Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set (43 page)

He went into the pawn shop. A bank of TVs filled one wall, half of them tuned to news coverage of the crash. The anchor had her hair in place now, must have snagged some hair spray during the cutaway. The computer graphic now read “Live!” under the station logo, in those same blood-red letters.

“We're at the scene of the crash of NationAir Flight 317, which plummeted shortly after takeoff from Kennedy Airport this morning—”

“What a mess, huh?” said a voice behind Vincent. He thought at first it was one of Joey's boys. But it was the pawn shop proprietor, a small man with glasses and a scar across one cheek. His nose looked like an unsuccessful prizefighter's.

“Yu—yeah,” Vincent agreed.

“Took about a minute for it to hit the water,” the shop owner said, leaning over a glass case of watches. “Just enough time for them to pray and crap their pants.”

The man starting laughing, the laugh spasmed into a coughing fit. The news anchor's voice fought with the racket of the man's lungs.

“—no survivors have been found. The Boeing 747 was reported to be carrying a full contingent of 346 passengers, according to NationAir records. F.A.A. authorities are arriving on the scene—”

“It was one of them Aye-rab bombs, I bet,” said the shopkeeper. “Don't see why the rest of us got to suffer 'cause the kikes and the ragheads can't get along.”

“They said the plane was full,” Vincent said, half to himself.

“Yep. You know how they are these days. Wedge 'em in with a crowbar. They interviewed the man who was first in line to go standby. Everybody showed, so he never got on. He was thanking God seven ways to Sunday.”

No standby passengers. But what about the ticket belonging to Robert Wells? Someone must have used it. Someone—

Vincent stumbled toward the street, his head reeling.

“Hey, got a special today on handguns,” the shopkeeper called after him. “No waiting.”

But Vincent was already out the door. He walked fast, fell into the New York rhythm, blind to everything.

Someone must have used his ticket. Who?

The mugger.

The mugger must have checked in with the ticket, became “Robert Wells” himself, and grabbed a seat across the country. Maybe the mugger wanted out of this town so bad that he'd risk having the authorities waiting for him at LAX. And for his trouble, the idiot was probably now in a thousand pieces, feeding fish in Long Island Sound.

If so, the creep had gotten what he deserved. Vincent touched his sore head to remind himself that everybody had to go sometime. Everybody had to pay that one big debt. The trick was to put it off as long as possible.

As he turned the corner, another thought came to him. Unless the spooks had been watching, then they didn't know that Robert Wells a.k.a. Vincent never boarded the plane. They would get the list, see the name, go over the data on the terminal computer, and verify that indeed Robert Wells had met his end on Flight 317.

A perfect bow-tie on their witness protection program. Case closed. The Fed's star witness against Joey Scattione was now utterly and forever safe from the mobster's long reach. Even Scattione couldn't finger a man in the afterlife.

Vincent walked faster, excited, his pulse racing, red wires of pain shrieking through his temples. He realized that Scattione would also think him dead. Scattione was way sharper than the Feds, even though he'd been convicted on racketeering and drug charges. Thanks to Vincent, who'd been one of his best street lieutenants.

But Vincent knew a good deal when he saw one. When the net tightened and the Feds needed a pigeon, Vincent did even better than squawk: he'd sung like a deflowered canary. After, of course, he’d elicited a long sheet of promises, including permanent immunity and protection. And a new identity.

An identity that was dead.

What he needed right now was his old friend Sid.

Vincent turned into a bar, though it was scarcely ten o'clock. A man in drag who looked like he hadn't slept was slumped in one corner, holding a cigarette that was four inches of ash. Two cabbies were drinking off the effects of the third shift. The bartender kept his attention focused on the tiny black-and-white that hung in one corner. It was tuned to the same news coverage of the crash.

“Help you, buddy?” the bartender said, without turning.

“Scotch and water. A double.”

“Poor bastards,” the bartender said, still watching the television as he reached for the stock behind him. “We think we got it bad, but at least we ain't been handed our wings.”

“Yeah,” Vincent said. Catholic humor. Like everybody was an angel.

The man poured from the Johnny Walker bottle as if dispensing liquid gold. The ice cubes were rattled into the glass before Vincent could complain about the weak mix. Then Vincent remembered he had no money. He acted as if reaching for his wallet, then said, “Excuse me, where's the rest room?”

The man nodded toward the rear, eyes still fixed on the set, where the field anchor was now interviewing a witness. As Vincent headed for the dark bowels of the bar, he overheard the witness talking about airline food. The news team was groping, fumbling to keep momentum, the tragedy already sliding toward ancient history. The transvestite winked as Vincent passed, and up close Vincent couldn't tell if she were a man dressed as a woman or vice versa.

Sheesh, and I thought I had an identity problem.

But maybe the she-male was onto something. In the bathroom, Vincent studied his own face in the mirror, trying to picture himself in lipstick. He shuddered. Better to take on Joey Scattione than to pluck his eyebrows and duct-tape his gut.

