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There was a pause, then, “Yessir, seven-fifty p.m.”
Canidy set the alarm on the windup clock beside the bed as a backup, then pushed aside the rest of the clothes that he had bought and lay down on the bed.
The next sounds he heard—the nonstop ring-ring ring-ring of the phone and the clanging of the alarm clock—shook him from a deep sleep.
He looked quickly at the clock. Eight o’clock.
“Damn!”
He jumped up, collected his thoughts.
He went to the curtain, pulled it back, and looked out at the northeast corner of the park. No car appeared to be waiting.
Okay. Maybe he’s late, too. Let’s go.
He took his .45 off of the bed, stuck it in the small of his back, pulled on the new field coat, stuffed the woolen knit cap in his pocket, then rushed out to the elevators.
He pushed the DOWN button, but neither elevator responded. The indicators over the doors—a half circle of numbers with an arrow, the one over the left elevator pointing to 10 and the one over the right to 1—did not move.
Hell, I’m only on the sixth floor.
He ran down the hallway, pushed open the heavy metal door, and took the bare concrete stairs of the fire escape down two at a time.
He opened the door marked FLOOR 1 and saw that he was down the hall from the main lobby. He went to it, then out through the revolving door.
When he got to the northeast corner of the park, he looked around in the dim light. He still could see no car that seemed to be there for him.
There was, however, a sudden movement behind him, against the fence that circled the park. His hair stood up on the back of his neck, and the pistol in his back seemed a very long way away from his right hand.
Just as he started to turn toward it while reaching for the .45, the movement surged toward him, causing him to jump back.
A well-fed cat then flew down the sidewalk.
Jesus. Get it together or it’s going to be one long night.
He saw a cab circling the park. It made the turn onto the street where he stood, began to slow, then pulled to the curb in front of him. The back door opened.
“Get in,” a vaguely familiar voice said.
Canidy did, but there was no one else in the car, only the driver, who was huge.
The monster fishmonger.
Canidy slid in and pulled the door closed. “Where are we going?”
“Not far.”
He drove off with a heavy foot on the accelerator.
Canidy kept track of their route. The cabbie fishmonger—What the hell else does he do?—made a number of turns and soon was flying south down Second Avenue, headed for the Lower East Side.
No surprise there, I guess.
After a bit of jogging down different streets, Canidy saw a sign reading SOUTH STREET and he decided that they were headed for Meyer’s Hotel.
Maybe all the dead bodies have been cleaned up by now.
Without slowing, they drove right past Meyer’s Hotel.
