Gone Tomorrow

TEN

The world is the same jungle all over, but New York is its purest distillation. What is useful elsewhere is vital in the big city. You see four guys bunched on a corner waiting for you, you either run like hell in the opposite direction without hesitation, or you keep on walking without slowing down or speeding up or breaking stride. You look ahead with studied neutrality, you check their faces, you look away, like you’re saying is that all you got?

Truth is, it’s smarter to run. The best fight is the one you don’t have. But I have never claimed to be smart. Just obstinate, and occasionally bad-tempered. Some guys kick cats. I keep walking.

The suits were all midnight blue and looked like they came from the kind of store that has a foreign person’s name above the door. The men inside the suits looked capable. Like NCOs. Wise to the ways of the world, proud of their ability to get the job done. They were certainly ex-military, or ex-law enforcement, or ex-both. They were the kind of guys who had taken a step up in salary and a step away from rules and regulations, and regarded both moves as equally valuable.

They separated into two pairs when I was still four paces away. Left me room to pass if I wanted to, but the front guy on the left used both palms a little and patted the air, in a kind of dual-purpose please stop and we’re no threat gesture. I spent the next step deciding. You can’t let yourself get caught in the middle of four guys. Either you stop early or you barge on through. At that point my options were still open. Easy to stop, easy to keep going. If they closed ranks while I was still moving, they would go down like ninepins. I weigh 250 and was moving at four miles an hour. They didn’t, and weren’t.

Two steps out, the lead guy said, ‘Can we talk?’

I stopped walking. Said, ‘About what?’

‘You’re the witness, right?’

‘But who are you?’

The guy answered by peeling back the flap of his suit coat, slow and unthreatening, showing me nothing except a red satin lining and a shirt. No gun, no holster, no belt. He put his right fingers into his left inside pocket and came out with a business card. Leaned forward and handed it to me. It was a cheap product. The first line said: Sure and Certain, Inc. The second line said: Protection, Investigation, Intervention. The third line had a telephone number, with a 212 area code. Manhattan.

‘Kinko’s is a wonderful place,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it? Maybe I’ll get nine cards that say John Smith, King of the World.’

‘The card is legit,’ the guy said. ‘And we’re legit.’

‘Who are you working for?’

‘We can’t say.’

‘Then I can’t help you.’

‘Better that you talk to us than our principal. We can keep things civilized.’

‘Now I’m really scared.’

‘Just a couple of questions. That’s all. Help us out. We’re just working stiffs, trying to get paid. Like you.’

‘I’m not a working stiff. I’m a gentleman of leisure.’

‘Then look down on us from your lofty perch and take pity.’

‘What questions?’

‘Did she give anything to you?’

‘Who?’

‘You know who. Did you take anything from her?’

‘And? What’s the next question?’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘She said plenty. She was talking all the way from Bleecker to Grand Central.’

‘Saying what?’

‘I didn’t hear very much of it.’

‘Information?’

‘I didn’t hear.’

‘Did she mention names?’

‘She might have.’

‘Did she say the name Lila Hoth?’

‘Not that I heard.’

‘Did she say John Sansom?’

I didn’t answer. The guy asked, ‘What?’

I said, ‘I heard that name somewhere.’

‘From her?’

‘No.’

‘Did she give you anything?’

‘What kind of a thing?’

‘Anything at all.’

‘Tell me what difference it would make.’

‘Our principal wants to know.’

‘Tell him to come ask me himself.’

‘Better to talk to us.’

I smiled and walked on, through the alley they had created. But one of the guys on the right sidestepped and tried to push me back. I caught him shoulder-to-chest and spun him out of my way. He came after me again and I stopped and started and feinted left and right and slid in behind him and shoved him hard in the back so that he stumbled on ahead of me. His jacket had a single centre vent. French tailoring. British suits favour twin side vents and Italian suits favour none at all. I leaned down and caught a coat tail in each hand and heaved and tore the seam all the way up the back. Then I shoved him again. He stumbled ahead and veered right. His coal was hanging off him by the collar. Unbuttoned at the front, open at the back, like a hospital gown.

Then I ran three steps and stopped and turned around. It would have been much more stylish to just keep on walking slowly, but also much dumber. Insouciance is good, but being ready is better. The four of them were caught in a moment of real indecision. They wanted to come get me. That was for sure. But they were on West 35th Street at dawn. At that hour virtually all the traffic would be cops. So in the end they just gave me hard looks and moved away. They crossed 35th in single file and waded south at the corner.

You’re done.

But I wasn’t. I turned to move away and a guy came out of the precinct house and ran after me. Creased grey T-shirt, red sweat pants, grey hair sticking up all over the place. The family member. The brother. The small-town cop from Jersey. He caught up with me and grabbed my elbow in a wiry grip and told me he had seen me inside and had guessed I was the witness. Then he told me his sister hadn’t committed suicide.