The Burning Wire

23
    THE CITY CAME alive at this time of night.
    Nine p.m. was like a green flag for a car race.
    The dead time in New York wasn’t night; it was when the city was spiritually numb, ironically when it was at its busiest: rush hour, mid-morning and -afternoon. Only now were people shedding the workaday numbness, refocusing, coming alive.
    Making all-important decisions: which bar, which friends, which shirt? Bra, no bra?
    Condoms? . . .
    And then out onto the street.
    Fred Dellray now loped through the cool spring air, sensing the energy rise like what was humming through the electrical cables beneath his feet. He didn’t drive much, didn’t own a car, but what he was feeling now was akin to punching the accelerator and burning gas in a frenzy, as the power flung you toward your fate.
    Two blocks from the subway, three, four . . .
    And something else burned. The $100,000 in his pocket.
    As he moved along the sidewalk Fred Dellray couldn’t help but think, Have I ruined it all? Yes, I’m doing the morally right thing. I’d risk my career, I’d risk jail, if this thin thread of a lead ultimately revealed the perp, whether it was Justice For or anyone else. Anything to save the lives of citizens. Of course, the $100,000 was nothing to the entity he’d taken it from. And the cash might, thanks to bureaucratic myopia,never be missed. But even if it wasn’t, and even if William Brent’s lead blossomed and they were successful in stopping more attacks, would Dellray’s malfeasance gnaw at him, the guilt growing larger and larger like a spiky tumor?
    Would he fall into such guilt that his life would be altered forever, turned gray, turned worthless?
    Change . .  .
    He was close to turning around and returning to the federal building, putting the money back.
    But, no. He was doing the right thing. And he’d live with the consequences, whatever they were.
    But, goddamn, William, you better come through for me.
    Dellray now crossed the street in the Village and wandered right up to William Brent, who blinked in faint surprise, as if he’d believed Dellray wouldn’t come. They stood together. This wasn’t a set—an undercover operation—and it wasn’t a recruiting session. It was just two guys meeting on the street to conduct business.
    Behind them an unclean teenage boy, strumming a guitar and bleeding from a recent lip piercing, moaned out a song. Dellray motioned Brent along the sidewalk. The smell and the sound faded.
    The agent asked, “You found anything more?”
    “Have, yes.”
    “What?” Once again, trying not to sound desperate.
    “It wouldn’t do any good to say at this point. It’s a lead to a lead. I’ll guarantee you something by tomorrow.”
    Guarantee? Not a word you heard often in the snitch business.
    But William Brent was your Armani of CIs.
    Besides, Dellray had no choice.
    “Say,” Brent said casually, “you through with the paper?”
    “Sure. Keep it.” And handed the folded-up New York Post to Brent.
    They’d done this all before, of course, a hundred times. The CI slipped the newspaper into his attaché case without even feeling for the envelope inside, much less opening it up and counting the money.
    Dellray watched the money disappear as if he were watching a coffin submerge into a grave.
    Brent didn’t ask the source of the cash. Why should he? It wasn’t relevant to him.
    The CI now summarized, half musing, “White male, a lot of mediums. Employee or inside connection. Justice For something. Rahman. Terrorism, possibly. But it could be something else. And he knows electricity. And significant planning.”
    “That’s all we have for now.”
    “I don’t think I need anything else,” Brent said without a hint of ego. Dellray took the words and this attitude as encouragement. Normally, even parting with a typical snitch gratuity—$500 or so—he felt like he was getting robbed. Now, he had a gut sense that Brent would deliver.
    Dellray said, “Meet me tomorrow. Carmella’s. The Village. Know it?”
    “I do. When?”
    “Noon.”
    Brent further wrinkled his wrinkled face. “Five.”
    “Three?”
    “Okay.”
    Dellray was about to whisper, “Please,” which he didn’t think he’d ever said to a CI. He canned the desperation but had a tough time keeping his eyesoff the attaché case, whose contents might just be the ashes of his career. And, for that matter, his entire life. An image of his son’s ebullient face rose. He forced it away.
    “Pleasure