Noble Intentions: Season Two (Episodes 6-10) (35 page)

“That was my specialty.”

“I’ve heard.”

A store employee approached them. She was short and thin and unnoticeable. She leaned around Bear and said, “You guys need any help?”

“Piss off,” Bear said.

She walked away without saying another word.

“There,” Pierre said as he pointed to the south end of the street. “That’s the car.”

The white luxury car stopped in the lane and the rear door opened. Feng stepped out. He was dressed in his usual attire. He stepped between two parked cars and crossed the sidewalk. Waited under the green and white awning that covered the cafe’s front door. Like a man who had spent his life on the streets, the old man’s eyes were constantly moving.

Bear could relate. He judged people within a second of seeing them. He could easily tell who had the potential to ruin his day, and he was sure Feng could, too.

“Should we move?” Pierre asked.

“No,” Bear said. “He’ll notice that. Just stay still. The glass reflects on the outside.”

The driver walked toward the diner from the north. Bear looked past him and saw the Mercedes parked on the road near the end of the block. He said, “Give anything for a way to track that car right now.”

The old man disappeared behind the glass door. Thirty minutes later, he reemerged. He walked next to his driver on the sidewalk. Stopped at the car. Got in the backseat. The car drove off.

Pierre had recorded the time they arrived and when they exited the restaurant. They waited ten more minutes, then left the shoe store and went inside the diner.

A middle aged woman with her hair dyed dark welcomed them. “Take any seat. Be by in a sec to get your drink order. Buffet’s in the back.”

Bear headed straight to the back and started piling Tandoori Chicken and Seekh Kabab on his plate. He returned to the dining room and found Pierre sitting in a booth against the wall. “Not going to eat?”

Pierre shook his head. “Not hungry. Breakfast was enough.”

Bear looked at his watch. “That was two hours ago.”

Conversation was light while Bear ate. Pierre checked out the restroom, faking an accidental entrance into the kitchen. He noted the rear door and when he came back to the table, mentioned it to Bear. “We should check behind the building.”

Bear nodded. Scooped one last bite of chicken into his mouth and drank the remainder of his water. “Let’s go.”

They left the diner and turned left. Walked less than one hundred feet and made another left on 37th Road. Halfway between 74th and 75th, they ducked into an alley that ran between the streets and behind the buildings.

Bear counted doors along the way, trying to match them to the establishments that faced outward on 74th. They saw the diner. Unmistakable due to the grease traps next to the back door.  It looked like the diner shared a dumpster with the Indian joint one door north. Beyond the grease traps and the dumpster, the alley widened and opened up into a parking lot.

“I think that’s where I’ll be,” Bear said. “In case they park in the back or try to escape through the rear of the restaurant.”

The back door to the diner opened up and an older man stepped out. He froze when he saw Bear. “What are you doing back here?”

Bear quickly placed the man. They had a history. It had been a few years, though. “Just passing through.”

“Bear?”

He tried to hide his disappointment at being recognized. “Do I know you?”

“It’s Ahmet. You helped me out a few times in the past.”

Bear nodded. Reached out and shook the man’s outstretched hand. “I did some work for free, too. You remember that, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then do me a favor,” Bear said.

“Anything. Name it.”

“Forget you saw me here.”

12

Pierre said goodnight to Bear and checked his watch. Eight p.m. Too early to go to bed. He doubted he’d sleep much at all. If things went well, he’d kill tomorrow. It had been too long since the last time.

He fiddled with his cell phone for ten minutes. Twice he’d tried to dial the number. Twice he’d hit the home button to abort the call. Finally, he pressed all ten numbers and then stuck the phone next to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Is this Marcy?”

“Yes.”

“This is Pierre.”

“Who?”

“From the cafe. The Frenchman.”

“Oh, Pierre. Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“I had to leave the city unexpectedly.”

“Are you back?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to go out?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how to get to Park and 73rd?”

“Yes.” He lied.

“See you there in half an hour?”

“OK.”

Pierre slipped on his black leather jacket, feeling the silk-like material that lined the interior as he slid his hands through the jacket’s arms. He quietly stepped down the stairs. Stopped at the bottom and ran his hands through his dark hair. He stepped out into the cool dark night and walked to Columbus. He hailed a taxi, got in and told the driver where to take him.

He paid no attention to his surroundings during the drive. Only stared at his phone. He had his contact list opened. This thumb slid up and down on the screen, centering Kat’s name, then pushing it off the screen. She had not called since he left. Not once. Perhaps she had already moved on.

The taxi pulled over and came to an abrupt stop. Pierre handed the man a twenty dollar bill. Said, “Keep the change.”

