The audience was getting restless. I held up a finger—wait a moment, please—and dug in my pocket, pulled out my cell phone, and pretended that I was receiving an important call. I walked away from the table and microphone. I moved my lips as if talking to the caller, clicked off, and returned to the table, where I announced, “Something just came up. We have to go.”
Ray was not happy when I actually reached him. “Joe, I thought you said, when you declined to come to Washington, that you’d already told us anything relevant.”
“This just came up.”
“Maybe it would have come up earlier if you sat down for debriefing. But that was not for you, was it?”
“Why don’t we make the best of this new information.”
“Customs is already going through everything coming out of that area, including art. So we’re covered. I’m more concerned with what else you missed. There’s a reason why we have procedures.”
“Ray, this could be important.”
Ray Havlicek swore under his breath, said something like could be. He said he had to go. He’d check out what I’d told him. He clicked off.
SEVENTEEN
“Open the door to your apartment, Cycle,” Greg snapped. “Now!”
It was intolerable — Tom Fargo seethed — that the grand plan’s fate could come down to this; a pompous neighbor and a bored exterminator, a stupid rule about keys. He fought to appear calm outwardly. There had to be a way to keep these people from fumbling their way into his darkroom. He inserted the silver Medeco into the slot and heard the dead bolt slide open under the eyes of Greg and Greg’s mortified girlfriend, Rebeca.
The exterminator needs to leave this building safely. Greg’s cleaning lady comes weekly. Was she here yesterday? Or is she coming tomorrow, meaning bodies would be found?
Tom smelled DEET on the exterminator, a big-bellied man in a brown uniform with his name stitched in beige thread on the chest, LOU. Greg’s musky cologne was cloying. He wore a lemon-colored V-neck sweater against the AC, white tennis shirt, khaki shorts, loafers, and no socks. The lock clicking open snapped like a 9mm slide being cocked.
If I kill Greg I have to kill the others.
Tom feigned a smile as the door swung open. The late-afternoon light was lovely, the enhanced crimson that comes from sunlight steeped in pollution. In slanting beams, dust motes floated, a fly buzzed. Thankfully Tom always kept his Koran, prayer mat, and DVD sermons in the darkroom.
All I need is a day, to receive the airport shipment. Once that happens Tom Fargo disappears.
“I’m off at five,” Lou said, pumping spray along the living room baseboard. The pesticide canister hissed, and the acrid odor filled Tom’s nostrils. It was four fifty-one, only nine minutes before the guy could quit.
I never thought when I didn’t give the doorman an extra key that anyone might actually break into my apartment.
Greg had looked furious when Tom and Rebeca arrived in the taxi; Rebeca remained subdued, fearing an even greater explosion. Now Lou disappeared into the bedroom as Greg muttered, “I warned the board to ban rentals to strangers.”
“Oh, no harm done,” Tom remarked.
Greg was working himself up.
The exterminator moved into the bathroom, and Tom heard cabinets opening. Greg spun on Rebeca, index finger wagging. He was clearly talking to Tom, not his girlfriend. “The board needs to stop sublets! I’m putting it on the agenda next month!”
The exterminator will reach the darkroom in a minute. What would a real New Yorker do to stop him? What is acceptable behavior here?
Tom pushed away fear and considered how people treated one another in this belligerent metropolis. They shouted, cursed, and argued; in taxicabs, subways, shops, bars. Their impotent threats reminded him of the little Amazon anteater, a two-foot-high creature puffing its chest up and hissing to keep enemies at bay, all bluff.
Greg turned on Tom. “You’re not supposed to change a lock without the owner’s permission. Didn’t you read the co-op rules you were given? They’re written out, plain as day.”
“I will after this. Sorry.”
The steel tap on Greg’s right shoe drummed an angry cadence on the concrete floor. Sunlight reddened Greg’s scowl. It was clear to Tom that his neighbor had not forgotten being humiliated earlier. Tom’s threat to call the police — tell them about Greg hitting Rebeca — had worked when there were only two of them talking. But Greg’s need to look important might not withstand more embarrassment, especially in front of his girl.
As the exterminator tried the knob of the darkroom, Tom felt a fist clench inside his stomach.
“Uh, this is locked,” Lou said.
“Oh, that’s just a darkroom,” Tom remarked. “No need to go in there.”
“I’m supposed to spray the whole apartment.”
“It’s sealed. I’m really not comfortable with how that stuff you’re spraying might interact with my chemicals. Why don’t you just go? It’s five o’clock. You look beat, Lou. I bet you had a long day.”
Tom heard Greg’s breathing change beside him, go quicker. The man seemed to pull himself up. “You asked us to wait for you and we did,” he sputtered. “You said you’d open up.”
“Well, I did that, didn’t I? Believe me. There’s no insects in there,” Tom said. “Let the poor guy go home.”
Lou chuckled instead of being appreciative. “You sound like Mrs. Vanderfield in 9A. This apartment is clean! Then I go in the bathroom. Man! Roach city! Like, gimme a break!”
“Open it, Tom,” Greg said in a low voice.
“I’d rather not.” Tom had no choice. Belligerence was the only option left. “I paid for this place. It’s mine until Zhang comes back.” He folded his arms.
Greg stepped back, astounded at the tone, and, in turn, on his face, Tom saw anger and rage. It was now clear to Greg that Tom had never intended to cooperate. Rebeca looked from man to man, sensing explosion. Lou just checked his watch and sighed.
“Either open it or I go, guys,” Lou said.
Greg was unaccustomed to being challenged, in his precious job as co-op board “Captain,” at his firm, or in his home. He demanded of Tom, “What do you have in there anyway?”
Tom jutted his face forward, so his breath would hit Greg’s nose. Bullies respond to threat. Outrage was acceptable in New York, original home of resentment. All I need is another day.
Tom mimicked Greg’s tone. “What’s in there? Who the hell are you? None of your goddamn business. I don’t owe you explanations. This is my apartment as long as I pay.”
“You can’t talk to me like that.”
Tom met the glare full on. “Go to a movie or something. Cool out.”
Greg’s eyes narrowed and his chin thrust forward, like Mussolini’s. He was quivering. “You’re no photographer. I never see you with a camera. What the hell are you doing in that darkroom anyway?”
Lou held up his hands, backing away from the group. “Whoa! I’m not getting in the middle of this. I’m outta here.”
Greg spun on the man, going shrill. “You’re supposed to spray all the apartments! We paid for that! I’ll call your boss! You don’t just walk off a job during an emergency!”
Lou made a face, yeah, yeah, you’re tough… and turned to Tom, both palms up in sympathy. You have to deal with this asshole? I feel sorry for you. Lou told them, “On 9/11 I quit at five. The day the Martians attack I’ll quit at five. And my boss is my cousin Bernardo. So good luck.”