Honeymoon

Chapter 12

NEW YORK MAY BE the city that never sleeps, but at four in the morning there are definitely parts that are barely awake. One such was the dimly lit basement of a parking garage on the Lower East Side. Buried five stories beneath the street, it was a picture of stillness. A concrete cocoon. The only noise was the numbing buzz of the fluorescent lighting overhead.

That and an impatient middle finger tapping on the steering wheel in an idling blue Ford Mustang.

Inside the Mustang, the Tourist glanced at his watch and shook his head. His finger tapping continued, his middle finger. His contact was late.

Two days late, actually.

A missed appointment.

Trouble brewing? No doubt about it.

Ten minutes later a pair of headlights finally lit up the far wall by the ramp to the next level. A white Chevy van appeared. On the side was a sign for a florist. FLOWERS BY LUCILLE, it read.

Oh, c’mon, the Tourist thought to himself. A flower delivery truck?

The van slowly approached the Mustang, stopping twenty feet away. The engine was cut and a tall, rail-thin man stepped outside. He was wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and tie. He began walking toward the van. There was somebody else in the van, but he stayed inside.

The Tourist got out and met the Thin Man halfway. “You’re late,” he said.

“And you’re lucky to be alive,” said the contact.

“You know, there are some people who actually think of it as skill.”

“I’ll give you points for the shot. Dead-center forehead, I’m told.”

“Well, the guy did have a receding hairline. Bigger target. Is the girl all right?”

“Shaken up. But she’ll be fine. She’s a professional. Just like you.”

The Thin Man reached inside his jacket pocket. Not good! He pulled out a pack of Marlboros, offered one to the Tourist.

“No, thanks. Gave it up for Lent. ’Bout fifteen Lents ago.”

The man lit up. He shook the flame from his match.

“What are the New York police saying?” asked the Tourist.

“Not a whole hell of a lot. Let’s just say they’re dealing with conflicting eyewitnesses.”

“You sent someone over, didn’t you?”

“Two eyewitnesses, actually. We had them both claim that you had a scar on your neck and a goatee.”

The Tourist smiled, rubbed his bare chin. “That’s pretty good. How about the working press?”

“They’re all over it. The only bigger mystery than who you are is what’s in the suitcase. Speaking of which…”

“It’s in the trunk.”

The two walked to the back of the Mustang. The Tourist popped the trunk. He lifted out the suitcase, placed it on the ground. The other man looked it over for a moment.

“You tempted to open it up?” he asked.

“How do you know I didn’t?”

“You didn’t.”

“Yeah, but how do you know?”

The man blew a smoke ring. “Because we’d be having a much different conversation right now.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“Of course not. You’re not in the loop.”

The Tourist let it go. “So, what now?”

“Now you get lost. You’ve got another gig, right?”

“A gig? Yeah, I’m already on something interesting. Who’s in the car?”

“You did good on this one. He said to tell you that. Leave it at that.”

“I am good. That’s why they called me in on this.”

They shook hands and the Tourist watched as the Thin Man carried the suitcase back to the van and drove off. The Tourist wondered if they would be able to figure out that he’d looked at the contents of the flash drive. Any which way, he was definitely in the loop now. Even if he wished to hell that he wasn’t.