Wild Card

53

Tim Tigner, as he had begun to think of himself, began to feel very comfortable in his world. He had the amassed funds earned from assassinations by himself and his cohorts, amounting to nearly five hundred thousand dollars, and another two hundred thousand dollars on the way, when he requested it. He let his hair grow and began to shave his face every day; he bought some new, rather fashionable clothes; and to sharpen his English pronunciation, used as models television newspeople, all of whom seemed to be from the same place in the United States.

He attended lectures at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and went to the movies a lot. He was courteous and charming to his neighbors, who gathered at the cocktail hour in a lounge for tenants on the ground floor in his building, and in particular, a dark-haired, curvaceous young woman who seemed anxious to have someone to talk to.

“My name is Karen Landis,” she said when asked.

“I’m Tim Tigner,” he replied.

“Do I detect a slight accent?” she asked.

“I was born in Paris, to an American father and an Algerian mother, so my accent is a bit scrambled.”

She switched to French, and he joined the conversation smoothly, French being one of his native languages.

“You have a beautiful accent,” she said. “What do you do?”

“I am an investor,” he said. “Or perhaps just unemployed.”

She laughed. “I’m a registered nurse, at Lenox Hill Hospital,” she said.

“Then you must care about others,” he said.

“Yes, I do.”

They talked on and agreed to have dinner, and by the end of that date, Tim felt that he had found his first girlfriend.

Damien was at his desk when a secretary knocked and entered. “Yes?”

“We have a request from our medical insurers for information about Elise Grant,” she said, handing him a form. “They just want to know if she was employed here and if she had any medical problems at that time.”

“Let me see that,” Damien said, holding out his hand. She gave him the form, and he scanned it. Elise was now employed by the Barrington Practice, at a Turtle Bay address. “Ah, yes,” he said, handing the form back to her, “give them the information they want.”

“Bingo!” he said aloud to himself, when she had gone.

Bob Cantor sat on a bench in Central Park, with Sherry by his side. “It’s so nice to be out of the house,” Sherry said, “even if the house is awfully nice.”

“Stone has been good to us,” Bob said, “but now it’s about time we move out. I’d like it to be together.”

“I’d like that, too,” Sherry replied, squeezing his hand. “I’ve grown accustomed to having you around, day and night, and I like it. Do you think we’re safe now?”

“I think we’re as safe as we can be until the Thomases are either out of the country or in prison, but I suppose that will take a while.”

“The company has been acquired by that hedge fund,” she said, “according to the Times business page. So I suppose there’s nothing keeping them here.”

“Not cell bars, anyway,” Bob replied. “They haven’t even been arrested.”

Damien was feeling safer, too. The acquisition had gone smoothly, and he and the Thomases had been asked to stay on until the end of the year. He had begun to believe that Harman Wills liked him and might offer him something good soon.

The sound of a distant cell phone ringing could be heard and he opened his desk drawer and answered the throwaway inside.

“Good morning, this is Tim Tigner,” that voice said.

“I hope you’re well,” Damien replied.

“I think it’s time for us to meet,” Tigner said.

“Where and when?”

“There is a restaurant called Patroon, on East Forty-sixth Street.”

“I know the place.”

“They have an outdoor bar and lounge upstairs. Let’s meet there at six PM today.”

“That will be satisfactory.”

“And don’t forget to bring payment,” Tigner said, then hung up.

At six sharp, Damien got off the elevator at Patroon and, carrying a briefcase, walked onto the upstairs deck, which was busy with the after-work crowd. He looked around and saw no one who might be Tigner. Then, across the deck, sitting on a divan, a young man raised a single finger.

Damien crossed the deck and stood before the divan. “I can’t quite remember the name,” he said. “Mr....”

“Tigner.” He moved over to make room.

Damien sat down, and a waiter came over. “A very dry vodka martini,” he said to the man.

“Two,” Tigner added.

Damien set down his briefcase between them on the divan.

“Is that my payment?” Tigner asked.

“It is. Exactly two hundred thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills.”

Tigner reached for the briefcase, then stopped. “Open it, please,” he said.

Damien noted that the dark, friendly eyes had hardened. “Of course,” he replied. He rotated the case 180 degrees, reached out, released the locks, and, after a look around to be sure no one was watching them, opened the case.

Tigner reached out, riffled through each stack of notes, then nodded and closed the case. “Very good.”

The waiter delivered their martinis and they raised their glasses to each other.

“To a useful and happy relationship,” Damien said.

They clinked glasses and sipped.

“And now, I believe there is the matter of Miss Grant, Mr. Barrington, Robert Cantor, and Sherry Spector,” Tigner said.

“There is, but that contract has been put on hold for a while. There is a new subject, however, one that will require a new contract.”

“Please continue,” Tigner said.

“His name is Joseph Box. He’s a United States senator.”

“Ah, yes,” Tigner replied. “I have seen him on the news shows. He is very articulate.”

“That he is,” Damien replied.

“Where and when would you like the contract executed?”

“Senator Box is on the road at the moment,” Damien said, withdrawing several sheets of paper from an inside pocket and handing them to Tigner. “This is his schedule. I would like you to follow him and discern his habits, particularly with women. It would be good if he were found dead with a woman, particularly if it were a married woman. That’s something of a specialty of the senator.”

“But no date?”

“To come — sometime during the next few weeks. When it does come, you’ll be expected to execute within twenty-four hours.”

“All right,” Tigner said. “A hundred thousand for Box, another fifty for the woman, and a thousand dollars a day for travel expenses.”

“Done,” Damien said. “You’ll find another hundred thousand in the case, under a flap in the bottom, as a down payment; the rest, on execution.”

“As you say,” Tigner replied. “I will leave first, if that’s all right.”

“Of course.”

Tigner handed him a throwaway cell phone. “This is to be used for all contacts.”

“Right,” Damien replied.

Both men rose, shook hands, then Tigner picked up the briefcase and walked to the elevator.

Damien poured the remains of Tigner’s martini into his own glass, and made himself comfortable.