The Getaway (Sam Archer 2) (14 page)

But before he could go to the hotel, he knew he needed to salvage what he could from his father’s apartment. There was stuff in there that should be kept, stuff that his sister might want. The clothes and shoes, all that shit could go to the Goodwill store. It wasn’t a job that he was looking forward to, throwing out all his father’s stuff, cleaning out the place and ditching any non-essentials. But he knew he’d have to do it at some point, and now seemed as good a time as any to get it over and done with.

He crossed the street to the right, headed past a large Chase bank on the corner of 40
th
and 7
th
, and ducked down the steps leading to the subway, pulling back on his flannel shirt that he’d removed earlier.

He could
wear it
again, seeing as he no longer had anyone tailing him.

He got on a Queens-bound train and headed back to
Astoria
. It was an R train, so he stepped off on Steinway and walked up to the street level, headed east towards
31
st
Avenue
and to his father’s apartment. He would try to get everything done in an hour or so, working fast. It would probably take longer, but the quicker he did it, the quicker he could forget about it and move on. He walked down Steinway, past the food stand on the corner and through the smoke from the grill, then turned left and walked north a block, crossing the street. He started moving down 38
th
, but as he approached the apartment, he saw someon
e sitting on the steps outside.

He could see straight away it wasn’t the guy from the second floor, the one who’d been using the grill. This man was a hulking figure, dressed in jeans and a white zip-up tracksuit top with red
stripes down each
arm, a cigarette in his mouth.

Archer saw who it was immediately, no mistake.

Farrell.

The bigger man saw Archer approaching and rose to his feet, flicking the butt of the cigarette onto the ground. Archer stopped on the sidewalk ten yards away, outside
the gate. In daylight and standing
across from him, Farrell seemed even bigger than he had the night before. He was an intimidating figure. Archer suddenly wished he hadn’t left his dad’s 9mm Sig upstairs in the apartment.

‘What the hell do you want?’ Archer asked.

Farrell raised his hands.

‘Relax. I come in peace.’

‘Like you did last night? I don’t give a shit. How did you know I was staying here?’

‘I had Regan follow you home after the fight,’ Farrell replied, honestly.

Silence. Both men stood there, either side of the small gate, staring at each other, testily. There seemed to be a mutual respect in the air, but no secure trust had yet been
earned on either side.

‘So w
hat do you want?’ Archer asked.

‘To go for a drive,’ Farrell said.

Farrell’s car was a silver Ford, a nice model, sleek and fast. Archer knew very little about cars, but it seemed to handle well and his seat was comfortable. They were
headed
for the
Queensborough
Bridge
, taking the kind of
intricate
route
through
Astoria
that only a local who had lived here his whole life would know. The Ford had been parked on the kerb ou
tside Jim Archer’s apartment, and
the only reason Archer had got in the car with the guy was to further their contact and to try
and build some kind of bond. Archer
was under no illusions. Much as Gerry wanted his help, he was doing this for himself. The man in the driver’s seat could very well have murdered his father or if not knew who had, and Archer
wanted to find out everything Farrell
knew about it.

‘You know, I had Regan follow you again today. He said he lost you at Times Square,’ Farrell said, turning right and headed towards the Queensborough.

‘Really?’

‘Where’d you go?’

‘Shopping.’

‘Where are the bags?’

‘Why’d you have him follow me?’ Archer asked, deflecting the question. ‘You’re not doing yourself a lot of favours here.’

Pause.

Farrell didn’t respond.

‘I saw what you did last night,’ he said. ‘I was impressed. That guy’s a real asshole, but he’s a big asshole. I’m a boxing trainer, you see. My girl, Carmen, fights out in
East Rutherford
every few weeks. Mixed martial arts. I corner her. We’d fight in the city, but it’s still illegal.’

Like that would stop you
, Archer thought.

‘You ever fight?’ he asked him.

‘Used to. Boxing though, not MMA. Did some time inside and couldn’t do it anymore when I got out the joint. Lost my cardio, my footwork, everything. Started holding the pads instead of hitting them. Couldn’t throw a good punch anymore.’

‘Looked like you could last night.’

Pause. They started to move over the
Queensborough
Bridge
,
Manhattan
rolling into view up ahead. Archer looked out
of
the window at the skyline, trying to stay cool. He was sat next to the man who had quite possibly killed his father. But here they were, having a casual conversation, like two civil strangers. He swallowed, taking a deep breath.

Stay cool.

Stay in control.

Think of the big picture
.

‘So
England
, huh?’ Farrell said.

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m Irish, you know. That should make us enemies.’

‘You making a point?’ Archer said.

Farrell smiled. ‘Just busting your balls. You’re tense, man. Relax. I ain’t gonna bite.’

Pause.

‘So what do you do for a job?’ Farrell asked.

‘Currently unemployed.’

‘You ever serve time?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Keep it that way, trust me,’ Farrell said, as they approached the end of the Bridge. Farrell turned right on 1
st
and headed uptown, through the Upper East Side and towards
Harlem
. Archer stayed silent.

