Requiem for an Assassin

breath fogging, ears numb. A group of four well-insulated diehards was leaving the course in my direction, golf bags slung over their backs. I kept my head down, and from the cadences of their conversation as they passed I sensed they had paid me no mind.
    I stopped at the edge of the access road and admired the green for three minutes, freezing my ass off. Then I turned around and headed back to the BMW. I waved to the guard as I drove past, but he seemed not even to notice. His attention was directed at cars coming in, not ones that were leaving.
    There were a few things I still needed, things I could probably find in the suburbs, but I wanted to do the bulk of my shopping in the more anonymous city. So I drove back, stopping first at a military-surplus store I knew—Galaxy, on Sixth Avenue between 30th and 31st. I went inside, and emerged fifteen minutes later wearing polypropylene long underwear under a new pair of jeans and a wool turtleneck sweater; wool socks and work boots; a black wool watch cap and a navy peacoat; and a pair of ski gloves. Thank God. I also had on a pair of sports shades, the swept-back style bikers and marathoners use, which would cut the winter glare and, not coincidentally, obscure my appearance. In my pocket was a Victorinox Swiss Army knife with a four-inch blade. Not exactly a fighting knife, but the kind of tool I preferred was hard to find in New York and this was better than nothing. The clothes I’d been wearing I carried in a store bag, along with a few extra pairs of socks and underwear.
    Next, I stopped at a Citibank ATM for a cash infusion. Then a low-end men’s clothing store for a shirt, jacket, and tie, and another pair of sunglasses, this time with large, round lenses that would hide my eyes and change the contours of my face. Finally, the Apple store on Fifth Avenue, where I used one of the store’s computers to check the Kanezaki bulletin board. Nothing. I wondered whether he really was coming up empty, or whether he was holding back from me, the way I was from him. No way to know. And nothing to do about it. But it was still irritating as hell.
    Now that I was properly outfitted and had a little time, I realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten since the plane. I walked two blocks west to the Carnegie Deli and, over a tureen of chicken soup and a roast beef sandwich that could have faced down Godzilla, I configured the iPhone to work with the GPS transmitter. By the time I was washing down a gigantic slice of apple pie with a second cup of coffee, I had everything up and running, and checked Accinelli’s position. I had expected to find him still at the club, or perhaps back home. Instead, I was surprised to see that he, or his car, anyway, was right here in Manhattan. I zoomed in on the location—downtown, corner of Bowery and Prince. I watched for three minutes, but the car didn’t move. Okay, a fair bet he wasn’t at a light or stuck in traffic. The car was parked.
    I paid the check and went back to the garage where I’d left the BMW. I headed down Broadway, the iPhone plugged into the cigarette lighter, faceup on the passenger seat en route. The Mercedes didn’t move.
    I made a left on Spring, then another left on Bowery. I drifted north a block, and there, on the east side of Bowery just north of Prince, a parking lot. I didn’t see Accinelli’s car as I drove past, but according to the transmitter it was there.
    I parked in another lot three blocks north of Houston and walked south back down Bowery, the watch cap pulled low, the shades in place. Thick traffic rolled by in both directions, and I heard engines and tires on pavement, the sounds somehow amplified, compressed by the dull background roar of the wider city. Down the street, someone laid on a horn, and three horns answered, like some bizarre mating call. A truck was backing up to a loading bay on 1st Street, beeping loudly and incessantly enough to warn all Manhattan. Two men stood behind it, gesturing to guide it in.
    I slowed when I reached the lot. An attendant manned a booth at the front. Behind him were eight rows of cars, parked grill to tail, each about five deep. And there was Accinelli’s Mercedes, second from the front of one of the rows.
    The cars were clustered tightly to use as much of the small lot as possible. When you came for your vehicle, they’d have to move others to access it. Meaning they would ask when you were returning, so they could put short-timers up front and