Stone Barrington 27 - Doing Hard Time

duration. He was a calm person who could sit for hours, unmoving, as long as he had music to listen to.
    Most of an hour passed while the two people chatted and drank, then they moved into the bedroom and began to undress. The process was businesslike; the woman was a hooker. That meant she wouldn’t stay long after her work was done; the man would then be alone, and there would be no one to call the police until the following morning, when the maid found him.
    The two people had sex by the light from the living room and the single lamp by the bed. They were done in twenty minutes.
    Jolly rechecked everything as the woman got dressed, collected her money from the dresser top, and left. The man went, naked, into the bathroom, and the light came on. Jolly decided to take him as he came out of the bathroom. He would be a better target standing than in the bed. The rifle was semiautomatic; he would fire three times rapidly: the first to shatter the glass of the sliding door, the second at the man’s chest, the third to the head. Jolly liked head shots; they were final. He took careful aim through the scope at the empty space outside the bathroom.
    The man stepped out of the bathroom, and Jolly fired the first round through the thick glass. It shattered. A second later, as he was squeezing off the second round, the man dived back into the bathroom.
Shit!
    The bathroom light went off. Jolly waited for a moment, but it was clear the man wasn’t coming out, not until he had summoned the police or hotel security from the bathroom phone.
    Jolly quickly picked up the ejected shells, dismantled the rifle, and packed it into the case. As he stood to leave he heard a police car in the distance, then saw it come around the corner and head for the hotel. He walked quickly to the door, let himself into the building with his key, and removed the trash can blocking the elevator door. As the car moved down he used a corner of the rifle case to break the light fixture over his head, so that when the door opened, light would not pour into the dark hallway downstairs.
    Once down, he let himself out of the building through the rear exit, set down his case, folded the fedora and put it into a pocket, then took off the raincoat and reversed it, so that it was tan on the outside. He removed the mustache and the glasses and put them into his pocket, then he walked to the street behind the building, then another two blocks before hailing a cab.
    Once headed downtown, he made a quick phone call.
    “Yeah?”
    “It’s me. Negative result—couldn’t be helped.”
    The man at the other end hung up, and so did Jolly. He wouldn’t get paid for tonight, but there would be other nights.
    •   •   •
    Harry Katz got a cell phone call a few minutes later.
    “Hello?”
    “The operation failed—the patient survived. A wire is on its way back to you.”
    “What happened?”
    “It couldn’t be helped.” The man hung up.
    “Damn it,” Harry muttered to himself. Tomorrow morning, he’d have to refund Genaro’s money.

Yuri Majorov sat down on the toilet lid, breathing hard. He took some deep breaths to try to slow his heartbeat, but he was seriously frightened. He reckoned that if he had been a fraction of a second slower, he would be dead. When he got his breathing under control he called the hotel manager, who said he would call the police.
    “Don’t do that,” Majorov said. “Nothing will come of it, and I don’t wish to speak to the police. Move me to another suite, immediately, then tomorrow morning, replace the glass, patch the bullet holes, and clean up.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Majorov sat on the toilet lid a little while longer, thinking. Who would have the temerity to order this hit? Surely not Pete Genaro, whom Majorov judged to be a timid man, accustomed to doing what he was told. The name Barrington occurred to him. Since he had ordered the hit on Peter Barrington he had lost four employees to assassination. This experience had to be the fifth attempt. Then he heard the approach of a wailing police car, then another.
    His assailant would be gone by now, and Majorov got into his clothes. Fortunately, he had not unpacked, and he didn’t wait for a bellman. He tidied the bed, then carried his case to the door and opened it to find an assistant manager about to ring his bell.
    “I have another suite for you, sir,” the young man said. “One floor down, at the rear of the hotel.”
    “Let’s take the stairs,”