Noble Intentions: Season Four (8 page)

"This fucking weather," he said to the man next to him. "Anyway, you're sure it's my guy?"

The guy nodded, gestured with his head toward the field to the north. Both men started that way.

The duo made an odd couple. Harris was a twenty-plus-year veteran of the NYPD. For more than half that time he'd managed to remain uncorrupted. He'd known
Charles when the guy wasn't even considered a thug. Met the Old Man through him. Eventually, the Old Man had made a persuasive enough argument. The kind
that went beyond money, and involved Harris's wife and kids. Even his dog at the time. The detective could've fought back. Might've won. It would have been
a hollow victory, for he would have lost something, or someone, in the process. Harris had been smart enough to know that. And now with Feng out of the
picture, he fell right in line and did whatever Charles needed. The organization paid him handsomely. So much so, that when Harris got word of two men
found partially burned and beaten and stabbed and bludgeoned to death in upstate New York, he called Charles rather than revealing that he knew the
identity of one of the men.

A short walk later, the men found an unoccupied corner of the park. Charles sat down on a well-worn bench. Harris joined him, then pulled out his
smartphone and tapped on the screen.

"They just emailed these to me." He handed the device to Charles.

"Christ." He scrolled through the images of two men beaten so badly he couldn't recognize them. At first, at least. The charred, flabby belly obviously
belonged to Endrizzi. But the other body, he couldn't tell. "Can you zoom these or something?"

Harris reached for the phone. The detective pinched and spread his fingers on the screen. "There you go."

Charles stared at the picture. No doubt in his mind that the identity of the other man was Milano. Same as Endrizzi, the guy's stomach was charred, and his
legs looked worse than fried chicken. His face only had soot and ash on it, but damn if the guy's mug wasn't smashed beyond recognition. What gave him away
was the cloak-and-dagger tattoo on Milano's forearm.

"Some hunters driving around on trails nearby spotted the smoke. Led them to the blaze a few minutes after it got started. They had a couple coolers full
of ice and water. Used that and some blankets to get the fire under control. The fire department was only three miles down the road. They took the rest.
Didn't matter to your guys, though. They were already dead. Pretty good job on the one. Waiting to hear what the fat guy died from."

"Endrizzi."

"Yeah, Endrizzi. I met him once. Who's the other guy?"

"Milano."

"You fucking kidding me?"

"No, why?"

"Our kids play soccer together. His wife and mine even get together for bridge or some shit every once in a while."

Charles looked up from the picture.

"Don't look at me like that," Harris said. "Milano and I had no other dealings outside of what you authorized."

Charles said nothing. He stared off, past a group of kids walking past them thirty yards off. All of them wore red shirts with a black logo of some kind
over the right side of the chest.

"What is it?" Harris said. "This ain't the first time you've lost some good soldiers. Something you're not telling me?"

Charles squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Just a lot to take in, Harris. No matter how many times it happens, you don't get used to it." He paused, then
added, "These hunters, they say anything else? Like they saw someone fleeing the scene, or anything that would've indicated a car or truck had been there?
Footprints?"

"It was dark. And I doubt they were concerned about such things at the time."

For a few minutes they sat in silence. The warm breeze blew the sweat around on Charles's forehead, never cooling it. A wave of diesel fumes reminded him
he was still in the heart of the center of the universe.

"What was they doing up there, anyway?" Harris asked.

"Going up to the reservation to play blackjack or some shit."

"Huh."

"Huh, what?"

"Well, why not AC?"

"Endrizzi's got, or had, a girl down there he's been trying to avoid. Knocked her up and wouldn't admit to it. She ain't got the balls to come up here and
have him served with a paternity suit. He feared she was gonna track him down if he showed up in Atlantic City and kill him or something. I dunno."

"So, you think it's worth looking into this woman?"

Charles reached back and grabbed the base of his neck. "As a suspect? Why would she follow them five hours upstate? How would she even know?"

Harris shrugged. "Just searching, man. You wouldn't be holding anything back from me now, would you?"

