Desperate Measures

10

Burt Forsyth wasn’t married. He considered his apartment a place only for changing his clothes, sleeping, and showering. Every night after work, he followed the same routine: several drinks and then dinner at Bennie’s Oldtime Beefsteak Tavern. The regulars there were like a family to him.

The bar, on East Fiftieth Street, was out of tone with the expensive leather-goods store on its left and the designer-dress store on its right. It had garish neon lights in its windows and a sign bragging that the place had a big-screen television. As Pittman’s taxi pulled to a stop, several customers were going in and out.

Another taxi stopped to let someone off. Pittman studied the man, then relaxed somewhat when the man went into the bar without looking in Pittman’s direction. After using the last of his cash to pay the driver, Pittman glanced around, felt somewhat assured that he hadn’t been followed, and hurried toward the entrance.

Pittman’s gym bag attracted no attention as he stood among patrons and scanned the crowded, dimly lit, noisy interior. It was divided so that the beefsteak part of the bar was in a paneled section to the right. A partition separated it from the serious drinking part of the establishment, which was on the left. There, a long counter and several tables faced a big-screen television that was always tuned to a sports channel. Pittman had been in the place a couple of times with Burt and knew that Burt preferred the counter. But when he studied that area, he didn’t see Burt’s distinctly rugged silhouette.

He stepped farther in, working his way past two customers who were paying their bill at a cash register in front. He craned his neck to check the busy tables but still saw no sign of Burt. Pittman felt impatient. He knew he had to get in touch with the police, but his sense of danger at his apartment had prompted him to run. Once he escaped, he had planned to use a pay phone to contact the police. As soon as he’d gotten in the taxi, though, he’d said the first words that came into his mind: “Bennie’s Tavern.” He had to sort things out.

He had to talk to Burt.

But Burt wasn’t in sight. Pittman tried to encourage himself with the thought that Burt might have made an exception and chosen to eat in the restaurant part of the bar. Or maybe he’s late. Maybe he’s still coming. Maybe I haven’t missed him.

Hurry. The police will wonder why you didn’t get in touch with them as soon as you escaped.

Feeling a tightness in his chest, Pittman turned to make his way into the restaurant and caught a glimpse of a burly, craggy-faced man in his fifties with a brush cut and bushy eyebrows. The man wore a rumpled sport coat and was visible only for a moment as he passed customers and descended stairs built into the partition between the two sections of the building.