Curtains (7 page)

"Yep. You know how they are these days. Wedge
'em in with a crowbar. They interviewed the man who was first in
line to go standby. Everybody showed, so he never got on. He was
thanking God seven ways to Sunday."

No standby passengers. But what about the
ticket belonging to Robert Wells? Someone must have used it.
Someone—

Vincent stumbled toward the street, his head
reeling.

"Hey, got a special today on handguns," the
shopkeeper called after him. "No waiting."

But Vincent was already out the door. He
walked fast, fell into the New York rhythm, blind to
everything.

Someone must have used his ticket. Who?

The mugger.

The mugger must have checked in with the
ticket, became "Robert Wells" himself, and grabbed a seat across
the country. Maybe the mugger wanted out of this town so bad that
he'd risk having the authorities waiting for him at LAX. And for
his trouble, the idiot was probably now in a thousand pieces,
feeding fish in Long Island Sound.

If so, the creep had gotten what he deserved.
Vincent touched his sore head to remind himself that everybody had
to go sometime. Everybody had to pay that one big debt. The trick
was to put it off as long as possible.

As he turned the corner, another thought came
to him. Unless the spooks had been watching, then they didn't know
that Robert Wells a.k.a. Vincent never boarded the plane. They
would get the list, see the name, go over the data on the terminal
computer, and verify that indeed Robert Wells had met his end on
Flight 317.

A perfect bow-tie on their witness protection
program. Case closed. The Fed's star witness against Joey Scattione
was now utterly and forever safe from the mobster's long reach.
Even Scattione couldn't finger a man in the afterlife.

Vincent walked faster, excited, his pulse
racing, red wires of pain shrieking through his temples. He
realized that Scattione would also think him dead. Scattione was
way sharper than the Feds, even though he'd been convicted on
racketeering and drug charges. Thanks to Vincent, who'd been one of
his best street lieutenants.

But Vincent knew a good deal when he saw one.
When the net tightened and the Feds needed a pigeon, Vincent did
even better than squawk: he'd sung like a deflowered canary. After,
of course, he’d elicited a long sheet of promises, including
permanent immunity and protection. And a new identity.

An identity that was dead.

What he needed right now was his old friend
Sid.

Vincent turned into a bar, though it was
scarcely ten o'clock. A man in drag who looked like he hadn't slept
was slumped in one corner, holding a cigarette that was four inches
of ash. Two cabbies were drinking off the effects of the third
shift. The bartender kept his attention focused on the tiny
black-and-white that hung in one corner. It was tuned to the same
news coverage of the crash.

"Help you, buddy?" the bartender said,
without turning.

"Scotch and water. A double."

"Poor bastards," the bartender said, still
watching the television as he reached for the stock behind him. "We
think we got it bad, but at least we ain't been handed our
wings."

"Yeah," Vincent said. Catholic humor. Like
everybody was an angel.

The man poured from the Johnny Walker bottle
as if dispensing liquid gold. The ice cubes were rattled into the
glass before Vincent could complain about the weak mix. Then
Vincent remembered he had no money. He acted as if reaching for his
wallet, then said, "Excuse me, where's the rest room?"

The man nodded toward the rear, eyes still
fixed on the set, where the field anchor was now interviewing a
witness. As Vincent headed for the dark bowels of the bar, he
overheard the witness talking about airline food. The news team was
groping, fumbling to keep momentum, the tragedy already sliding
toward ancient history. The transvestite winked as Vincent passed,
and up close Vincent couldn't tell if she were a man dressed as a
woman or vice versa.

Sheesh, and I thought I had an identity
problem.

But maybe the she-male was onto something. In
the bathroom, Vincent studied his own face in the mirror, trying to
picture himself in lipstick. He shuddered. Better to take on Joey
Scattione than to pluck his eyebrows and duct-tape his gut.

He washed his hands and went out. The
transvestite was waiting by the door. Vincent cleared his throat.
"Say, you got change for a phone call?"

The transvestite sneered and produced some
coins, then dumped them into Vincent's palm as if afraid to catch a
disease. Vincent mumbled thanks and stopped by the pay phone. He
dialed a well-remembered number. As the phone rang, he watched to
see which gender of bathroom the transvestite chose.

