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He rang the bell again, just to let Mr. Nikolov know that his presence was still requested. This is what any normal visitor would have done.
A grain of suspicion...
A voice, muffled by the thickness of the door. Not impatient. Just tired.
The door opened and Swann was surprised--and pleased--to see that Robert Moreno's preferred driver was only about five feet, six inches and couldn't have weighed more than 160 pounds, 25 fewer than Swann himself.
"Yes?" he asked in a thick Slavic accent, looking at Swann's left hand, the white envelope. The right was not visible.
"Mr. Nikolov?"
"That's right." He was wearing brown pajamas and was in house slippers.
"I've got a TLC refund for you. You gotta sign for it."
"What?"
"Taxi Limousine Commission, the refund."
"Yeah, yeah, TLC. What refund?"
"They overcharged fees."
"You with them?"
"No, I'm the contracting agent. I just deliver the checks."
"Well, they pricks. I don't know about refund but they pricks, what they charge. Wait, how do I know they not ripping me off? I sign, I sign away my rights? Maybe I should get a lawyer."
Swann lifted the envelope. "You can read this. Everybody's taking the checks but it says you don't have to, you can talk to an arbitrator. I don't care. I deliver checks. You don't want it, don't take it."
Nikolov unlatched the screen door. "Lemme have it."
Swann appreciated that he had no sense of humor but he couldn't help but be struck by the man's unfortunate choice of words.
When the door opened, Swann stepped forward fast and drove his right fist, holding the pipe, into the man's solar plexus, aiming not for the ugly brown cloth of the PJs but for a spot about two inches beyond--inside the man's gut. Which is where blows should always be aimed, never the surface, to deliver the greatest impact.
Nikolov gasped, retched and went down fast.
In an instant Swann stepped past him, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him well inside before the vomiting started. Swann kicked him once, also in the belly, hard, and then looked out a lacy window.
A quiet street, a pleasant street. Not a dog walker, not a passerby. Not a single car.
He pulled on latex gloves, flicked the lock, slipped the pipe away.
"Hellooooo? Helloooo?" Swann called.
Nothing. They were alone.
Gripping the driver by the collar again, he pulled the man along the recently waxed floor, then deposited him in a den, out of view of the windows.
Swann looked down at the gasping man, wincing from the pain.
The beef tenderloin, the psoas major muscle tucked against the short loin and sirloin, lives up to its name--you need only a fork to cut it when prepared right. But the elongated trapezoid of meat, known for Wellington and tournedos, starts in a much less agreeable state and takes some prep time. Most of this is knife work. You have to remove any tougher side muscle, of course, but most challenging is the silverskin, a thin layer of connective tissue that encases much of the cut.
The trick is to remove the membrane completely but leave as much flesh intact as you can. Doing this involves moving the knife in a sawing motion, while keeping the blade at a precise angle. You need to practice a great deal to get this right.
Jacob Swann was thinking of the technique now as he withdrew the Kai Shun from its waxed wooden sheath and crouched down.
