The Shadow of Your Smile

3

It was not an assignment he relished. The disappearance of a young woman doctor in New York was stuff for the tabloids and they would be sure to wring it dry. The money was good, but Sammy Barber’s instinct was to turn it down. Sammy had been arrested only once, then acquitted at trial because he was a very careful man and never came close enough to his victims to leave DNA evidence.

Sammy’s shrewd hazel eyes were the dominant feature in a narrow face that seemed out of place on his short, thick neck. Forty-two years old, with muscles that bulged through the arms of his sports jacket, his official job was as a bouncer at a Greenwich Village night club.

A cup of coffee in front of him, he was seated across the table from his would-be employer’s representative in a diner in Queens. Scrupulously aware of small details, Sammy had already sized him up. Well dressed. In his fifties. Classy. Very good-looking. Silver cuff-links with initials D.L. He had been told there was no need for him to know the man’s name, that the phone number would be sufficient for contact.

“Sammy, you’re hardly in a position to refuse,” Douglas Langdon said mildly. “From what I understand, you’re not exactly living high on the hog from your lousy job. Furthermore, I have to remind you that if my cousin had not reached several of the jurors, you would be in prison right now.”

“They couldn’t have proved it anyway,” Sammy began.

“You don’t know what they could have proved, and you never know what jurors will decide.” The mild tone was no longer present in Langdon’s voice. He shoved a photograph across the table. “This was taken this afternoon outside the Village hospital. The woman holding the child is Dr. Monica Farrell. Her home and office addresses are printed on the back.”

Before he touched anything, Sammy reached for a crumpled paper napkin, then used it to pick up the photograph. He held it under the dingy lamp at the table. “Beautiful broad,” he commented as he studied it. He turned the photo over and glanced at the addresses, then without being asked, he handed the photograph back to Langdon.

“Okay. I don’t want to have this picture on me if I’m ever stopped by the police. But I’ll take care of everything.”

“See that you do. And quickly.” Langdon shoved the picture back into his jacket pocket. As he and Sammy got up, he reached back into the pocket, took out a billfold, peeled off a twenty-dollar bill, and tossed it on the table. Neither he nor Sammy noticed that the snapshot had caught on the billfold and fluttered to the floor.

“Thanks a lot, mister,” Hank Moss, the young waiter, called as Langdon and Sammy exited through the revolving door. As he picked up the coffee cups, he noticed the picture. Setting down the cups, he ran to the door but neither man was in sight.

They probably don’t need this, Hank thought, but on the other hand the guy did leave a big tip. He turned the picture over and saw the printed addresses, one on East Fourteenth Street, and the other on East Thirty-sixth Street. The one on East Fourteenth had a suite number, the one on East Thirty-sixth, an apartment number. Hank thought of a particular kind of mail that sometimes came to his parents’ home in Brooklyn. Listen, he told himself. Just in case this is important to anyone I’ll drop it in an envelope and address it to “Occupant.” I’ll send it to the suite on Fourteenth Street. That’s probably the office of the guy who dropped it. Then if it’s important, he’s got it, at least.

At nine o’clock when his shift was over, Hank went back to the hole-in-the-wall office next to the kitchen. “Okay if I take an envelope and stamp, Lou?” he asked the owner, who was tallying receipts. “Somebody forgot something.”

“Sure. Go ahead. I’ll take the price of the stamp out of your paycheck.” Lou grunted with what passed for a smile. Short-tempered by nature, he genuinely liked Hank. The kid was a good worker and knew how to treat customers. “Here, use one of these.” He handed a plain white envelope to Hank, who quickly scribbled the address he had decided to use. Then Hank reached for the stamp Lou was holding out to him.

Ten minutes later he dropped the envelope in a mailbox as he jogged back to his dorm at St. John’s University.