He washed his hands and went out. The transvestite was waiting by the door. Vincent cleared his throat. “Say, you got change for a phone call?”

The transvestite sneered and produced some coins, then dumped them into Vincent's palm as if afraid to catch a disease. Vincent mumbled thanks and stopped by the pay phone. He dialed a well-remembered number. As the phone rang, he watched to see which gender of bathroom the transvestite chose.

Neither. The transvestite went out the back door. The line clicked as the connection was made. “Hello,” came the welcome though nasal voice.

“Sid, hey, it's me. Vincent.”

“Vincent? Like I know any Vincent?”

“Hartbarger. You know.”

“Afraid not, friend.”

“Jesus, Sid. Vincent Hartbarger. You sold me the damned name yourself, for crying out loud. Driver's license, Rotary Club membership, credit cards.”

“I don't know from Hartbargers.”

Vincent sighed and remembered he’d used a fake identity to get his fake identity. “It's Charlie Ehle.”

“Charlie? Why the hell didn't you say so? You expect me to remember every job or something?”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, I need another one. Like pronto.”

“Rush jobs cost extra, my man. But for you, I can have you set up by five o'clock.”

Vincent nodded into the phone. Sid always got chummy when he smelled green. For a document man, Sid had enough smarm to work every side of the fence: green cards, counter check scams, fake IDs, forgery, bogus lottery tickets, anything that involved paper or photographs. But Sid liked cash, lots of it, payable when services were rendered.

“Can't you do better than five? I'm kind of in a jam.”

“Oh, the Scattione thing.”

The Scattione thing. Damn those Feds. Vincent's testimony was delivered in closed court, the records sealed. Sure, Vincent expected stoolies in the judicial branch to leak to the Mafia. This was America, after all. But when even the criminal fringes such as Sid knew the score, that meant the clock was ticking down twice per second on Vincent's remaining life span.

“Fix me up, what do you say, pal? Just the basics.”

Sid let out a slow whistle. “It don't pay to cross Scattione. But I guess you already know that, huh?”

“I can give you five grand.”

That shut up the weasel. For a moment. Then the shrewd voice came across the wires. “How come the spooks didn't set you up? Figured you'd be a family man from Des Moines by now.”

“We decided to part company,” Vincent said. “You think I could hide from Scattione while some of them secret agent types were guarding me?”

“Suppose not. So, what are you in the mood for? Irish? Got some McGinnitys all ready to roll off the press.”

“With my coloring? You got to be kidding.” He glanced at the bartender, who was watching the news as if it were a boxing match. The transvestite entered through the back door, ignoring Vincent.

“Okay, okay, already. Where you at?”

“Just off Van Wyck.”

“Meet me at Naomi's Deli on Greenway. Five o'clock.”

“You need a recent photo?” Vincent asked out of habit. He knew Sid kept files on all his old customers. You never knew when blackmail might come in handy.

“No. And let's make it six grand. I got two kids to put through college.” The phone clicked and then hummed. Vincent hung up and went back to the bar. He thought about asking the transvestite to pay for his drink, but that would be pushing it. Instead, he walked past the bar, hurried out the door, and was lost in the crowd before the bartender could react.

He walked for a while, ten blocks, until his feet were sore. He didn't know if Joey's people could find him more easily if he kept moving, or if he tried to hole up. Eventually, fatigue and the dull ache in his head sent him to a bench in one of those half-acre dirt patches that the city called a public park. The two trees clung stubbornly to their oxygen-starved leaves.

Someone had stuffed an afternoon edition, the
Daily News Express
, in the trash can. Vincent fished it out. More crash coverage filled the front page, photos of the obligatory grieving survivors, bits of wreckage, FAA talking suits. On page seven was a list of those believed to have been on board NationAir Flight 317.

Vincent ran his finger down near the bottom of the list.
Wells, Robert.

So far, so good. Wells was officially presumed dead.

And Scattione, with his resources, would know that Vincent Hartbarger had become Wells. Scattione would get the word in his Sing Sing cell, his lips would veer to the right in churlish anger, and he'd pound his fist against the hard mattress. Nothing could tick Scattione off more than revenge denied. Vincent had to smile.

But not laugh.

He couldn't laugh until later, when Vincent Hartbarger was officially laid to rest, along with Charlie Ehle and the half-dozen other identities that Vincent had adopted over the years. Fingerprints were no problem, really. All he had to do was build up the kitty, turn a few deals, and grease a few palms. Everywhere a record was kept, there was a human recorder who had access to it. All Vincent needed was access to the recorder.

Vincent had learned that it wasn't a question of whether integrity could be bought and sold. It was only a question of price.

He managed to nap a couple of hours, keeping the newspaper over his face. Scattione had probably passed out a hundred photos. Vincent could change his name, but he was stuck with those same recognizable features. At least until he got to Cayman, where he knew a decent plastic surgeon. First things first, he needed to live long enough to get his new identity.