Fear the Night

53

The next day, Bobby sat on a bench in a pocket park on East Fifty-third Street, where office workers from nearby buildings went to eat lunch or simply rest in the shade provided by small trees or the buildings bordering the park. There was a flat-surface waterfall at the far end of the park that supplied relaxing burbling and lapping sounds. A very restful atmosphere in the beating concrete heart of the city, and one where people tended to lower their guard.

Lunchtime seemed to be when these people in suits, blazers, and ties wanted to make personal calls on their cell or satellite phones. Bobby slumped on a bench as if half asleep, watching two women in particular through half-closed eyes.

The nearest was a lean, high-powered executive type with a pale complexion, startlingly blue eyes, and black hair short and parted on one side. She wore matching blue slacks and blazer and navy high-heeled pumps. All business, at least during working hours.

She was the first to end her conversation. Flipping the phone’s lid-earphone closed, she replaced the unit in her purse.

The second woman, young and with her light blond hair combed straight across her forehead and over one eye in a way that made her look like Martha Stewart, wore slacks, a gray blazer, and white jogging shoes. She completed her conversation and absently laid her phone alongside her purse on the bench where she sat. The bench was near the edge of the park, and Bobby thought it would be easy to create some kind of diversion, or simply walk past and scoop up the phone while her attention was elsewhere. If he did happen to be noticed, he’d simply hand the phone over to the woman with a smile and pretend she’d knocked it on the ground and he was retrieving it for her. Even if she didn’t believe him, she probably wouldn’t raise much of a fuss. Something about her made him think she wasn’t the type. And it was almost as if she wanted to have the phone stolen. She even made it easier for him by pulling an envelope from her purse, opening it, and becoming engrossed in a letter.

Bobby nonchalantly rose to his feet and shuffled at an oblique angle toward the bench. None of the park’s other occupants seemed to be paying much attention to him. He wasn’t the sort whose gaze anyone wanted to meet.

Within a few seconds he was only about ten feet from the bench. The woman continued to sit hunched over her letter, gnawing on a sandwich now, the black and purple cell phone resting near her right hip like a bright piece of fruit ready to be plucked.

The trouble was, Bobby wasn’t a thief.

He walked slowly past the bench, unable to act.

He couldn’t reach for the phone. He thought he’d reasoned it out and decided the end justified the means. But there was still a part of him that he held sacred and protected, that the city in its cruelty and hardships hadn’t claimed, and wasn’t up for compromise.

He hadn’t backslid that far. He hadn’t gone over to the other side. Not Bobby Mays.

Try as he might, he goddamn well wasn’t a thief!

Bobby kept walking, past the unsuspecting woman on the bench, out of the small, narrow park, and into the throngs of people passing on the sunny sidewalk.

Half a block down, he stood off to the side and with his fingertips counted the change in his pocket. A couple of dollars. If he set up with his sign and cup on a busy corner, like the one across the street, he could raise more.

Maybe enough for what he had in mind.

Within a few hours he had a total of fourteen dollars and thirty-five cents. It would have to be enough. After a subway pay-for-ride MetroCard bought from a machine, he was down to slightly over ten dollars. But he was soon uptown, in the 140s near Broadway.

There was a guy Bobby had come to see, a black man going by the name of Meander. Sometimes, when Bobby couldn’t afford his prescription medicine, Meander sold him pain pills. Only last week Bobby had bought some Darvocet from him, a few weeks before that some cherry cough medicine heavy with codeine that had not only relieved pain but given Bobby a bit of a buzz. Once he’d simply purchased Tylenol that Meander had probably stolen that morning from some retailer’s shelf.

Meander didn’t only specialize in medicinal aid to the hapless and homeless; he also dealt in stolen cell phones. These phones had a shelf life before they were noticed missing and the provider was alerted. They depreciated accordingly. Some of the phones had been bought cheap by Meander from desperate thieves laying them off for a few dollars for food, booze, or drug money. Others Meander, an accomplished pickpocket, stole himself. Pure profit, those.

Meander had an assortment of chargers and kept the phones’ batteries up. Usually the buyer could count on a few days of use, sometimes longer. Longer was always riskier. It didn’t take much time to run up astoundingly high phone bills, never to be paid by the illicit user.