"This questioning?" Charles extended his arm like he was about to deliver a backhanded blow to the detective. "I just lost two guys and you-"

"Keep it down." Harris pressed down against the air between them with both hands. "Already bad enough I'm meeting you out here in broad daylight."

Charles rotated his wrist back and forth a couple times, then glanced down at his watch. He had nothing planned, but the detective's questioning left him
itching to go. "I got someplace to be in an hour, Harris. Need to wash up and stuff first. This meeting is over."

"I can walk with you."

Charles looked around. "Nah. Don't think that's a good idea. We've been seen together long enough now. Anymore and people are gonna think we've got
something going on."

Harris remained seated after Charles rose and started toward the fountain. "Don't turn your phone off, got it? I might need to reach you for a little more
information."

Charles stopped, turned, said, "Why don't you leave the investigation, if there's gonna be one, up to me? You five-oh types get all worked up about a
couple of dead gangsters when you should be celebrating two more of my kind are off the street. Just forget about it, all right?"

Harris rebutted, but Charles didn't hear the man's words. He'd noticed for the first time the Fed hanging around just past the first couple trees. The
detective's words trailed off as Charles trudged on in search of a crowd to get lost in.

New York City.

JACK LEFT HIS apartment around two in the afternoon without a clear set of plans for how he'd spend the rest of the day. Of the people he knew remaining
in the city, there was little desire to visit any of them. With that crowd came problems. Problems with the law. Problems with people opposed to the law.
Unforeseen problems. Laying low would work out better than inviting unwanted attention into his life.

But even low had its limits. And Jack had reached it.

Today saw no respite from the heat. Same for the humidity. If anything, it felt worse. Within a block, he regretted wearing pants. But he didn't turn back.
A little distance would be a good thing and there was only one way to get it.

He stopped into a local deli to cool off, then negated the effect by having a grilled sub followed by two cups of black coffee. The brew had been on the
burner too long and left a bitter aftertaste. The waitress left it off the bill even though Jack hadn't complained.

After eating, he cut through Central Park, westbound, and visited the American Museum of Natural History. In his teenage years, he'd narrowed down his
college selections based on their archeology programs. Florida State had the program he wanted. And they were willing to offer him a full football
scholarship. The Marines won. Even though post-secondary education wasn't in the cards, Jack's interest in pre-history never faded.

And he much preferred it to current technology, despite his recent somewhat successful attempts to learn more.

Exiting the museum, he spotted a man positioned across the street. The guy looked out of place, like he'd forced himself to dress like a tourist, but was
uncomfortable without fatigues and shoulder and thigh holsters. The guy glanced in Jack's direction. Wasn't much, but it lasted a hair too long. Jack
merged into the steady stream of pedestrian traffic, headed west on 77th, away from the guy, then north on Columbus. Twice he glanced back at the man. The
first time, the guy remained perched on the stairs leading into a clothing shop. Jack tried to convince himself that the man was waiting outside while his
wife shopped. A bead of sweat streamed down Jack's cheek.

Who waits outside on a day like this?

His second glance revealed that the man had started moving west as well. And it also yielded a flash of recognition. He'd seen him in the Park. Thought
nothing of it at the time. He saw lots of people in the park. Why hadn't the guy stood out then? He recalled the countless faces he'd passed since then.
Impossible to store them all in accessible memory. For all Jack knew, the guy'd been tailing him since he left the apartment. Maybe even before that. Maybe
since the odd meeting yesterday morning.

Columbus was one-way and ran south. A cab would take him right past the guy. On the one hand, he'd get a better look. On the other, it'd do the same for
the man tailing him.

If he still followed along.

Jack ignored the incessant itch to look back.

At 81st, he turned right, headed east, quickening his pace. Traffic stood still in the middle of the street. Jack cut across mid-block, weaving past front
and rear bumpers. Once on the other side, he darted under the dark blue awning of The Excelsior Hotel. The circular rotating front door offered no
resistance. As the pane of glass behind him cut him off from the outside world, he glanced back, searching through the maze of vehicles and pedestrians,
looking for the guy who'd watched him.

