Authors: Parnell Hall
Kessler had told me this was only a trial run, so I shouldn't be
nervous. That made nie nervous. I felt like I was auditioning.
Which would have been fine, since I didn't really want to get the
part. Only I was concerned about how he might inform an actor
who wasn't hired.
Kessler caught the light at Forty-third Street and crossed
Broadway, which changed our positions again. I slowed to let hint
catch up and pass me but otherwise paid no attention. Not following anyone. Just a businessman on his way home.
We were heading for Times Square, which did not cheer me. If You
ever want to lose someone, that's the place to do it. The Forty-second
Street subway station used to be somewhat confusing, but they've
remodeled it. Now it's totally confusing.Which is only to be expected,
considering half the trains in the Northern Hemisphere meet there. If
Kessler wanted to test my mettle, that was the place to go.
But when I hit Forty-second Street and turned right toward
the newly renovated subway entrance, guess who wasn't there?
Good guess. Instead of going down in the subway, Kessler had
walked past the entrance and was admiring the Lion King marquee
across the street.
Okay, two can play that game.
I walked by the subway entrance, walked by Kessler, continued
on down Forty-second Street toward Eighth Avenue.
Hoped like hell he was tagging along behind.
He was. I ascertained that when I stooped and tied my shoe.
The oldest trick in the book, but damned if it doesn't work. From
down on one knee you can see in all directions without being too
conspicuous. It's a nice position, assuming someone doesn't kick
you in the ass or steal your wallet.
Anyway, Kessler was tooling along, just your average out-oftown, sightseeing hick without a care in the world.
Excellent. If I stayed on my knees a bit longer, he'd go right by
me. But he was gawking at the Wax Museum like he'd never seen
it before, and there's a limit to how long one can tie one's shoes.
I got up, continued on down the street.
Forty-second Street's changed a lot in the last twenty years.
There are two movie theaters on the corner of Eighth Avenue, but
they don't show porn; they're huge multiplexes, showing legitimate flicks. The AMC has twenty-five screens. The Loews, with
thirteen, probably has screen envy and gets spam about being
embarrassed in the locker room.
The movie seemed as good a ruse as any. I popped in the front
door of the Loews, pretended to be checking out the films.
Kessler didn't go by. I know because I was looking out the glass
door for that to happen, and when it didn't, I started to freak out.
If I was doing this poorly on the doesn't-matter, bullshit, dry-run
part of the assignment, I hated to think how I'd do when it was
the real deal.
While I was having a meltdown, Kessler came in the door and
stood looking at the movie times on the illuminated sign over the
box office.
Good god, was the guy actually going to the movies? If so, I
hoped it was one I wanted to see. With my luck, it would be some
god-awful chick flick. Surely a hitman wouldn't go to one of
those, would he?
I headed for the street. It was either that or see a movie, and I
didn't feel like one. If Kessler bought a ticket, I could change my
mind. I would be too far away to see which one he bought. But it
didn't matter. The theater was far from full, any ticket would get
me in, and I could follow him to any show.
Having worked all that out, I was almost disappointed when he
came out the front door. As usual, he didn't look in my direction, just turned and sauntered by. He walked to the corner of Eighth
Avenue, stopped at the light.
Okay, was he going to go west across Eighth Avenue or south
across Forty-second Street?
Tough call. The light was green on Forty-second Street and
traffic was going through. But the WALK sign was flashing
DON'T WALK, indicating the light was about to change. A man
who didn't want to sprint across the street could wait for the lights
to recycle. Assuming he was heading west. Or he could simply be
waiting for the light to change, if he was heading south. He wasn't
doing anything helpful, like facing any particular crosswalk. No, he
was just hanging out on the corner, looking around, as if he didn't
know where to go.
That made two of us.
I was coming up on the corner. I had to make a move or I'd
wind up standing right next to the guy. Which he wasn't going to
like. And I'd hate to piss off a hitman.
The light changed, and traffic streamed up Eighth Avenue. Well,
I was looking for a sign from god. How about one that said
WALK?