Bobby wandered the neighborhood for about half an hour, then spotted Meander at one of his usual places of business, the doorway of a blackened brick building that had been damaged by fire a few years ago and remained unrepaired. The building had housed a small auto supply shop that had been a front for drug dealers. The oil and other petroleum products had made for quite a fire.

Meander was a short, thin man with heavy-lidded, lazy eyes and a goatee that lent his narrow face a bored yet satanic expression. He was about forty, wearing jeans so baggy they were almost like the gangsta pants worn by the younger thieves and thugs of the neighborhood. He also had on a black T-shirt three sizes too large, and a gray baseball cap worn sideways on his head so that the bill was cocked low over his right ear. The cap wasn’t precisely a baseball cap; it bore the words Shit Kicker instead of a team logo. Bobby couldn’t imagine the mentally active but physically lazy Meander kicking anyone who might kick back, or playing any game that required exertion, unless it was Run From the Cops. A few feet behind him, in the shadow of the deep doorway, was a tattered cardboard box Meander would disavow any connection to if he happened to be rousted by the law. In this box were his wares-phones on one side of a cardboard divider, medicinals on the other.

Standing slouched against the building near the doorway as if he were glued to it, Meander watched Bobby approach. His heavy-lidded eyes didn’t blink.

“You hurtin’ agin, my man?” he asked, when Bobby was about twenty feet away and obviously had come to see him.

“Came for something else,” Bobby said.

“I axed was you hurtin’?”

“So you did. I’m always hurting.”

“Not if you take the medicine I sell you.”

“That’s some bullshit,” Bobby said.

Meander grinned. “Tha’s to say, if the expiration dates on the bottles ain’t more’n ten years old.”

“Which they are sometimes.”

“Which they are,” Meander agreed. “What you need, Bobby, you po homeless fucker?”

“I need what you sell. A phone.”

Meander looked surprised-for him. His eyelids raised to the three-quarter-open position, then dropped back to half. “Who the fuck you be callin’ on the phone, walkin’ bundle of rags like you?”

“My broker?”

“You broke, all right. You can’t afford no phone.”

“I got ten dollars.”

“That be different, but it still ain’t enough.”

“It’s all I’ve got.”

Meander remained slouched, but he crossed his arms over his bony chest. “It still ain’t enough.”

“Look in your box and I bet you’ll find something in my price range. Do it as a favor.”

“Mean you gonna owe me a favor?”

“That’s the idea,” Bobby said. “How the world is greased.”

“You ain’t a cop or nothin’, so what the fuck good’s a favor you owe? You jus’ a po fool like I used to be ’fore I became a businessman.”

“I used to be a cop.”

“Like I used to be police commissioner. ’Sides, you a cop once, you always a cop.”

“Whatever. Let’s trade favors. I’ll owe you one in return for a ten-dollar phone.”

“Ain’t no such thing as a ten-dollar phone, Bobby. Ain’t you kept pace with technology?”

“I’m trying to gain ground. That’s why I wanna trade favors. Your favor’d be a discount on the phone, and mine’d be something you need in the future.”

“Trade favors, my ass. Cops don’t do that kinda deal.”

“Sure they do. Anyway, like you said, once a cop. .” Bobby glanced meaningfully at the incriminating box full of stolen wares.

Meander straightened up from the wall, somehow still slouching. “You fuckin’ threatenin’ me?”

“Just pointing out about how favors work between friends.” Bobby was threatening him and both men knew it. Bobby twisting an arm, working the street again. Bobby back on the Job. It felt good, throwing a scare into a booster like Meander. It felt right.

“Now, that the kinda deal a cop makes,” Meander said. “Do the favor or fuckin’ else. That what you’re sayin’, Bobby, my man? That what I’m hearin’?”

Bobby merely stared at him. Fixed him with the dead-eyed look that might mean anything, including explosive danger.

“Maybe I got a spare phone at that,” Meander said, squinting slightly as if for the first time bringing Bobby into focus. “Be an Amickson clamshell, ob-tained yesterday.”

“Never heard of an Amickson.”

“It be a good brand, made in North or South some country or other.”

“Does it work?”

Meander appeared internally injured. “Do it work? Fuckin’-A right it work! Ain’t no Mo-torola or No-kia. Tha’s why it’s cheap, why we can do the deal. That an’ I got no way to charge up the motha.”

