Desperate Measures

25

It took three hours. Even though Pittman had switched from his street shoes to the jogging shoes that he’d put in his gym bag, his feet ached and his leg muscles protested. Weak from exertion and hunger, he reached Grand Street on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, looking for the address that he’d gotten from Sean O’Reilly’s computer file.

He studied the busy street, wary of police surveillance. After all, Gladys Botulfson might have changed her mind. If Brian had said something to infuriate her further, she might have decided to call the police and teach her husband a lesson. Of course, the police wouldn’t know where Pittman had gone unless Brian confessed which file he had accessed. But would he? Or would Brian’s anger toward Gladys prompt him to defy her?

That wasn’t the only thing that bothered him. What if the address Sean O’Reilly had given the authorities was out of date or else a lie? Suppose he wasn’t there?

The latter worry intensified when Pittman finally reached the address and discovered that it wasn’t an apartment building but a restaurant instead, a sign in the front window announcing PADDY’S.

Shit. Now what am I supposed to do?

Needing to get off the street, he did his best to hide his nervousness when, unable to think of an alternative, he entered the restaurant.

He barely noticed its Irish decor-green tablecloths, shamrocks on the menus, a large map of Ireland on one wall. What he did notice was the handful of late-afternoon customers, most of them at the bar.

A few looked in his direction, then returned their attention to their drinks.

Pittman approached the barman, who was muscular, wore a green apron, and stood behind the cash register.

“What’ll it be?”

“I’m looking for a friend of mine. Sean O’Reilly.”

The barman used a towel to wipe the counter.

“I heard he was staying at this address,” Pittman said, “but this is a restaurant. I don’t see…”

“How?”

“What?”

“How did you get this address?”

“My parole officer’s the same as his. Look, is Sean around?”

The man kept wiping the counter.

“Sean and I go back to when he was doing those public-service announcements for the police department,” Pittman said. “When he was telling people how to keep their homes safe from burglars.”

“So? What do you want him for?”

“Old times. I’ve got some stories to tell him.” Pittman drew his key chain from his pocket and held up the tool knife. “About this.”

The bartender watched Pittman remove the lock-pick tools from the end of the knife.

The bartender relaxed. “You’ve got one of those, too?” He smiled and pulled out a set of keys, showing his own knife. “Sean only gave these to guys he likes. Yeah, Sean stays here. In a room upstairs. At night, he subs for me.”

“But is he around?”

“Ought to be waking up around now. He sure was drunk last night.”

A half dozen people came into the restaurant.

“Looks like we’re getting busy.” The bartender poured tomato juice into a glass, added Tabasco sauce, and dropped in a raw egg. “Stairs through the door in back. Second floor. The room at the end of the hall. He’ll be needing this.”