Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

Boyd.”

47.
    W ETZON WAS RIDING a handsome white horse as the carousel spun around and around on the ice of the Wollman Rink; her hair streamed behind her like a curtain in the wind. Smith in crimson riding britches and a crimson helmet rode the palomino just ahead. She flicked her crop at the wooden flanks and called back at Wetzon, “Hurry, look behind you.”
    Wetzon looked through the scrim of her hair and saw a posse of stockbrokers gaining on them: Joan Boley on a giraffe, Stu Beck and Larry Sellica on elephants, Rona in a safari hat. All were carrying guns, all shouting and waving tickets. All wore sweatshirts saying, “Go For Broke.”
    “Birdie, darling, come back to the theater, where you belong,” Carlos shouted. He was skating alongside the carousel, pleading with her, until the wooden horses outpaced him.
    Wetzon threw herself on the carved mane of the pony and heard a ping, felt the pony shudder.
    Circling the carousel on skates were the branch managers: Neil Munchen, Simon Loveman, Tony Maglia, Fred Benitos, Jim Cafferty. They had teamed up for the privilege of taking potshots at Smith and Wetzon.
    “You sold us damaged goods,” Cafferty yelled. “Spin your wheels somewhere else. We can do it without you.”
    “No, you can’t, dirtball!” Smith shouted. “You’ll die without us. Tell them, Wetzon. Tell them they need us.”
    Bullets were whizzing all around, ping, ping, thump. Keeping her head down, Wetzon clung to the pony.
    “You can’t close to save your life!” Smith screamed at the gang of managers. That did it. There was a barrage of gunshots, and Maglia held up a big sign that said “40, Count Them.”
    “Now see what you’ve done,” Smith shrieked at Wetzon. “You’ve told everyone about my birthday.”
    The organ was playing “I’m Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover.”
    Warm maple syrup oozed onto Wetzon’s hands, red as blood. She stared at her hands, shocked. “My God, my pony is bleeding. Is there a doctor in the house?”
    “Look no further. I’m a doctor.” Jerry Gordon in a teddy-bear costume appeared carrying a hatbox. The lid flew off and brokerage statements took to the air. Wetzon caught one and looked at it. It was Mrs. Leonora Foley’s.
    “You’re not a doctor,” Barbara Gordon said. “You’re nothing but a fat boy.” She was a Valkyrie, her sequined robes flowing in the wind created by the spinning carousel. She staggered right up to Ferrante, who was sitting on a park bench cooing and necking with assistant D.A. Marissa Peiser, grabbed his .38 service revolver from his leather waist clip, and shot her husband in the face.
    The carousel hurtled to a stop, and the music ceased. Wetzon slid off her pony onto something soft and warm, and lay there with her eyes closed catching her breath. The cooing got louder.
    Wetzon opened her eyes. A pigeon was cooing lovingly to its mate as they paused on the fire escape outside her bedroom window. Carlos’s loft. She didn’t move. The dream vividly replayed itself. If one believed in omens, Jerry Gordon’s life was in danger.
    But Wetzon didn’t believe in omens. Not at all. No, sir. No, ma’am. No way. That sensible refrain accompanied her to the kitchen as she shook the container of orange juice and poured herself a glass. It ran through her head as she filled the coffee maker. She took a swallow of juice and dribbled orange spots on Silvestri’s white shirt. She’d slept in it. That’s probably what had given her bad dreams. She sighed and pulled on her leggings, then with Harry Connick, Jr., on the stereo, she allowed herself a slow, thorough workout on the barre.
    Hot water dissolved what remained of the bad dream, and by the time she stepped out of the shower, she was feeling great. She used the blow dryer until her hair was just damp, then braided it into one long braid and let it hang down her back.
    After reviving a slightly stale half a bagel in the toaster oven, she gave it a skimpy topping of cream cheese and sat down with a mug of coffee and listened to the pigeons. Her fingers were restless; she missed the home delivery of The New York Times . After the flood she’d canceled it instead of having it delivered here, because there was no doorman in Carlos’s building. Except for those stupid pigeons who wouldn’t quit, Tenth Street below her window was quiet. Just before nine on a Saturday morning, the Village was barely stirring.
    The dream came back to haunt her. Her worries about the