Neither. The transvestite went out the back
door. The line clicked as the connection was made. "Hello," came
the welcome though nasal voice.

"Sid, hey, it's me. Vincent."

"Vincent? Like I know any Vincent?"

"Hartbarger. You know."

"Afraid not, friend."

"Jesus, Sid. Vincent Hartbarger. You sold me
the damned name yourself, for crying out loud. Driver's license,
Rotary Club membership, credit cards."

"I don't know from Hartbargers."

Vincent sighed and remembered he’d used a
fake identity to get his fake identity. "It's Charlie Ehle."

"Charlie? Why the hell didn't you say so? You
expect me to remember every job or something?"

"Yeah, yeah. Listen, I need another one. Like
pronto."

"Rush jobs cost extra, my man. But for you, I
can have you set up by five o'clock."

Vincent nodded into the phone. Sid always got
chummy when he smelled green. For a document man, Sid had enough
smarm to work every side of the fence: green cards, counter check
scams, fake IDs, forgery, bogus lottery tickets, anything that
involved paper or photographs. But Sid liked cash, lots of it,
payable when services were rendered.

"Can't you do better than five? I'm kind of
in a jam."

"Oh, the Scattione thing."

The Scattione thing. Damn those Feds.
Vincent's testimony was delivered in closed court, the records
sealed. Sure, Vincent expected stoolies in the judicial branch to
leak to the Mafia. This was America, after all. But when even the
criminal fringes such as Sid knew the score, that meant the clock
was ticking down twice per second on Vincent's remaining life
span.

"Fix me up, what do you say, pal? Just the
basics."

Sid let out a slow whistle. "It don't pay to
cross Scattione. But I guess you already know that, huh?"

"I can give you five grand."

That shut up the weasel. For a moment. Then
the shrewd voice came across the wires. "How come the spooks didn't
set you up? Figured you'd be a family man from Des Moines by
now."

"We decided to part company," Vincent said.
"You think I could hide from Scattione while some of them secret
agent types were guarding me?"

"Suppose not. So, what are you in the mood
for? Irish? Got some McGinnitys all ready to roll off the
press."

"With my coloring? You got to be kidding." He
glanced at the bartender, who was watching the news as if it were a
boxing match. The transvestite entered through the back door,
ignoring Vincent.

"Okay, okay, already. Where you at?"

"Just off Van Wyck."

"Meet me at Naomi's Deli on Greenway. Five
o'clock."

"You need a recent photo?" Vincent asked out
of habit. He knew Sid kept files on all his old customers. You
never knew when blackmail might come in handy.

"No. And let's make it six grand. I got two
kids to put through college." The phone clicked and then hummed.
Vincent hung up and went back to the bar. He thought about asking
the transvestite to pay for his drink, but that would be pushing
it. Instead, he walked past the bar, hurried out the door, and was
lost in the crowd before the bartender could react.

He walked for a while, ten blocks, until his
feet were sore. He didn't know if Joey's people could find him more
easily if he kept moving, or if he tried to hole up. Eventually,
fatigue and the dull ache in his head sent him to a bench in one of
those half-acre dirt patches that the city called a public park.
The two trees clung stubbornly to their oxygen-starved leaves.

Someone had stuffed an afternoon edition, the
Daily News Express
, in the trash can. Vincent fished it out.
More crash coverage filled the front page, photos of the obligatory
grieving survivors, bits of wreckage, FAA talking suits. On page
seven was a list of those believed to have been on board NationAir
Flight 317.

Vincent ran his finger down near the bottom
of the list.
Wells, Robert.

So far, so good. Wells was officially
presumed dead.

And Scattione, with his resources, would know
that Vincent Hartbarger had become Wells. Scattione would get the
word in his Sing Sing cell, his lips would veer to the right in
churlish anger, and he'd pound his fist against the hard mattress.
Nothing could tick Scattione off more than revenge denied. Vincent
had to smile.

But not laugh.

