“Jack has a nasty scandal in his past, Morgan. Very nasty. It’s everything you’ve been hunting for, and then some. But you’ll never find it without me.”
Well, what the hell, Morgan thought. Charles had already made a fool of him-twice-so what was a little more mortification? Only one thing was worse than this: after all this time, effort, and money to come back empty-handed. With a great show of reluctance he removed his jacket and tossed it to Charles. Then his shirt, his shoes, and his trousers, until he was naked but for his socks and underpants. He couldn’t remember a more humiliating moment. “Get into that stall,” Charles ordered, waving the gun at the far one along the wall.
Looking very aggravated, Morgan dutifully entered the stall, and Charles closed the door behind him. He could hear Charles walk around, then the sounds of him entering the adjoining stall and sitting down. “What next?” Morgan asked, wondering how it came to this.
Twenty-five years in the CIA. He had survived so many dangerous encounters, outsmarted so many bad guys, and this amateur, Charles, had the money, and he had the gun, with Morgan stripped down to his undershorts in a public bathroom. He cursed himself for turning on the mike. The entire episode had been broadcast to the boys out on the street. He knew the ribbing was going to be absolutely horrible, and he was right. “What are you doing?” he asked, after a long moment with no answer.
“Counting my money, Morgan. Since you lied, I want to be sure you haven’t cheated me. Now, shut up.”
“It’s there, all of it,” Morgan insisted with as much force as he could muster, given the circumstances. “You can trust me.”
“Twenty thousand, one hundred. Twenty thousand, two hundred…”
The trail crew heard every word until the instant Morgan, confronting a gun, disrobed to his skivvies. They knew which theater they were in, knew it was A Chorus Line, they heard the request to enter the bathroom, and they heard the gun come out.
Then, silence.
After a frantic, whispered huddle, Nickels took the first shot and scrambled to the ticket window. “Please, just listen,” he said to the pale, wrinkled old man smiling back from behind the thick glass divider. “I flew out all the way from Oregon.”
“Oregon? That right?”
“Yes.”
“Long flight. Pretty state, I hear. Never been out there myself.”
“This is my life’s dream.”
“Yeah, good choice. Great show.”
“Yes, and, well, I have to fly back tomorrow.” Nickels shrugged his shoulders and produced a tragic frown. “My assistant was supposed to order tickets. The useless cow screwed it up.” He held up his arms and looked perfectly crestfallen.
“No kiddin’?” the old man grunted. “Know what?”
“What?”
The old man tapped a skinny finger on the SOLD OUT sign.
“Aw, come on. You and I know you’ve got extra tickets back there. A few set aside for cast members, maybe, or there’s always a few no-shows. Always. One is all I need, just one,” he pleaded, pressing a trio of hundred-dollar bills against the window. “Nobody will know,” he whispered with a sly wink. “Not a soul.”
The old man took his eyes off the money and stared at Nickels. “Look up,” he said.
With a befuddled expression, Nickels’s eyes moved up. “That,” the old man announced, pointing at the lens, “is a camera. Reason it’s there is to keep jerkoffs like you from corruptin’ a sweet old man like me.”
Nickels looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of the words.
The old man pressed his hands on the counter and bent forward. “Why don’t you smile for the nice man inside before you take a hike, pal?”
Nickels had struck out, and he edged away, then walked halfway down the block, where Rivers was waiting. “Take your best shot.” He added, “Be careful of the old man. A real wise guy.”
Rivers nodded, then walked briskly to the window. He tapped the nightstick softly against his left leg as he walked, and with the other hand reached up and straightened his NYPD cap.
The old man looked up and offered a nice smile. “What can I do for you, Officer?”
Rivers straightened his husky shoulders. “The precinct just got a call from someone inside the theater.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“About a robbery taking place inside.”
The old man leaned forward on his elbows. “A stickup?”
“With a gun and everything. Go figure. I was told to check it out.”
“So what? You want I should let you in?”
“What do you think? Yeah, and make it quick.”
“Where’s your partner?” The old man’s eyes narrowed and shifted left and right. “Don’t you got any backup?”
“Handling another call. Busy night.” An officious-looking but slightly impatient smile. “Listen, Gramps, you gonna let me in or not?”
“Hey, I’m not givin’ you no trouble. Hell, two of my kids are NYPD. The Hannigan boys, Danny and Joey. Maybe you know ’em.”
“I, uh, might have heard the name. Quit gabbing. I’m in a hurry here.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” he replied, shaking his head. “Hey, what precinct you with?” the old man asked, maintaining the same unhurried, casual air.
Rivers had to pause a moment. “The Fifteenth.”
“Then why’s that badge you’re wearin’ say you’re with the Seventh?”
“I was just transferred. What do you care? Do I need to call the precinct? A life could be at stake.”
“Reason I’m askin’ is, the theater district’s covered by Midtown North.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Reason I know that is ’cause this little button I just pushed, it connects me directly to the precinct house. Usually takes those boys about two beats to get here.”
Rivers stared back, obviously startled. “You did what?”
“You heard me. So either you can wait here and tell ’em why yer impersonatin’ an officer, or you can beat it, you jerk.”
Rivers pondered the situation for about half a second, then wisely chose to bolt. The old man cackled and shook as he watched him scramble down the street. He loved his job.
Charles finished counting the money, at last. “Congratulations, Morgan, it’s all here,” he announced.
“Told you it was.”
“Yes, but you lied about so many other things, I wanted to be sure.”
“It’s cold in here,” Morgan whined, slapping his arms for effect. “Could I have my jacket back?”
Charles laughed. “That was clumsy, Morgan. I was wondering where the bug is.”
“All right. Just get on with it.”
“One question before I start.”
“Do I get a choice?”
“No. Who are you working for?”
“None of your business.”
“Then tell me this. Do these people intend to hurt Jack?”
Morgan weighed the question before he answered. What did Charles want? Wiley hurt, or just smeared? He took a gamble and said, “They intend to mess him up good.”
“Damn, that’s great. Just what I was hoping,” Charles said. Morgan could almost hear the smile on Charles’s lips.
A notebook and pencil slid under the separation panel. “It’s a long story and you might want to take notes,” Charles suggested. “As you know, Jack got out of the Army in 1992, a decorated war hero, hungry to get rich. After he got his business degree, a classmate from Princeton arranged an introduction for Jack at Primo Investments. Let’s, uh, let’s say this guy’s name was Ted.”
“Ted what?”
“Just Ted,” Charles replied coldly. “So Ted told Primo’s CEO that our boy Jack was a stand-up guy, an all-American boy-Primo would be lucky to get him, he said. So Jack got a few interviews, and, naturally, our boy impressed everybody. The CEO started him as an associate, at 120 grand a year. He placed him in portfolio analysis, doing dreary back-office work, but a perfect place to break in a novice, to learn the nuts and bolts. And, naturally, Jack attacked his work with a vengeance and continued to make a grand impression.”