I joined the flow of pedestrians crossing Forty-second Street. If
Kessler followed me, good. If he waited for the light to change and
crossed Eighth, I'd cross Eighth, too, and follow him from the
south side of Forty-second. If he went north up Eighth Avenue, he
was a total asshole, and if I lost him, it was his own damn fault.
Not to worry. A casual glance backward when I hit the sidewalk showed that Kessler was right on my tail.Which should mean
he was headed down Eighth. I tested the theory, walked two doors
south, and stopped to check out the window display.
There was a Mickey Mouse watch for $14.95. Surely that
couldn't be an original Mickey Mouse watch. Then, again, what
was a fake Mickey Mouse watch? How would you tell? The hands
have five fingers? Could you get busted for selling knock-off Mickey Mouse watches? Who had the patent? Walt Disney. Who's
dead. His estate, but-
In the store window I caught the reflection of Martin Kessler
walking by. He was going south on Eighth. For what purpose, I
had no idea, but mine not to reason why. The thought that the
quote ended "Theirs but to do and die" did not cheer me.
I fell in behind, wondered how long we could keep up our tagteam tailing act.
We kept it up until Thirty-fourth Street, when we reached
Penn Station. Was that our destination? It seemed unlikely, since it
takes up the whole block. Seventh Avenue and Thirty-fourth
Street would have been Penn Station, too. If we were going there,
why had we crossed to Eighth?
I was speculating on a lot of things that didn't really matter. It
occurred to me the reason I was speculating on a lot of things that
didn't really matter was I was pissed off on the one hand and scared
shitless on the other. A veritable crazy quilt of excremental functions.
Where the hell were we going?
Kessler stopped at the southeast corner of Thirty-fourth and
Eighth. In front of us was a taxi stand with a row of cabs waiting
to pick up passengers coming from the trains. Diagonally to the
left was the entrance to Penn Station and an escalator down to
Amtrak. Would he go in there? If he did, no problem. But I can't
go in unless he does and I don't know if he's going to. Why the
hell is he so damn indecisive? Jesus Christ, it's like tailing Hamlet.
I walked a little ways down Thirty-fourth Street. I was heading
back toward Seventh Avenue, which made no sense, but nothing I
was doing made any sense. At least I could see which way Kessler
went. If he chose the door to Penn Station, I could wheel around
and follow. Likewise, if he continued down Eighth. Basically, it was
a good vantage point from which to double back.
I didn't have to. Kessler came tooling right by me.
I wanted to shoot him. Poor choice of words. But here we were, heading toward Seventh Avenue for no discernable reason. If
this was an audition, it wasn't fair. The job wouldn't be as hard as
this. The job would be following a sane person with a sense of purpose. True, that purpose might be the elimination of a human
being, but-
I stopped.
I gawked.
Uh-oh.
I realized why I was having such a hard time following Martin
Kessler.
He was following someone else.
I FOLLOWEL) THEM TO AN apartment building on East Eighty-ninth
Street. I use the term followed them loosely, as in detective fiction. It
cannot possibly describe the circuitous, hopscotch, follow-theleader, duck-duck-goose entertainment I was treated to. It included a
trip to my office, by the way, where I pretended to go back to work,
but emerged from the lobby the second the coast was clear, just in
time to hop on Kessler's trail. I had a feeling I wasn't supposed to. The
fact Kessler had taken me back to the office was a pretty good indication the day was over, a rather strong hint that my services were no
longer needed, that he wanted me to leave him alone.
Tough luck, buddy. Hitman or no hitinan, you've made contact
with your quarry. This is the very thing I hired on for. No matter
what you want.You made that crystal clear. I'm here to thwart your
wishes. My day ends when I say it ends. All right, buster, you think
you ditched me, what you gonna do now?
Kessler hopped in a cab, went straight to an apartment on East Eighty-ninth Street. A modern high-rise with a liveried doorman
at the front desk. I watched from across the street while Kessler
went in and spoke to the doorman. I could see the doorman shake
his head, but Kessler wasn't taking no for an answer. He was still
arguing with the doorman when a taxi pulled up, and the guy he'd
been following got out.
Kessler greeted him warmly. Even from across the street I could
see the smile on his face.
