Marshall nodded.
“Good to have around, then.”
He took a sip. “I like to think so.”
She nudged him lightly with a toe. “Nice to value yourself.”
He didn’t answer.
She said, “What do you do for the police?”
He took a drink and looked her in the eye, see how she’d play it. He said, “I work for the Organized Crime Control Bureau.”
All poise: when she raised her eyebrows it was just faint curiosity. “Sounds like a gun-in-your-briefcase type job.”
He smiled. “Not quite. I’m with Brooklyn South Narcotics. I go around looking for drugs.”
She appraised the shelves of liquor above them, just mild interest. She leaned toward him. “I do that sometimes, too. Though I’m not with Brooklyn South Narcotics.”
Marshall held her look a few seconds.
She said, “My father’s not a criminal.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
“Mmm.”
“What does that mean?”
She looked over toward Asaro. She said, “My father’s a pretty good judge of character, but I’m sure he doesn’t always get it right.”
“Like?”
She laughed quietly, keeping things polite. “He’s probably got you made as a cop just wanting some extra coin. I don’t know. Maybe you’re here on cop business, see if my father’s making some extra coin, too.”
He didn’t look away. “You’ve got a good imagination.”
She toed his leg again. “You’ve got no idea.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
She said, “Whatever you’re thinking, my father isn’t breaking the law. I can promise you that.”
Marshall could have offered evidence to the contrary, but now was one of those times when now was not the time. He thought a change of subject wasn’t a bad idea.
He said, “What do you do?”
“Computer science. NYU.”
She said it prim enough he didn’t ask for more details.
She said, “So you live down South Brooklyn, or do you just venture in for work?”
“I’m up by Prospect Park.”
“Oh. With your uncle?”
He nodded. He wondered how she knew about Eddie. Hopefully that sixteen-grand debt wasn’t common knowledge.
Across the bar, Asaro was beckoning for her to come meet someone. She smiled and lifted a finger. One minute.
She turned to Marshall, smile still in place, and when she spoke her mouth hardly moved. “Well, this has been nice. You should come visit sometime.”
He laughed. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
She seemed not to hear. “How old are you, Marshall?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Twenty-nine. I think we’d get on fine, personally. I’ve got an apartment, same building as my father’s, one floor below. You know where I mean?”
He said, “Fourth floor.”
She pushed her hair behind her shoulder, glanced at Asaro to check his back was turned. “Good boy.”
She leaned in, and when she spoke her lips touched his ear: “Central Park West.”
* * *
It wrapped up around midnight. He ended up in an elevator with Lloyd.
“Always love the toilet in this place. They got that floor-to-ceiling glass, must be the best place in the world to take a piss.”
Marshall didn’t answer. Lloyd was behind him. Marshall watched him via the mirror on the door.
Lloyd said, “What were you saying to my sister? Saw you talking.”
“Oh. This and that.”
They reached the ground floor. Lloyd followed him through the lobby, heel clicks ten or so feet back. Marshall ignored him and walked outside. He waved down a cab. Lloyd grabbed his arm.
“What is it?”
“Relax.”
Lloyd pushed an envelope into his hand.
“What’s this?”
He smiled. “Just a little something. Remind you how much we appreciate loyalty.”
Marshall watched him through the back window as the cab pulled away, Lloyd with an arm raised, waving Hitler-style.
He checked the envelope. There was a photograph inside: Vicki B., two bullet holes in his forehead. Marshall turned it over. Penciled handwriting, block capitals:
GREETINGS FROM DALLAS.
* * *
The cab went east on Twelfth and then turned south on Seventh Avenue. He leaned against the door with a leg along the seat, looking out the far window as he tapped the photograph edgewise on his thigh. The West Village night with the traffic and the old brick apartment buildings a different shade of red one to the next and the bars hosting drinkers in the warm light beneath the sidewalk awnings. When they stopped at Charles Street, he took his phone from his pocket and dialed one of the support numbers Ashcroft had given him.
A man answered on the third ring. “West Insurance.”
“It’s me. Do you have Chloe Asaro’s number?”
“That’s the daughter, right?”
