Cold Vengeance

CHAPTER 33

New York City

THE FOOD LINE AT THE BOWERY STREET MISSION snaked slowly past the front row of refectory-style tables toward the steam trays.

“Shit,” said the man directly ahead. “Not chicken and dumplings again.”

Distractedly, Esterhazy picked up a tray, helped himself to corn bread, shuffled forward in the line.

He had been staying below the radar. Way below. He’d taken a bus down from Boston and stopped using credit cards and withdrawing cash from ATMs. He went by the name on the false passport and bought a new cell phone under that assumed name. His lodgings were a cheap SRO on Second Street that preferred dealing in cash. Whenever possible he was subsisting on handouts such as this. He had a goodly supply of cash left over from his trip to Scotland, so for the time being money wasn’t a concern, but he would need to make it last. Pendergast’s resources were frighteningly exhaustive — he wasn’t about to take any chances. Besides, he knew they would always give him more.

“Goddamn green Jell-O,” the man in front of him continued to complain. He was perhaps forty years old, sported a wispy goatee, and wore a faded lumberjack shirt. His grimy, pale face was seamed with every manner of vice, self-gratification, and corruption. “Why can’t we ever get red Jell-O?”

The banality of evil, thought Esterhazy as he slid an entrée onto his plastic tray without even looking at it. This was no way to live. He had to stop running and get back on the offensive. Pendergast had to die. He’d tried to kill Pendergast twice. Third time’s the charm, as the saying went.

Everyone has a weak spot. Find his and attack it.

Carrying the tray, he walked over to a nearby table and sat down at the only empty place, next to the goateed man. He lifted his fork, picked absently at the food, put the fork down again.

Now that he thought about it, Esterhazy realized how little he really knew about Pendergast. The man had been married to his sister. And yet, though they’d been on friendly terms, he’d always remained distant, cool, a cipher. He had failed to kill Pendergast partly because he hadn’t really understood him. He needed to learn more about the man: his movements, his likes, his dislikes, his attachments. What made him tick, what he cared about.

We’ll take good care of you. Just as we always have.

Esterhazy could hardly swallow his food with that phrase echoing in his mind. He put down his fork and turned to the goateed vagrant sitting next to him. He stared at the man until he stopped eating and looked up.

“Got a problem?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Esterhazy bestowed a friendly smile on the man. “May I ask you a question?”

“What about?” The man was instantly suspicious.

“Someone’s pursuing me,” said Esterhazy. “Threatening my life. I can’t shake him.”

“Kill the mother,” said the man, resuming slurping up his Jell-O.

“That’s just it. I can’t get near enough to kill him. What would you do?”

The man’s deep-set eyes glittered with malice, and he put down his spoon. This was a problem he understood. “You get to someone close to him. Someone weak. Helpless. A bitch.”

“A bitch,” Esterhazy repeated.

“Not just any bitch, his bitch. You get to a man through his bitch.”

“That makes sense.”

“No shit it makes sense. I had a beef with this dealer, man, wanted to bust a cap in his ass, but he always had his crew around him. Well, he had this little sister, real juicy…”

The story went on for a long time. But Esterhazy wasn’t listening. He had fallen into pensive thought.

His bitch…