Dino gave him a channel number. “That’s reserved for our motorcycles tonight. Keep in touch.”
Stone found the radio buried deep in his dressing room, on a charger. He got into his old motorcycle leathers, which still fit, he noted, grabbed some boots, a slicker, the radio and a light headset with microphone, and his .45 shoulder holster, then dressed and hurried down to the garage. He started the bike, and when he raised the garage door, he was surprised at how much rain was falling. He snapped on the helmet and pulled the slicker over it and drew it tight, to keep the rain from running down his neck. Then he tuned the radio and eased onto the street. The sound of the rain on the helmet caused him to up the radio’s volume, and he began to hear idle chatter from the cops who were out. He turned up Third Avenue and was greeted with a nearly empty boulevard, with green lights running uptown. He hurried to catch the sequence and was soon doing forty as the lights stayed green. The wind against his faceplate kept it fairly free of rain, so visibility was good.
When he got uptown there was more traffic on 125th Street, so he had to drive more carefully and wipe the rain off his face guard more frequently. He looked into some side streets and found cars still parked outside Rao’s, a tiny Italian restaurant on East 114th Street with a huge following. Stone had been on a waiting list for a table for years, but with no luck yet. There were only ten tables. Occasionally he would get a call saying there had been a cancellation, and he’d take it when he could get it.
He stopped outside Rao’s for a minute to stretch, and two police motorcycles drove up, one on each side of him. One of the drivers pushed back his own face guard. “License, registration, and insurance,” he said.
“Why?” Stone asked. “You’re looking for a BMW, and this is a Norton.”
“What’s a Norton?” the cop asked.
“A British bike that’s older than you are.”
“Are you Barrington?”
“That’s right.”
“We got word that you might be around. Are you on the radio?”
“I am.”
“We’ll get back to it, then,” the cop said, revving his bike. “You’ll hear about it, if we spot him.”
Stone put his bike on its stand and walked over to the Rao’s entrance and stood under the awning, just to get away from the noise of the rain. He took off his helmet and wiped his face.
The door next to him opened, and a voice said, “Stone, is that you?”
“Hi.”
“Why are you all dressed up like Evel Knievel?”
“New bike. Just seeing how it goes in the rain.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Could be.”
“Come on in. The help’s just sitting down to supper. We’ll feed you.”
Stone joined the big table and had a meatball and some pasta. The restaurant was famous for its meatballs. He kept the earphones on.
“What’s with the headset?”
“There’s a cop op on for tonight. I’m listening in.”
“What for?”
“You’ve read about the hit-list killings?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“That guy.”
“You mean he’s around here?”
“Could be. Last spotted in Harlem.”
He got up, walked to the front door, locked it, then came back. “That’s better,” he said.
They all continued eating. Stone declined the wine.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t like the wine?”
“I’m sure it’s great, but it doesn’t mix with motorcycles on a rainy night.” As if to underline his statement, a new wave arrived and drowned out conversation for a couple of minutes, then passed on.
Stone heard voices on his headset and pressed a cup to his ear to hear better. “...Harlem, heading downtown... Avenue.”
“You’re going to have to excuse me,” Stone said, standing and zipping everything up.
“Gotcha.”
“The food was wonderful, as always. When am I going to get a table?”
“When a few people die.”
“I figured.” He went outside and got on the motorcycle.
59
Stone pulled on his helmet, kicked the engine to life, then turned up the volume on his radio. The hammering of rain on his helmet let up for a bit, and he had better reception here.
“Turning downtown, Second Avenue,” a young man’s voice said. “Black BMW, rider wearing black.”
“Did you get a shot at him?” another voice asked.
“No ID on the guy, but he fits the description. I’m not going to shoot some citizen.”
Good boy, Stone thought, being a civilian himself.
“There’s another civilian out here on a bike, a Norton, whatever that is. He’s a friend of somebody. Don’t shoot him, either.”
Stone felt better immediately. He shifted gears and got moving. From 125th Street, he swung south on Fifth Avenue, thinking to get ahead of Sig, unspotted. Farther downtown he made a left and headed for Second Avenue. As he turned right again he saw that there was more traffic than before; he was seeing delivery trucks now, some moving and some parked. He slowed down enough in his turn to hear the familiar howl of the BMW, sounding a few blocks away, then he accelerated, ignoring traffic signals when they turned red, but watching carefully for crosstown traffic.
Blocks ahead he saw flashing lights, then the rain came again obliterating his view. He instinctively slowed, and in so doing, passed behind a truck crossing Second in the sixties. He had not seen the vehicle until he was behind it. He took some deep breaths to calm himself, then got his speed up as the wave of rain passed. The flashing lights farther downtown were no longer there. Then, dead ahead, he saw a motorcycle down in the middle of the street, an inert form lying yards south of it. He slammed on his breaks, stopped, and got off. The man was lying on his back, and Stone felt for a pulse at his neck. Nothing. He unzipped the man’s jacket and listened at his chest. Still nothing.
Stone pressed the talk button on his radio. “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” he said.
“Who’s that?”
“Barrington. Cop down on Second Avenue at Sixty-first Street, no pulse at chest or neck, request ambulance.”
“On the way. Cause of death?”
“No visible wounds; maybe an accident. I’ll stay with him until...” He heard a siren from uptown and looked to see the flashing lights approaching. He waved his arms, then pointed out the fallen cop. Without further conversation, he leapt on his Norton and headed south again, watching side streets. He heard the howl of the BMW again and was trying to get a fix on it when a black machine roared up to him from behind. He didn’t have time to react, and the rider swung his fist at Stone’s upper body. Only it wasn’t just a fist. Stone saw the blade too late, then felt the searing pain and warm liquid running down his arm.
He swung wide of the BMW, then swung back, and braked slightly, aiming his front wheel at the other bike’s rear wheel.
Stone braked hard as the BMW went down and slid on the wet street. By the time it was stopped, so was Stone. He dropped his bike where it stood, took off his right glove and stuffed it into his sleeve, hoping to stanch the flow of blood.
The other rider was up on one elbow now, and Stone had his little Tussey .45 in his right hand. He walked over to the rider and kicked him hard in the head, hard enough that his helmet came off. “Good evening, Sig,” Stone said and aimed another kick at him.
Sig dodged, and Stone spun around and hit the pavement, and the .45 left him. Sig was on his feet now, and had a switchblade in his hand. “Good evening, Barrington. You’ve got less than a minute before you bleed to death, but I think I’ll cut your throat for good measure.” He took a step or two toward him.
Stone was groping for the little pistol, but it wasn’t there, and he couldn’t take his eyes off Sig, who was still coming. He aimed a kick at the man’s crotch and connected, then he scrambled to his knees and looked for the .45.