“Yeah. Cell phone, if you can get it.”
“Give me a minute.” He clicked off.
Two blocks. He got a text message at Grove Street. One line only: a ten-digit cell number. He looked at it until the screen timed out and went dark. Dialing wasn’t a good idea. Now he was on the verge of calling, the just-do-it impulse that had got him this far was fading. He could see the reasons it was a bad idea, probably a whole litany if he put his mind to it, but the main issue being: she’s Tony Asaro’s daughter.
He ran his thumb over the Dallas Man’s photograph.
Just a little something. Remind you how much we appreciate loyalty.
Remind him fairly graphically that life was short.
Marshall dialed.
Three rings, but she sent it straight to voice mail. She wouldn’t recognize the number. He tried again, and when this time she answered he said, “I thought we could continue that drink.”
She laughed. “I thought I gave you my address, not my phone number.”
Marshall said, “You would have given it to me if I asked.”
Quiet a moment and then she said, “You’re not still on guard duty?”
“No. I’m off the clock.”
“Where are you?”
He glanced out the window to check progress. He said, “Seventh and Houston.”
“What do you feel like?”
Marshall said, “Anything, so long as you’re paying.”
“What a gentleman. How about the Soho Grand. You know where it is?”
“Broadway and Grand.”
She said, “See you soon,” and he liked the way she drew out that last word.
* * *
He got out at Canal and walked around the corner onto West Broadway. She was in the Grand Bar on one of the high leather stools, a cocktail on a napkin in front of her. He leaned on the bar but didn’t sit down.
She raised her glass to the barkeep. “One more. Cast iron.”
She looked at Marshall. “Rum and honey. You’ll like it.”
Matter-of-fact, like there was no chance he’d disapprove.
She set her glass down and he shifted it slightly on the napkin so it stood in the same moisture ring. Humor in her eye as she watched, but she didn’t comment.
She said, “You could have raced me home, had the drinks waiting.”
He pretended to think it through, shook his head. “The concierge would have seen me. And I don’t have a key. And even if I got in I’d have to hunt around for where you keep everything, so I’d be all flustered when you showed up.”
“Flustered.”
He nodded.
She nudged him with a knee. “Could have been interesting. Come home and find you trying to pick the lock.”
Marshall thought about it and said, “I’d probably hear the elevator and duck out of sight while you went in. Then knock gentlemanly.”
She smiled and watched her drink as she swirled it. “Well, we can work on that. But I wouldn’t worry about the concierge.”
The barkeep set his drink in front of him. Marshall said, “I’m more concerned about who the concierge might talk to.”
“Scared of Daddy?” Playful smile widening. That nice curve of teeth.
He had a sip and looked around. Soho suave: the bar itself looked like polished oak, blond with dark trim, and the shaded lamps between the tall windows facing West Broadway gave a honey-colored light. He said, “No. But I think when something involves the boss’s daughter it’s good to be discreet.”
“We’re just having drinks.”
The way she said it, like a stage whisper, made him think this was just the appetizer. She took a sip as she looked at him. Not a bad feeling: an evening’s worth of alcohol mixed with the happy prospect of a good night getting better.
He took another drink and said, “How did you get here so fast?”
“I was out with friends. But I decided you were a better option.”
“That’s nice to know.”
“Not for them.”
Quiet between them a little while, background bar noise disguising the lull.
Marshall said, “What are you going to do when you graduate?”
“I don’t know. Something that makes money.” She raised her glass. “I don’t want to give this up.”
“Liquor, or the high life?”
She smiled. “Both. The high life especially.”
He watched her as she drank. That dress hadn’t got any less appealing. He said, “Maybe you’d better do whatever it is your father does.”
“What do you mean, whatever it is my father does?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Whatever people do when they say they’re in real estate.”
“Like buy and sell property. I don’t think there’s much more to it than that.”
He smiled, trying to draw her out, but the look he got back was cool enough he knew he wouldn’t be getting anything worth sharing.
She said, “What?”
Marshall said, “You’re actually quite hard to talk to.”
“Why’s that?”