“Huh? You wanna sell me a dead phone with no way to charge the battery?”

“Dead? Ain’t dead, man. I say dead? Got some power left. Got a rabbit.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Battery indicator uses little rabbit icons. Five rabbits be fully charged. You got a whole rabbit left. Might last a few minutes, maybe an hour. Hell, you might be buyin’ half a dozen phone calls. Cheap at the price. Couldn’t sell it at such a discount, ‘cept it was dropped. I acquired it myself, an’ no sooner it hit the pavement, I put it right back together.”

“You mean you dropped it when you were running away from whoever you stole it from.”

Meander scratched his head. “That what I mean?”

“Anything else I should know about this phone?”

“Nothin’. Oh yeah, the six don’t work. Button don’t press no more.”

Bobby summoned up the phone number he might have to call. “That’ll be okay. Just the six not working?”

“Got my fuckin’ word. You a good customer, Bobby, so why’m I gonna piss you off?”

“Amusement?”

Meander chuckled. “Fuckin’ ’musement!” He turned and rummaged around in the box, then held up the phone for Bobby to see. Small, black, with blue buttons. It looked okay, though it wasn’t the clamshell flip type as Meander had said. Lying could become an addiction.

Bobby leaned closer and peered. The 6 looked like all the other buttons. The phone appeared not to have been dropped hard enough to damage the case or cause much interior damage. There were small red letters across the top. “Amickson,” Bobby read aloud. The script looked Gothic. The screen glowed and a small rabbit appeared in the upper left-hand corner. One of its ears appeared to be missing.

Meander did a tight little dance. “You want it or not? Gotta get off the stool, man. No more negotiation. I’m doin’ business here an’ the shit I sell’s of the highest quality. Tell the truth, you ain’t shoppin’ Cadillac, ’cause you one po motha. You want a phone be an off-brand, got no spare battery that’ll fit it, got no charger an’ jus’ a little charge, no number six button-price be ten dollars. An’ it’s guaranteed. It don’t work, you can bring it back.” Meander grinned. “Ain’t about to git your money back, though.”

Bobby fished the ten dollars-three crumpled bills and the rest in change-from his pocket and handed it over. “You’re all heart, Meander.”

“All head’s what I be. All business. Anyways, what difference it make? What party a loser like you gonna call? What you up to, Bobby? You talkin’ to Mars? Or maybe Ur-anus?”

“Maybe Mars,” Bobby said.

“Well, here’s your space phone.” He stuffed the money from Bobby in his pocket before handing over the phone. “Be the special of the day, price you paid. Now git on. I don’t want no homeless motha hangin’ round, be bad for business. I’m done with charity for today.”

“Charity? I thought you didn’t have a heart.”

“Huh? I say that?”

Bobby slipped the phone into the pocket that had carried the money to buy it, then nodded to Meander and moved away down the street.

Considering what the ten dollars might have bought, the phone could be a bargain.

If it worked when it was needed. If the rabbit didn’t die.

Lora was perched on the window seat, her back to Bank Street. Her shoulders were hunched, helping to add ten years to her age in the failing light, and her gaze was solemn.

She said, “This is driving me goddamned crazy, Vin.”

“Both of us,” Repetto said, pacing.

“Why don’t we go grab her by both arms and force her out of that apartment? That death trap?”

“That’d be against the law.”

“Then we break the fucking law!”

Repetto stopped pacing to face his wife squarely. “She’d go back. She can do that. She would do that.”

Lora lowered her gaze to the floor. “This is your decision, not mine.”

“It’s Amelia’s decision,” Repetto said. “If it was mine, it’d be the same as yours.”

After a long pause, Lora said, “You’re right.” She began shaking her head from side to side. “It’s just so damned hard to swallow.”

Repetto began pacing again, wondering if she really had swallowed it. Beyond her hunched form framed by the window, he watched night begin to fall.

Just from reading the papers it hadn’t been hard for Bobby to figure out the identity of the Sniper’s next intended victim. And to know from reading between the lines that Amelia Repetto might still be in town, refusing to be run off by fear.

If true, she was one gutsy young lady. Not stupid, from everything Bobby had read about her, so it must be courage.

