Already he was out of the truck, walking up the sidewalk, head lowered.
The door of the lobby clanged against a mounted bell, the cheery ring adding a discordant note to the decidedly uncheery interior. Stuffing protruded from a gut-slashed love seat. The floorboards had rotted away in an amoeba by the front desk, releasing the sweet smell of mold. An obese receptionist rested her head on a propped fist, her jowls dimpled into concentric folds above her knuckles. She was watching The Silence of the Lambs on a television no bigger than a toaster. Hannibal Lecter bragged about eating the census taker’s liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti, then rabbit-sucked his teeth with epicurean relish.
As Evan approached, the woman slid her eyes over to him but didn’t otherwise move.
“Is Oscar Esposito staying here?” Evan asked.
“Why?”
“He’s a friend.”
“Then I don’t much want to help you.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a culo .”
Evan supposed that a man whose four-year-old daughter answered to “Idiot” generally didn’t make a winning impression on women.
He said, “Then I’m an enemy.”
At this she moved, shifting her considerable weight on her chair. “What do you want to do to him?”
“Just have a talk.”
“A talk.”
“Yes.”
“That might not be the worst thing.” She fanned her fingers, considered. “Too bad, though. You just missed him. He flew out of here.”
“Drunk?”
“No. Like, with a purpose, you know?”
A ripple of heat moved across Evan’s shoulders. “Do you know where he was heading?”
The woman shrugged. “Course not.”
“Does he have a car?”
“Not that I know of. Cara de mierda takes the bus.”
Mounted on the wall behind her, a plywood board housed columns of hooks, some of which held room keys.
Evan said, “You can’t tell me what room he’s staying in, right?”
“That’s right.”
Evan stared at her.
She stared back.
And then she stretched, a great expansive gesture, her sweater stretching beneath her capacious arms like a set of wings. She finished with a finger landing on an empty gold hook, her pretty dark eyes peering pointedly at Evan from beneath elaborate fake lashes.
The keys on either side dangled from cheap plastic key chains labeled with blue Magic Marker—13 and 15.
Evan said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”
She gave a Vanna White flip of her hand. “Right down that hall, sir.”
He hustled up the corridor. Room 14 was conveniently unlocked, saving the half minute it would have taken him to pick the crappy lock.
Given the prison-small space, it took Evan all of fifteen seconds to rifle through Oscar Esposito’s few belongings. He paused, scanning the room, his gaze coming to rest on a beige telephone propped on an old fashioned radiator.
He picked up the handset, hit REDIAL .
A woman answered, her voice hoarse. “Look, O, I give up, okay? I give up. I told you where we at. Just come get us. I’ll come home with you. Just don’t hurt Aurora.” Her sobs came over the line. “I give up. I give up.”
Reseating the handset, Evan eyed the number on the cracked caller-display screen. On his RoamZone he accessed a classified reverse telephone directory and thumbed in the number.
NEW HAVEN WOMEN AND CHILDREN TRANSITIONAL HOUSING.
An address 2.4 miles away.
That was a short bus ride.
*
Oscar Esposito was on tilt, all lean muscle and bone flying up the sidewalk, face thrust forward, leading the charge with his scowl. He wore black 501s tugged low enough to reveal a good six inches of Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs and the grip of a nickel-plated .22. His leather jacket swooped behind him as he cut between two parking meters and charged for the front door of the shelter.
Nearing the steps, he reached behind him and tugged the gun free.
That was when his momentum stopped.
It was puzzling at first, his foot raised before him, frozen above the sidewalk, ready to set down. The tightening pressure around his chest. His arms pinned at his sides.
He squinted down at the band of paracord lassoed around his torso.
It tightened some more.
And then he was whisked off his feet, flying backward into the alley next to the shelter.
He hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him, his gun skittering off. His mouth gaped, but nothing came out. And no air came in.
The alley walls were feathered with torn-off corners of flyers. A breeze rushed across his sweat-washed face, making the triangles of paper flap on their tabs of tape like the wings of injured butterflies. Through the gap between rooftops, a few stars shone through a bleary sky.
