He went outside and got on the motorcycle.