Bobby had figured out her address easily from what they said about her neighborhood in the paper, and from the A. Repetto listed in the phone directory. Easy for him, easy for the Sniper. Bobby knew how the police would think, how they’d lay out their protection. He was walking the neighborhood of Amelia’s apartment, not getting too close, prowling the perimeter and gradually working his way inward. The lowering evening was cool enough to be comfortable, moonlit and without much of a breeze. A shooter’s night.

He touched the hard plastic of the cell phone in the pocket where he usually kept the handouts he’d garnered. He thought about the Sniper. And Amelia Repetto. So maybe this’ll be the night. Or maybe he’ll let her sweat awhile longer. Let everybody sweat.

Or maybe she wasn’t sweating. At twenty-one, he’d thought nothing could kill him. Amelia Repetto might still feel she was immortal.

All the more dangerous.

Bobby had a feeling about tonight. His rusty instincts from when he was a cop in Philly were working well and governing his actions, his plan.

He felt good tonight. Meander had been right with his “once a cop always one” remark. Even a dickhead like Meander had that one figured out.

Bobby was back even though he’d never really been away.

Tonight, every night, he was a cop.

“I know I shouldn’t call and tie up her line,” Lora said. “I’ll call her cell phone.”

She was on the cell phone now. With Repetto. He was in an unmarked vehicle half a block down from his house, where Lora was inside and on the phone, but she didn’t know that. A radio car would arrive soon to take his place. Lora had to have police protection, too. In case the Sniper’s stated intention to try for Amelia was a feint. Repetto and Lora hadn’t discussed that possibility, but he knew she must be aware of it.

But Repetto didn’t think the threat to Amelia was a feint. That wasn’t the way the Sniper would play the game. Not this stage of the game, anyway.

“I want to go to her, Vin.” Lora said. “Every fiber of me wants to.”

“That’s the last thing you should do. Maybe the thing the Sniper wants most.”

“I tried again to talk her into leaving the city, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“I tried too. She’s-”

“Bullheaded, like you.”

Repetto didn’t argue with her.

“All right,” Lora said with a sigh, after ten or fifteen seconds of his silence. “I’ll get off the phone. But I want to know what’s going on.”

“You will know,” Repetto said. “I promise.”

“Our daughter-”

“Only daughter,” Repetto said. “She has guts.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Vin. I want her to stay alive. Dal had guts and look what happened.”

Repetto really, really didn’t want to get into this. He felt his grip tighten on the phone.

“I’m sorry,” Lora said, as if she were right there in the car with him and had seen the effect of her words.

“That’s okay,” Repetto said. “It’ll all be okay if we let the police do their job.”

He sounded as if he really believed it.

The Night Sniper sat at the antique oak table in his gun room and worked the ramrod that was reaming the barrel of the Webb-Blakesmith competition rifle that was from his collection. This rifle didn’t disassemble down to caseable components for travel like a lot of the custom-made weapons in the collection, and wouldn’t fit in his backpack; but he wanted to use this particular weapon for its accuracy, and because it was one of his favorites. For such an important shot, there could be no other choice.

As he usually did with rifles that wouldn’t break down and fit into his backpack, he would wear his long, lightweight raincoat to conceal the weapon. It could be carried in a sling beneath the tattered coat. That was easy to do, with the stock tucked in his armpit, and the sling’s hook run through the trigger guard behind the trigger. He could hold the rifle tight against his side beneath the coat and walk with the defeated shuffle of the homeless. He didn’t mind using the concealed sling, because he had no illusions about tonight. It would be best to keep the rifle handy in case he had to shoot his way out of an unfortunate situation. The odds were with him because he planned carefully, but still there was always the unexpected challenge.

In the bright lamplight, he admired the cleanly designed and constructed steel mechanism of the rifle, the precision firing pin and gas ejection breech, the lightly sprung trigger and long, blued barrel with its matte black sights that reflected no light that might disrupt aim. Wonderful! Man had devised few mechanisms as precise and reliable as the firearm.

Drawing the ramrod from the barrel, he sat back for better light. He examined the square of white cotton on the end of the ramrod and saw no dark markings. The rifle was clean. Ready and reliable. Still, he fitted a new square of cloth over the end of the ramrod and reinserted it in the barrel.

For a long time he sat at the table in the lamplight, working the ramrod back and forth in the long, grooved barrel, thinking about tonight.

About Amelia Repetto.

Rapunzel.