‘How well do you know the city?’ he asked.

‘Been here a few times.’

‘Can you drive?’

Gerrard’s vo
ice flashed into Archer’s mind.

They’ll be looking for a new driver
.

‘Of course.’

They moved on, through the East 60 Streets and the 70’s. The
Upper East Side
.

‘
Manhattan
streets ain’t like the U.K, you know,’ Farrell said.’ It’s a chessboard out here. There’s no alleyways, no hiding places, and you’re on an island. It’s a grid, and there are cops everywhere. You get jammed up, you’d better make sure you know what the hell you’re doing.’

‘I came here a lot growing up. I know the streets.’

A couple of minutes later, Farrell turned left on 110
th
and drove down to Lexington Avenue, then turned left again and pulled the car to a halt on the kerb, right next to the upper right edge of Central Park, facing south. He applied the handbrak
e, but kept the engine running.

They sat there in silence, the car facing the long stretch of road heading all the way downtown, the engine humming.

‘So what now?’ Archer asked.

Farrell didn’t reply, an
d pushed open his door instead.

‘I’ll show you. Step out.’

Archer opened his door and stepped out, as Farrell beckoned him to his side of the car. H
e’d left his door open.

‘T
ake a seat. Get a feel for it.’

Archer did so, as Farrell moved to the passenger side. They both took a seat, swapping sides and pulled the doors shut as the light behind them turned green and traffic started moving past them on the left. Archer slid his hands over the wheel and got a feel for the car. It was a good size, strong enough to carry its weight yet light enough to
knock off some serious mileage.

‘Wha
t do you think?’ Farrell asked.

Archer nodded. He knew nothing about
cars, but feigned interest.

‘Not bad.’

The next two things Archer did were crucially uncharacteristic. He made two mistakes, mistakes he never normally made.

He droppe
d his guard for a split-second.

And he looked out the window to his left.

Farrell suddenly reached behind his back. Archer turned in the next instant, but Farrell had a head-start and jammed something into his neck.

It was a 9mm pistol.

Archer froze, looking at it pushed against his neck, then at Farrell.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘We’re on 110
th
and Lex,’
’
Farrell said. ‘I want us in
Herald Square
in six minutes. If we’re a second late, I pull the trigger and you die, pal.’

Archer didn’t move, the gun still to his neck. Farrell stared straight at him, his finger tight on the trigger.

‘Are you kidding me?’

Farrell ignored him, lifting his other wrist, the weapon tight in his g
un-hand, and checked his watch.

‘You’re wasting time. And I’m not joking. Five minutes and fifty five seconds, I pull this trigger.
Move!
’

Archer
paused for one further moment.

Assessed his options.

Then he released the handbrake and pushed his foot down and the tires squealed as the car lunged forward.

They were on the north east corner of
Central Park
, on 110
th
and
Lexington Avenue
. Herald Square was 76 blocks away. Unless they had an airplane, Archer knew this was going to be close to impossible. Bu
t he floored the pedal anyway.

He didn’t have a choice.

The quickest way to get there would be Central Park West, but that was the other side of the Park. It all depended on luck. He needed to hit a series of green lights. If they were red, he would either have to run them or accept his fate and either scrap with Farrell or take the chance that he wouldn’t pull the trigger. But judging from what he had already learned about the man, the second outcome seemed unlikely.

The car sped forward. Farrell had lowered the gun and jammed it tight in his ribs, a constant reminder of what he was up against. There was no traffic in the road and he did a U turn in the street, swinging a hard left then turning another left to face west down 110
th
Street. He floored it, the car burning down the road, other cars honking and drivers shouting as Archer cut the car into the lanes. They were moving right to left, across the top of
Central Park
, and fast. Up here, it would be far easier to get across town. If he tried the same downtown, they’d get clogged up in traffic like a fly in a spider’s web and would never m
ake it before his time ran out.

They zoomed along 110
th
, all the greenery of the Park flashing past Archer’s window on the left. Up ahead, he saw a cathedral fast approaching on their right,
The
Cathedral of St John the Divine
, a sign told him. Farrell checked the clock on his watch, the pistol still tight in Archer’s ribs, uncomfortably so, as the car rushed forward.

‘Five –thirty to go,’ he said.

Archer was in luck with the green light, and there was no one on the crossing. He barely slowed as he turned down to face Central Park West, a sliding turn, the wheels skidding on the concrete as the car pulle
d its way around to face south.

The lights ahead were green and the car scorched forward, knocking off the streets. Alongside them, the sidewalks were dotted with the odd pedestrian or food stall, but Archer kept his eyes peeled for any cops or a squad car lurking in any of the streets they passed. He considered trying to attract their attention, getting them pulled over and the gun out of his ribs but he
couldn’t risk screwing this up.

Farrell knew who killed his father.

And he needed to do this to find out who that person was.

They burnt it down the streets, the sidewalks flashing past. In
New York City
, the traffic lights system often lit up one after the other sequentially in order to try and alleviate traffic and Archer struck gold, the car torching it down Central Park West, the Park and all its trees flashing past on the left.