Really going for it now, half a cocktail helping him along. He said, “Well, you’re very attractive. It’s sort of distracting.”
Amused, playing the game, she had a little sip and nudged him with a knee again. “Well, I’m glad we’ve both got the same issues.”
He nodded solemnly, like they were facing a real challenge. Then he finished his drink and raised the glass for a refill.
She said, “I think the idea is that you sip it.”
“Maybe. You did tell me I’d like it.”
She didn’t answer. He felt in his pocket for cash and remembered the Dallas Man’s photo. A dead Vicki B. trying to spoil the moment. He found twenty dollars and sharpened the fold before sliding it across the bar.
She said, “I’ll pay. I’ve got a tab.”
Marshall said, “This is a hotel.”
“So?”
“So you can pay for the room.”
* * *
They had an elevator to themselves, which was quite a lot of fun.
The room was on the fourteenth floor, so the ride up permitted a brief but energetic first act, and enough time to regain composure before the doors opened. In the room she paused long enough to push his jacket off, a brief distraction as he felt her hand on the photo, but it didn’t last because then she was working on his belt and in the excitement he pushed the dress up but she stopped him and turned so he could reach the zipper, and tight as the dress seemed it fell off her pretty easily, and she put a hand in his underwear to lead him to the bed and any reservations he’d had about calling her were gone and never coming back.
* * *
He liked the view from the bed, the trail of clothes leading to the door. Lying on his back with Chloe pressed against his side, he decided this wasn’t a bad way to spend a very long time. He wondered if he should call the precinct now, tell them he wouldn’t be coming in. Then he could get back to forgetting about the world.
He said, “How long do we have the room for?”
“Just tonight.”
“What time’s checkout?”
“I don’t know.”
“Should’ve asked.”
“I had other things on my mind.”
“Like what?”
“Haha.”
He said, “If I could reach the phone, I could book another night. But there’s just no way of getting to it.”
“Then I guess we’re screwed.”
“I’ll think of something.”
She said, “There’s always round two.”
Marshall rolled toward her and said, “Two’s just getting started.”
Marshall
When he slept he didn’t dream. He woke just after seven
A.M
. and lay in the gloom and remembered New York.
He feared he’d lived on autopilot, too consumed by role playing to see the moral side of things. For a long time he’d been Cold Marshall, concern for good and bad absent from the ruse. Things happened and he reacted, and maybe if the stoic front had been less effort he might have viewed things in a different light.
He might have got out sooner.
He rose and used the bathroom, and then returned to the bedroom and dressed in jeans and a denim work shirt. He liked his sleeves with a good square fold at the elbow, and he spent a moment getting things nice and balanced. Then he donned a pair of steel-capped boots and laced them firmly and pulled his cuffs down to hide the knot. He stuck the Colt in the back of his belt with the shirt hem covering it.
Pacheco to the middle of town was only a forty-minute walk. He took his cash and the pieces of cell phone and his keys and was out the door by 7:30.
* * *
The marshal’s office was on South Federal Place in the U.S. District Courthouse. He stopped just round the corner on Washington Avenue and reassembled the phone and switched it on. He dialed Cohen’s number.
“You at your desk yet?”
Cohen said, “No, I’m puttin’ together a sandwich for my little girl.”
Marshall said, “If we’re going to have this meeting we should do it sooner rather than later.”
“Where are you?”
“Washington Avenue.”
“Okay. Why don’t you head along to that Anasazi place and get us one of them outdoor tables on the patio.”
“All right.”
“I’ll be along directly. Order me some French toast, I reckon it’ll beat me there.”
Marshall said, “See you soon.”
* * *
He found an outdoor table for two and moved the chairs so they could sit side by side with their backs to the wall, the table between them.
A waiter poured coffee and Marshall ordered Spanish eggs Benedict for himself and French toast for Cohen, as requested. The food took ten minutes. Another two, and a Lincoln Town Car pulled up at the opposite curb. Lucas Cohen got out and blipped the locks and crossed the street, one hand on his tie to keep it flat in the breeze. Neat as a razor in gleaming aviators, silver star on his belt bright against his all-black getup.