Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

throwaway cell phone to call a number in New York’s Little Italy.
    “Who are you calling?” a man’s voice answered.
    “I’m calling the person I’m speaking to. You know who this is?”
    “Right.”
    “I’m in need of some extermination work,” Harry said.
    “What kind of pest are we talking about?”
    “A large rat—you don’t need a name.”
    “Tell me what I need.”
    “The infestation is in the penthouse of the Excelsior Hotel. You know it?”
    “How about access?”
    “From the roof of the taller building across the street. It’s well within spraying distance of standard equipment.”
    “What sort of markings does the rat have?”
    “Give me an e-mail address, and I’ll send you a photo.”
    The man gave him an address, and Harry e-mailed the picture.
    “Nice one,” the man said.
    “You’ll know him when you see him.”
    “When is that?”
    “He should be there in a couple of hours.”
    “Write down this number and wire twenty large.”
    “No success, I’ll need a full refund.”
    “You got it.”
    “Give me an hour, then check and call me back.” He gave the man the number. He hung up and went back to Genaro’s office.
    “It can be done tonight,” he said. “I’ll need twenty grand wired to this offshore account number right away and the other twenty in cash.”
    Genaro took the account number. “You’ll be responsible?”
    “I’ll return the money if it doesn’t happen.”
    Genaro nodded. “Go.”

Jolly Tonio got the call and agreed to ten thousand for the job.
    “It’s gotta be tonight,” his client said. “There’ll be a photo in your mailbox in five minutes.” He recited the address and details of the building. “The custodian will spend the evening in a bar down the street. A key to the building will be taped to the photo.”
    Jolly noted everything, then opened the case that held the custom-made sniper’s rifle that he relied on for such work. He checked the weapon’s action and the number of rounds in the magazine, then closed the case and went to a closet, where he selected his wardrobe: a gray business suit, white shirt, dark tie, and a black fedora, then a reversible raincoat—tan on the outside, black on the inside. He tucked a folding stool into an inside pocket of the raincoat, then folded the soft fedora and stuck it in the inside pocket. Finally, he went into his bathroom and selected a dark, bushy mustache from an assortment, tucked it into a little box with some adhesive, and selected a pair of black eyeglasses with nonprescription lenses.
    He put on the raincoat, black side out, locked his apartment, then opened the mailbox and removed a blank envelope. On the cab ride to a corner a block short of his destination, he checked the photo and slipped the building key into a pocket, then, using his reflection in a window, he glued the mustache in place and put on the fedora and the black glasses.
    As he walked to the building he presented a dark figure—dark everything—and older. He stopped in front of the building. The lobby was lit only by a single fixture, and his key worked. He checked a back exit and found that it opened into a walkway to the street behind the building. Ideal. He unfolded his stool, stood on it, and unscrewed the bulb in the fixture; he wore driving gloves so there would be no prints.
    Jolly took the elevator to the top floor, then blocked the door open with a trash can from the hallway; he walked up a flight and, using his key, let himself onto the roof. He walked to the parapet and looked down one floor and across the street at the Excelsior Hotel. The penthouse was, literally, a house set down on top of the building, surrounded by a planted deck. The living room lights were on, and a bedroom was lit by a single bedside lamp. Two people were standing at a bar in the living room having a drink. The man was the man in the photograph; the woman was wearing a tight black dress, low-cut.
    Jolly unfolded his stool and sat down on it, the case in his lap. He opened it and assembled the weapon, bolted on the scope, then laid it carefully on the parapet. He used a pocket range-finder to get the correct distance, then sighted in the weapon and adjusted the sight for the range. Finally, he shoved in a magazine of six rounds and laid the rifle on the parapet again.
    Jolly took an iPhone from his pocket, switched it on, and plugged an earpiece into his ear, then selected an album of Chopin waltzes and settled in for the