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He has no idea.
My phone rings with an unknown number.
“That’s Reznik,” I say, taking a deep breath before I pick up.
“Get out of your Sheepshead Bay den,” he says. Fuck—I meet Roey’s eyes—Reznik knows where we are. “Alone. No phone or anything else. Just the money.”
“How do I talk to you without a phone?”
“Don’t worry about it. Start walking toward Brighton Beach Avenue.”
He hangs up.
I look at Roey. “He has his eyes on us.”
“No shit,” Roey grinds out. “I’m calling Kolchak. Amon, you and your guys get out through the basement. I unlocked the door that connects it to the next building and leads out into the backyard of a convenience store at the end of the street. Don’t go out all at once. Head to Brighton, it’s a little over a mile away. I’m sure Reznik knows your faces by heart. So besides your lame disguises, use baseball hats, food in your hands, shopping bags, whatever.”
We nod, my heartbeat spiking as I get up and put the backpack on.
The walk to Brighton seems like forever.
That’s what Einstein once said. Being on a date with a dream girl for an hour might seem like a minute. Sitting on a hot cinder for a minute might seem like an hour. Or something like this. That’s the theory of relativity for you.
Brighton is a Soviet museum, an ode to the ‘80s.
My eyes dart around as I walk the main avenue, knowing there will be someone to give me instructions.
Sure thing, a guy in his sixties with a mustache and a dog motions with his finger to me. “Come here.”
I do because he’s not a regular stranger. No one is tonight.
He pulls me onto the side street.
“Hold still,” he says in a friendly voice as he does a pat down. “Make a right on the next street, then a left.”
He starts cooing to his dog as he walks away, bowing to a group of old ladies sitting on a bench.
Three minutes later, as I’m walking along one of the back streets, a buff guy next to a car with an open hood whistles and summons me to him.
“Get in,” he orders.
Another guy in the back seat blindfolds me.
The whole thing is so well-oiled and without any abuse of power that, for a moment, I admire Reznik.
The car drives for about fifteen minutes. I count turns, gauge the speed, the time it takes, and I know that we didn’t leave Brighton. This is just a distraction.
The car finally pulls to a stop, I’m dragged outside, and there it is, the unmistakable rumble of the train on the elevated subway tracks only several blocks away. Anywhere in New York City, subway trains are a giveaway.
“Move,” the man says, pushing me forward and through a door held by another man.
Inside, it’s cool, and when my blindfold is lifted, I find myself in a dim hallway to a small warehouse with high ceilings, stacks of pallets, and a warning sign on the door in front of me.Temperature controlled.
“No tricks,” one of the guys tells me as he roughly grabs me by the shoulder, opens the door, and pushes me inside.
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