Gone Tomorrow

The place was quiet. I saw Theresa Lee doing nothing at a desk and her partner Docherty walking a guy across the squad room to a cubicle in back. The guy was a worn-out mid-sized forty-something. He had on a creased gray T-shirt and a pair of red sweatpants. He had left home without combing his hair. That was clear. It was gray and sticking up all over the place. Theresa Lee saw me looking and said, “Family member.”
    “The woman’s?”
    Lee nodded. “She had contact details in her wallet. That’s her brother. He’s a cop himself. Small town in New Jersey. He drove straight over.”
    “Poor guy.”
    “I know. We didn’t ask him to make the formal ID. She’s too messed up. We told him that a closed casket is the way to go. He got the message.”
    “So are you sure it’s her?”
    Lee nodded again. “Fingerprints.”
    “Who was she?”
    “I’m not allowed to say.”
    “Am I done here?”
    “The feds finished with you?”
    “Apparently.”
    “Then beat it. You’re done.”
    I made it to the top of the stairs and she called after me. She said, “I didn’t mean it about tipping her over the edge.”
    “Yes, you did,” I said. “And you might have been right.”
    * * *
    I stepped out to the dawn cool and turned left on 35th Street and headed east. You’re done . But I wasn’t. Right there on the corner were four more guys waiting to talk to me. Similar types as before, but not federal agents. Their suits were too expensive.

Chapter 10
    The world is the same jungle all over, but New York is its purest distillation. What is useful elsewhere is vital in the big city. You see four guys bunched on a corner waiting for you, you either run like hell in the opposite direction without hesitation, or you keep on walking without slowing down or speeding up or breaking stride. You look ahead with studied neutrality, you check their faces, you look away, like you’re saying, Is that all you got?
    Truth is, it’s smarter to run. The best fight is the one you don’t have. But I have never claimed to be smart. Just obstinate, and occasionally bad-tempered. Some guys kick cats. I keep walking.
    The suits were all midnight blue and looked like they came from the kind of store that has a foreign person’s name above the door. The men inside the suits looked capable. Like NCOs. Wise to the ways of the world, proud of their ability to get the job done. They were certainly ex-military or ex–law enforcement, or ex–both. They were the kind of guys who had taken a step up in salary and a step away from rules and regulations, and who regarded both moves as equally valuable.
    They separated into two pairs when I was still four paces away. Left me room to pass if I wanted to, but the front guy on the left raised both palms a little and patted the air, in a kind of dual-purpose please stop and we’re no threat gesture. I spent the next step deciding. You can’t let yourself get caught in the middle of four guys. Either you stop early or you barge on through. At that point my options were still open. Easy to stop, easy to keep going. If they closed ranks while I was still moving, they would go down like bowling pins. I weigh two-fifty and was moving at four miles an hour. They didn’t, and weren’t.
    Two steps out, the lead guy said, “Can we talk?”
    I stopped walking. Said, “About what?”
    “You’re the witness, right?”
    “But who are you?”
    The guy answered by peeling back the flap of his suit coat, slow and unthreatening, showing me nothing except a red satin lining and a shirt. No gun, no holster, no belt. He put his right fingers into his left inside pocket and came out with a business card. Leaned forward and handed it to me. It was a cheap product. The first line said: Sure and Certain, Inc . The second line said: Protection, Investigation, Intervention . The third line had a telephone number, with a 212 area code. Manhattan.
    “Kinko’s is a wonderful place,” I said. “Isn’t it? Maybe I’ll get some cards that say John Smith, King of the World.”
    “The card is legit,” the guy said. “And we’re legit.”
    “Who are you working for?”
    “We can’t say.”
    “Then I can’t help you.”
    “Better that you talk to us than our principal. We can keep things civilized.”
    “Now I’m really scared.”
    “Just a couple of questions. That’s all. Help us out. We’re just working stiffs, trying to get paid. Like you.”
    “I’m not a working stiff. I’m a gentleman of