He couldn't laugh until later, when Vincent
Hartbarger was officially laid to rest, along with Charlie Ehle and
the half-dozen other identities that Vincent had adopted over the
years. Fingerprints were no problem, really. All he had to do was
build up the kitty, turn a few deals, and grease a few palms.
Everywhere a record was kept, there was a human recorder who had
access to it. All Vincent needed was access to the recorder.

Vincent had learned that it wasn't a question
of whether integrity could be bought and sold. It was only a
question of price.

He managed to nap a couple of hours, keeping
the newspaper over his face. Scattione had probably passed out a
hundred photos. Vincent could change his name, but he was stuck
with those same recognizable features. At least until he got to
Cayman, where he knew a decent plastic surgeon. First things first,
he needed to live long enough to get his new identity.

The walk downtown took longer than he
expected. When he entered the deli, Sid gave him the once-over.
Vincent's suit was rumpled, the knees dirty from being rolled by
the mugger. He hadn't shaved, either.

"How the mighty have fallen," Sid said, as
Vincent slid into the booth opposite him.

"I haven't fallen yet," Vincent said.

Sid was eating a Reuben, and though Vincent
hadn't eaten all day, the smell of the sauerkraut curdled his
stomach. Vincent checked the door. Sid wasn't known as a
double-crosser. He couldn't afford to be, in his line of work. But,
with Scattione in the mix, everything was subject to change.

Sid brought out a large envelope, put it
beside his plate. "Hello, Mister Raymond Highwater," he said.

"Highwater? What sort of name is that? It's
so phony, I won't make it to Jersey."

"I stole it out of the phone book. That's
what you get when you ask for a rush job." A piece of corned beef
was stuck between Sid's teeth.

"Listen, I got to ask you for a favor."

Sid patted the table. "Pay for the last one,
then we can talk."

Vincent leaned over the table. A group of
Hassidic Jews were across the room, two women were chatting over
coffee, a college-aged kid, probably a film student from Columbia,
was reading a magazine at the counter. None of them looked like
Scattione's people. But in this city, the walls had ears, eyes, and
sometimes a .45 automatic.

"I'm short at the moment," Vincent said. In
the ensuing silence, he heard a bus honk outside, and somebody in
the kitchen dropped a pan.

Sid stopped in mid-bite, took a slow chew,
and then began working his jaws like a ferret. "Short," he said,
spraying rye crumbs across the table.

"Listen, I can make it good." Vincent's words
came fast, like bullets from a clip. "You know me. I can have it
for you tomorrow. And—what say we make it ten big ones? All I need
is a little time as this Highwater guy."

Sid wiped at his mouth with a paper napkin.
Then he put one hand on the envelope, and in a smooth motion, slid
it back inside his jacket.

"Come on, Sid," Vincent said, checking the
door again. "We've done business for years."

"Always cash on delivery."

Vincent tugged at his collar, sweat ringing
his forehead. He knew the window of opportunity was small. Even
though Scattione thought "Robert Wells" was dead, at least one
person knew that Vincent was still breathing. Sid.

With a fake credit card, Vincent might still
be able to get out of the city. All he needed was a name. He'd
already died once today, he'd killed off a dozen other identities
in his time, but he'd always been the one to deep-six himself. By
choice. "I can deliver, Sid. I know you got skills, but it only
takes you an hour to crank out a set of documents."

Sid shook his head. "It's not about the
money. It's about pride and reputation."

Same with Scattione. What sort of rep could a
Mafiaso have if the man who'd fingered him was walking around as
free as sin?

"Nobody will know, Sid. I promise. I'll
deliver, then you'll never see my ugly mug again. I'm thinking
Cozumel, maybe Rio."

Sid sat back and pushed his plate away. The
group of Hassidic Jews continued chattering. The college kid set
down his magazine and ordered something. Vincent looked at the
clock.

"Please, Sid."

Sid pursed his lips. Then he stood, dropped
some bills on the table to cover the cost of the sandwich, and
brought out the envelope. Except this one had come from a different
pocket. He dropped the package in front of Vincent and shrugged.
"Joey pays twenty, and this is who he wants you to be."

The bell rang as Sid went out the door.
Vincent stooped, picked up the envelope, and tore it open. Who was
he this time? Not that it mattered. He'd even be a damned McGinnity
if he had to.