Jack reached around to pat his butt cheek; his wallet was still there.
Funny if he didn’t have that, huh? He could go back and tell Charles Lee Vincent all about it: You’re never going to believe what I forgot up in my room. Har har har …
The cab rocketed away.
Fuck almighty. Was there even a passenger in the backseat? No, not that Jack could tell. Did he get a sudden call? Or had someone called ahead and said, “Hey, let’s screw with Jack Eisley’s life a little more”?
Jack found himself standing alone on the sidewalk as the seconds ticked away.
He scanned the sidewalk to his right, along the side of the hotel and up the length of Rittenhouse Square: no one. Then to his left. There. A couple, walking away from him, arms intertwined.
Go back inside, or race forward?
Forward.
Jack jogged, then power-walked, then tried to feign a normal pace. It didn’t work. The taller one of the two, a woman, looked behind nervously. Jack blew air through his mouth, then offered a sheepish grin. The woman turned back and hurried the pace a bit. That grin wasn’t fooling anybody. Jack now saw that her companion, the shorter one, curly brunette hair, was also female. Both were young. They must be walking home together after a night out clubbing, he figured, or whatever it is young women do in Philadelphia late on a Thursday night.
Ten feet. How far was ten feet?
So damned tough to judge. How long was a car? About ten feet? Did he need to keep a car length’s pace behind these girls?
His head throbbed.
The women looked at each other; one whispered and the other nodded. The curly-haired girl appeared to be rooting around in her purse for something. Christ, they think Fm a mugger. Then again, why wouldn’t they think that?
Down the street, rushing toward them beneath the mercury vapor lights, was salvation: another cab.
The taller nudged her companion to the right, shot her hand high in the air. High beams flashed and the cab swerved to the left, increasing speed. Jack ran forward, almost pushing the women aside. The cab must have thought he was going to race right into its path, because it braked hard.
The throbbing in his head worsened.
Fingers hooked under the door handle. It was greasy.
“Hey! Fucking asshole!”
“Medical emergency,” Jack muttered, and yanked open the door.
“Sir, those girls hailed me first.”
“I don’t care. Just drive.”
Jack slid across the seat and slammed the door shut. Then he autolocked the back door. The taller girl, whose eye shadow was eerily dark, and lipstick unearthly white, pounded on the window, shouted, “Asshole!”
The cabbie turned around and regarded him carefully. “Wait. I know you. You’re the guy who puked in my cab before.”
“Could you please just drive? I have plenty of money.”
“You’re not feeling sick again, are you?”
Another pound, one that shook the cab. “Motherfucker!”
And a tug at the door.
“I didn’t puke in your cab. We pulled over, remember?”
Jack saw that the curly-haired girl was walking around the back of the cab, headed for the other door. He reached across and locked that door, too.
“God, you’re a dick. This is no way to treat women.”
“Fifty bucks just to drive away. Now.”
Angry slapping on the other door now. One slapper, one pounder—these girls made quite a team. Pretty soon, the tall one would peel back the roof of the cab and reach down for Jack, opening her jaws wide, endless rows of teeth …
“Just fucking go. It’s life-and-death.”
The cabbie shifted his vehicle to drive and gave a short burst of horn. Both girls jumped back, a bit startled. The cab lurched forward, the engine coughed, and then the driver continued up Eighteenth Street.
“Okay, Life and Death. Where do you want to go?”
“The airport.”
“Again?”
“Fuck the flat rate. Charge me whatever you want. I need to get to the airport.”
“Well, here’s the sad thing. I’m not going anywhere near the airport. I’m off duty.”
“What do you mean? You just picked me up.”
“You notice the meter’s off? I thought I was going to pick up those two ladies back there. Odds are, they were headed somewhere in Center City. I thought I’d make a last buck before punching out.”
“I need to get to the airport as fast as I can.”
“I would, but I got an errand to run. There’s a package that needs to make it to a friend of mine at Fourth and Spring Garden. That’s not on the way to the airport.”
“I’m desperate.”
“I can see that. You’ve had a night, haven’t you?”
“Please. I just need a ride to the airport.”
“Tell you what. Indulge me for a few minutes, and I think we can work something out.”
Jack rested back into the seat. Whatever. He’d been indulging people all evening. Why not a cabdriver?
“Only a few minutes?”
“Not even. Say, you’re not a Mormon or anything, are you?”
3:15 a.m.
Little Pete’s
It was too soon for another breakfast. Worse yet, he was alone this time. Ed’s head was tucked away behind the front desk of the Sheraton. Least Ed had company—plenty of cops and rescue workers and hotel staff—buzzing around him. Not Kowalski. He was totally and utterly alone, sitting at a table recently wiped down by a stocky Slavic woman with at least three hairs growing out of a mole on her chin. Good smile, though. So there’s her.
Kowalski spun his cell phone on the tabletop and stopped it with a single index finger. It landed on the number one. He held it there; the phone speed-dialed.
This is Katie. Leave a message and Til get back to you as soon as I can.
No jokes, no cutesy voice. That was Katie. Businesslike in every way except the important ones.
It had been months now, but he hadn’t called to cancel the voice-mail service from her local phone provider. She had no other relatives—her half-brother was out of the picture—so there was nobody else to cancel it for her. Kowalski kept it going just to hear her voice. Seventeen words. That’s all he had left. Every week, he called the access number to erase all of the hang-up calls. He was the only one who called her phone number anymore. Sometimes, he’d hang on the line, and he’d hear his own sigh. He hadn’t known he sighed till then. He’d always thought he had better control than that.
The phone on the tabletop vibrated. It looked like a hovercraft, gliding over a sea of Formica.
Kowalski answered it.
His handler.
“How close are you? I have someone coming in to meet you in a little over an hour.”
“You should run out to the Seven-Eleven, get a Yoo-hoo and a couple doughnuts for your guest. It’s going to be awhile. Our girl’s out of the picture for a bit.”
Kowalski expected a quick rejoinder; that was his handler’s style. Their conversations were like cutthroat racquetball. Bat one right at her head, she’d return the serve and there’d be a hard little explosion in your nuts.
This time, though, nothing.
“You’re there, right?”
“Define ‘out of the picture.’ ”
“Taken to the hospital. Something was wrong with her—she was bleeding from her nose and mouth. But still breathing.”