And then they were blotted out by a man-shaped form.
A boot lowered to Oscar’s chest, compressing his ribs, and at last his lungs released with a shudder. He gasped and then gasped again.
The voice came down at him as if from the heavens.
“Listen to me closely. When you regain consciousness, the cops will find you hog-tied on the doorstep of the shelter, in violation of your restraining order. Resting beside your cheek will be that gun, which I assume is unlicensed. It will be unloaded, not that you’ll be able to reach for it.”
The wind picked up even more, the torn bits of flyers fluttering with wounded fury, transforming the alley into something living, the hide of a roused beast.
“After you’ve served your time, if you try to hurt your wife or daughter again or ever contact the woman who prosecuted you, I will come back for you. Blink twice if you understand me.”
Oscar could hear his own breath screeching in and out of his lungs, but it didn’t sound like it was coming from him; it sounded like a growl issued from the chest of the alley.
He blinked twice.
All at once Oscar was flipped over onto his stomach, the rope coiled around his wrists and ankles, creaking with tension. The paracord zippered into a knot, cranking his shoulders and hips back in their sockets. His spinal cord bent in a painful reverse arc, strung like a bow.
The voice was lower now, calm and sharp, a dagger in his ear. “If I have to come back for you, I will make you hurt. Understand?”
Oscar blinked again.
This time everything stayed dark.
48
Dirty Work
Beltway insiders referred to the Washington Hilton as the “Hinckley Hilton,” a macabre nod to the failed songwriter who, in a Taxi Driver –inspired act of obsessive love for Jodie Foster, put a bullet into the lung of Ronald Reagan at the hotel’s T Street exit.
The room Candy had rented, perhaps by design, was high on the northwest corner, looking down at that fateful stretch of sidewalk, which shimmered now in the moonlight, wet with night dew. Evan paused by the cold pane, gazing below, taking it in.
Tomorrow was going to be a very big day.
As neither the Secret Service nor Orphan A’s band of misfits were on alert for a single woman, Candy had procured the room.
This morning Evan had collected the shipments Tommy had arranged for him. As promised, Tommy had left them in the trunk of a beater car in a salvage yard on the city outskirts. Evan had simply climbed in and driven off.
Between Evan and Candy now on the floor were all three of Tommy’s weatherproof Hardigg Storm Cases, lids raised to show off the gear nestled into the foam lining.
In the bluish flicker of the TV, Evan knelt to remove the two-foot weapon, taking a moment to admire Tommy’s superb craftsmanship before tucking it inside the skateboard backpack he’d purchased this afternoon. Earlier today he’d dragged the backpack behind the car for a few blocks; the more well-loved something was, the less it stood out.
Adhered to the rear of the pack by buckle carry straps was a road-worn Santa Cruz Slasher board that Evan had bought used at a skate shop. It nicely hid the bulk beneath.
CNN ran in the background, clean-cut pundits running pregame commentary on the president’s congressional appearance. Their discussion of the security measures had taken on a fetishistic air, the familiar phrases trotted out with breathless delight. Taking every precaution. No stone unturned. Intense scrutiny of the event zone.
As they delved into often-incorrect specifics, Evan wondered how much of it was ignorance and how much disinformation. After all, Bennett was a master of counterintelligence.
Through the lens of a new laser range finder, Candy watched with amusement as Evan tested the heft of the backpack. He finally glanced up at her. She looked ridiculous, the tag from the golf-pro shop dangling down over her nose.
She tossed the range finder onto the bed. Then she peeled off her shirt.
For a moment she stood brazenly, hands on her hips, physical assets on full display. From the front none of her mottled flesh was visible.
“This routine?” he said. “You don’t have to do it. I know it’s your training talking.”
“Like you didn’t have the same training. Fun, wasn’t it?”
He was silent.
“Oh,” she said. “Right. You want it to be special .”
He had a hard time holding his focus on her face.
The pope would have, too.