Jack wrapped his arms about her and hugged her. "Thanks for caring," he said.
Laurie hugged back.
"I love you," Jack said.
"I love you, too." Laurie said.
11
"So, how are we going to work this?" Angelo asked Franco.
He and Franco were in Franco's car, having pulled over to the left side of Fifth Avenue between 56th and 57th streets. There was a row of massive concrete urns sitting on the sidewalk, presumably for protection of the Trump Tower from wayward vehicles. The commercial entrance to the building was behind them, forcing one of them at any given time to be looking back over his shoulder to keep the area under observation.
"That's a good question," Franco answered. "This isn't the easiest assignment I've ever had. Where's that description again?" Angelo handed over the sheet of paper.
"Your turn to watch the entrance," Franco said. Facing forward, he quickly reread the description. "I guess we will have to rely on the hair. I can't even imagine what blond with lime-green highlights will look like. It sounds almost scary."
"I think the size issue will tip us off, at least initially," Angelo said. It was easier for him to look back while sitting in the front passenger seat. "It's hard to see the hair color with the angle of the sun, and there's a lot more people coming out. I guess it's quitting time."
"If we don't see her soon, I'm going to start worrying we've missed her."
"That won't bother me," Angelo said. "I have a nagging feeling about this hit."
"Oh, come on, you pessimist," Franco said. "Enjoy the challenge of it. By the way, where are the date-rape pills and the gas you got from old Doc Trevino?"
"The pills are in my pocket, and the ethylene is on the floor of the backseat along with the plastic bags. That stuff is unbelievable how fast it works. Two seconds, the person is out."
"Well, we sure can't use the gas here in broad daylight. Well, maybe it isn't so broad anymore."
"Of course not, but it might come in handy if she kicks up a fuss once we get her in the car. I don't want to be forced to shoot her in the car."
"Hell, no," Franco said. "Not on my upholstery. Let me see the pills."
Angelo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter-sized envelope, which he handed to Franco. Franco squeezed the ends of the envelope together and looked in at the contents. There were ten small white pills nestled in the bottom crease.
"How many of these things do you have to use?" Franco asked.
"Doc said just one. All you have to do is plop it into a cocktail, and twenty minutes later you can pop it to her."
"How come he gave us so many?"
"Beats me. Maybe he thought we could have fun with the others."
Franco tipped the envelope and poured half of the pills into his hand. Then he dropped them into his jacket pocket and handed the envelope back to Angelo. "If we use one tonight and it works, maybe I'll give it a try."
"Sounds like it would be a great evening," Angelo said teasingly. "Viagra for you and Rohypnol for your honey."
Refusing to be baited, Franco said, "I think one of us should walk down there to the entrance and get a better look at each and every one coming out. There would be less chance of missing her."
"That's not a bad idea," Angelo agreed. "But what are we going to do when we see her? We can't strong-arm her with all these people around."
"What about your Ozone Park police badge? You've always said it works wonders."
"It does, but not always in a crowd. People are emboldened when other people are around. She could yell and scream, and there's lots of cops in the neighborhood."
"I've noticed. I'm amazed they haven't approached us to leave."
"You've spoken a bit too soon. Here comes one now."
Franco glanced back over his shoulder. A burly policeman with a strikingly large gut was heading toward them, carrying a pad of traffic tickets in his hand.
Franco looked at Angelo and back at the policeman. In ten seconds, the cop would be at the door.
"I'll jump out," Franco said. "You drive around the block!"
"Why don't I jump out?"
"Because I'm in charge," Franco said. "Make sure your cell phone is on. And most importantly, don't wreck my car."
Franco climbed out onto the sidewalk. "Good evening, officer," he said. The policeman arrived just as Franco reached full height.
"There's no parking or standing," the cop said, as he eyed Franco and then bent down to look in at Angelo.
"He's just dropping me off, officer," Franco said as he also bent down to wave good-bye to Angelo. Angelo had slid across the bench seat to be behind the wheel. Franco closed the door lovingly.
"Hey!" the officer called out suddenly as Angelo started to pull away. Angelo stopped with his heart racing. "Your seat belt!" the policeman yelled.
"Thank you, officer," Angelo said in a tense voice after putting down the window halfway.
Franco's heart had raced as well. With definite relief, he smiled at the policeman, then walked north toward the Trump Tower commercial entrance.
AMY LUCAS LOOKED over at the clock high on the wall across from her desk. With utter relief, she saw that it was finally five-thirty, her normal quitting time. The day had been a mixture of anxiety and tedium. The anxiety had been getting called into the CEO's office and being questioned about Paul. She'd never even met the CEO before, much less been called into her office. Although she suspected it would be about Paul, she wasn't entirely sure. There was always the concern about being fired, not that she'd done anything to deserve it but more because she couldn't afford to be fired. Financial need evoked a kind of paranoia, and her finances were being strained by her contribution toward keeping her mother in an assisted-living facility. Each month was a struggle to stay in the black.
Paul's absence had also been the source of anxiety. She'd been working for the man for about ten years and had moved with him from their previous job to Angels Healthcare about five years ago. When he'd not shown up by ten that morning, Amy feared something was wrong, because Paul Yang was generally very precise and methodical, like most accountants, unless he had been drinking. That was the worry. As the day wore on and he didn't appear or call, she came to believe he was on one of his binges, like he'd had before the move to Angels Healthcare, and it saddened her. Back then it had been difficult, because she'd had to make excuses for his absence on a regular basis, and even on one occasion rescue him from a fleabag motel.
After the motel incident, he'd seen the light, and overnight he became thankfully motivated to stay away from alcohol. Only Amy knew he'd gone to AA meetings and had kept it up for years now. She'd hoped he'd stay away from alcohol for good, but now, five-thirty in the afternoon, she was certain he'd relapsed.
If it was true, as she expected it was, that he'd gone back to alcohol, she blamed the stress he'd been under regarding the stupid 8-K form and the ballyhoo about whether or not to file it. She knew he was upset about it because he had specifically told her so, but he didn't tell her why he was so agitated. Amy wasn't an accountant, and had never even gone to secretarial school. She was pretty much self-taught, although she did take appropriate courses in high school and was exceptionally good with the computer.
Sometime after she had typed the 8-K on Paul's laptop, he had called her into his office, and then, as if there was a great conspiracy afoot, gave her a USB drive, which contained the 8-K file.
"I want you to keep this," he'd whispered. "Just put it someplace safe. On a separate file is the Securities and Exchange Commission's website."