But not the guy. The guy wasn't smiling at all. And who could
blame him? If he had the slightest idea he was in trouble. And
surely he must, or he wouldn't have been in trouble. The guy had
to know the arrival of Kessler wasn't good news. Still, he shook
Kessler's proffered hand.
Moments later the two men were walking toward the elevator.
Holy shit.
Moment of decision. Is this where I rush in and yell, "No!
Woodsman, spare that tree! Hitman, put up your gun!"
Fat chance. There was no way to do it. I'd never get by the
front desk.
The elevator doors closed. I could see the lights of the numbers
of the floors begin to change, though I couldn't make them out at
that distance.
Before I had time to think about it, I was crossing the street,
striding into the lobby.
The elevator stopped at 16 just as I hit the front desk and realized I didn't know what to say. Panicked, I resorted to the truth.
Or the half truth. Actually, a complete fabrication, but who's
keeping score.
"The tenant who just came in," I said, pointing to the elevator.
"Was that Freddy Foster? I was supposed to meet him here."
The doorman was all smiles. "Freddy Foster? There's no Freddy
Foster here"
"He looked just like him. Are you sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure. That's Victor Marsden."
"New tenant?"
"Lived here for years." He frowned. "Sure you don't mean the
other guy?"
Yes, I do. Thank you for the prompt, oh helper-out of us of
little intellect and slowness on our feet. "Yes, of course. The guy
with the tenant. Freddy Foster. Gotta be.You don't know him?"
"Afraid not."
My mind was going a mile a minute, below the national
average but top speed for me. "Could you call up and ask the
tenant, what's his name?"
"Victor Marsden."
"Yeah. Ask Mr. Marsden if that's Freddy Foster with him."
"Who shall I say is calling?"
This was a moment of truth. I wanted to say Stanley Hastings.
That would rock Martin Kessler in his sockets, if Victor what'shis-name relayed the message. But I didn't want to leave my right
name, on the alarmingly real chance this apartment building
became a crime scene. That would not be a good tidbit of information for the doorman to pass on to the police.
"Rollo Tomassi."
"Huh?"
"Rollo Tomassi," I repeated. A name from the movie L.A. Confidential based on the James Ellroy book. A made-up name Kevin
Spacey uses to identify his killer. If Martin Kessler knew the reference, it would have to shake him up.
The doorman rang through. "Mr. Marsden? I have a Mr.
Tomassi here-"
"Rollo Tomassi," I corrected.
"I have a Rollo Tomassi here. He wonders if the gentleman
with you is Freddy Foster. He thought he looked like him." The
doorman listened, said, "Freddy Foster." Then, "No, his name is
Rollo Tomassi."
The doorman hung up the phone, shook his head. "You got the
wrong man.
I smiled. "Sorry. I could have sworn."
I went out, crossed the street, walked west. I kept going till I
was out of sight of the doorman, assuming the guy hadn't followed
me into the street. I ducked in the doorway of a brownstone,
looked back. There was no one in sight. Why should there be? I
hadn't done anything suspicious, anything that would tip off the
doorman. Unless he knew the scene from L.A. ConfIdential. I
weighed the odds of that. Wondered if doing so made nie a bigot.
Martin Kessler carne out the front door and looked around.
I ducked behind a car before he could see me. Or so I thought.
He walked up, flushed me from my hiding place.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded.
"What you hired me for."
"What do you mean, what I hired you for? I hired you for a
specific purpose."
"Yeah. To keep the mark alive. That's what I'm doing."
"That was you who called upstairs?"
"Yeah.You like that?"
"No, I don't like that. What a bonehead play. If the guy wasn't
suspicious before, he is now."
"Does he know who Rollo Tomassi is?"
"I don't know and I don't care. I took you back to the office.
Couldn't you leave it at that?"
"No, I can't.You wanna get rid of rile, fire me. Otherwise, I'm
gonna do what I was hired to do"
"Fine.You've done it. Now go home."
"13ut-
"Are you a total moron? The doorman saw me. With the guy.
Going up in the elevator together. Igo you think that right now in
this apartment would be the ideal time and place to bump him off?
I ditched you for a reason. So you wouldn't get yourself in trouble. You're meddling in things you shouldn't.When you don't need to.
When there's no reason. Are we clear?"