Had Jack lost him? Or had he given up after being made?

In the mirror, the reflection of two employees dressed in khaki slacks and white shirts hovered around ten or so feet behind Jack. Both covered their
mouths with their outer hands as they spoke. Their words were indecipherable, but the mirror images of the men were clear enough that he saw their eyes
focused on him.

One of them stepped forward.

"Help you, sir?" Shy. Timid. His voice cracked. Had he even hit puberty yet?

Jack looked back and made eye contact with the young Hispanic guy and said nothing. Didn't need to. These two were bellhops. Maybe the concierge had sent
them over to check Jack out. Perhaps they did it on their own volition. Whatever the reason, they weren't in a position to do anything, and they posed no
threat.

So he turned back toward the street and performed a quick scan of the sidewalk, road, opposite sidewalk and the Teddy Roosevelt Park. Nothing. He turned
his attention to the multitude of vehicles in front of him. Quickly, one-by-one, he looked past the clear and tinted windows. Half-way through, someone
broke his concentration.

"Sir, do you need some assistance?" Deep. Smokey. Spoken with authority. Like he had a set and could tip a table with them.

Jack turned and faced a third man. Six-three and three hundred pounds, at least. How had he not spotted him on the approach?

Tunnel vision.

The big guy took a few steps forward. Jack held steady. Grease stained the guy's denim coveralls. His face and hands, too. He added to the mess when he
wiped his cheek while asking Jack once again if he needed assistance.

"Maybe you should turn around and go wash up," Jack said. "This place has a reputation to uphold."

The two men in khakis looked at each other. Shock on their faces. No one spoke to Grease Stain like that. His presence alone was supposed to whip Jack into
answering them. The tower of a man approached. Jack still held steady. He choked a bit as a wave of body odor washed past. The big man reached out and
placed his hand on Jack's shoulder.

"Get your dirty paw off me," Jack said.

The guy squeezed, said nothing.

"You see my right hand?"

The guy glanced down, glanced up, said nothing.

"That's right, you don't. Know why? Because it's wrapped around the grip of my Beretta."

The guy eased up, but didn't let go. His eyes wavered, like he was unsure what to do now. He'd always been the muscle, but not the brain. On the street,
he'd smash Jack in the face, the gut, the groin. But in the hotel lobby? What was he supposed to do?

Jack said, "You don't know me, where I've been, what I've done, or where I live. But I know where you work. Won't take much effort to get the rest. Now get
your hand off me before I show back up here when your shift ends and jam my pistol up your ass."

The guy's eyes widened, pupils dilated. Presumably, he wasn't used to being talked to like that. He was the enforcer for Christ's sake. Grease Stain
released Jack's shoulder from his grip and took a step back. For a moment, it seemed he contemplated lashing out after having been embarrassed by a guy
close in height, but nowhere near as large overall. In the end, the big guy turned and gestured toward the other two. They looked at each other, then
walked away.

Jack shifted back to the window, splitting his focus between the street beyond, and the image of the big man waiting behind. A city bus blocked the view of
the opposite sidewalk and the park. A minute later, the bus inched forward, gaining speed along with the rest of the vehicles as they made their forty-foot
shuffle.

And the man who'd been following Jack stood across the street.

Jack took a couple steps back, then called out, "Hey, Grease Stain."

The big man stopped near the elevators and looked back.

Jack jogged toward him. The few people seated in the lobby looked away as he approached. They'd been watching. Might've even overheard what Jack said to
the big guy. Whatever had happened, they apparently didn't want Jack to know they'd been eavesdropping.

The smell of stale coffee hung thick in the air, leaving a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. Someone needed to change out the pot before a guest
poured a cup and complained to management. An upscale place like this might fire someone over such an offense.

Grease Stain continued to wait for Jack by the elevators. No sign that the guy planned to bolt. He'd turned into a broken-in bronco. When Jack arrived, the
guy said, "Follow me."