The driver nodded and waited for Pierre to step out of the car, then he pulled off, leaving Pierre standing alone on the corner of 73rd and Park.

He crossed the sidewalk and leaned up against a building. Traffic passed at regular intervals. People passed him on the sidewalk without a word or hint of acknowledgment. He had no problem with this.

“Pierre,” her voice called from his right.

He turned and saw Marcy approaching. She had on jeans and a sweater. Nothing fancy. Not what he expected, either.

“Been waiting long?” she asked.

“Just a few minutes,” he said.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Just around the corner. A theater. Friends of mine are in a show there.”

They walked south on Park and turned right on 72nd.

“It’s right there,” she said.

“Why didn’t you have me meet you there?”

“Thought you might run if you saw I was taking you to a play.”

“You were right,” he said while checking around for another idea to offer up. “I still might,” he added.

She squeezed his hand and leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder.

He wondered why this woman felt so comfortable with him. Would she, like all the others, panic and freak out if he told her what he did and who he was?

She led him inside the theater. They sat near the front of the stage. The play consisted of one-act comedies and dramas. Five of them, each lasting ten minutes apiece. Pierre found it odd, but Marcy seemed to enjoy it, so he acted like he was into it, too. She introduced him to her friends. He and Marcy were asked to come out for drinks, but Pierre declined. Told them he had to be up early.

They walked hand in hand to her apartment building. Stopped out front.

“Want to come up?”

“Yes,” Pierre said.

She turned and pulled at his hand. He didn’t move.

“Well?”

“I can’t,” Pierre said.

“Why not?”

“I really do have to be up early tomorrow.”

“I thought you were just saying that so we could get away from my friends.”

“It’s the truth.”

“What do you have to do in the morning that’s so important?”

He shifted his gaze away from her and lowered his voice. “I have to kill someone.”

She laughed. “OK, Pierre. Well you have fun with that.” She leaned in, kissed him on the lips.

He returned her kiss. He thought about telling her that he was serious about what he said. Decided against it.

“Want to go out again tomorrow?” she asked. “Me and you? Dinner?”

Pierre nodded. “I’ll call you.”

She smiled, then turned and entered her building.

He watched her as she walked up the wide wooden stairs. Once she was no longer in view, he got his bearings and walked toward the park. He noticed a group of young men half a block ahead. Six of them. Huddled together. One pointed in Pierre’s direction.

Pierre kept his pace steady. Not too fast. He didn’t want to appear as if he were trying to get away. Not too slow, as he didn’t want to appear that he was watching what they were doing.

Three of the men left the group. Walked to the end of the block and turned on Lexington or Park or Madison. Pierre wasn’t sure where he was. Only knew that if he kept going west, he’d walk right into Central Park.

The other three men lined up to block the sidewalk. They all faced Pierre. He saw a weapon in one man’s hand, possibly a baseball bat. Another man held his hands behind his back. The third stood tall and loose. They all looked the same under the dim false light provided by the street lamps. A tree blocked most of the light out, so the only things Pierre could make out where their clothes and general build. Jeans and gray hooded sweatshirts. Medium height and slight to medium builds.

Pierre stopped six feet from the men. He didn’t want to be too far away, should one pull a gun. Didn’t want to be too close and find himself in reach of the baseball bat. Yet.

“Evening gentlemen,” he said.

“What is that accent, man?” the guy on Pierre’s right, the one with his hands behind his back, said.

“French.”

“We hate the French.” He laughed. “Isn’t that right?”

The other guys laughed. The one on Pierre’s left took a few steps forward. He used the baseball bat like a cane. The hollow core piece of wood tapped against the concrete sidewalk, then his feet hit, one at a time.

Tap, thud, thud.

Tap, thud, thud.

Pierre slid to his right.

“Don’t move,” the guy in the middle said as he pulled his jacket open, revealing a handgun tucked deep in his waistband.

Pierre smiled and nodded. He calculated how long it would take the guy to retrieve his weapon and fire a shot. Fortunately for Pierre, and unfortunately for the man, it would take two seconds too long.

“Your wallet,” the guy said.

Pierre said nothing. Didn’t move.

“Give me your wallet.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Pierre said.

The guys tilted his head and a confused look crossed his face. He looked to his right and then to his left. Perhaps he sought reassurance from his fellow thugs. Judging by the looks on their faces, he received none.

“What did you say to me?” the guy said.

“You heard me.”

“I don’t think you—”

Pierre cut him off and said, “I’m going to give you five seconds to get out of my way. Step to the side and I’ll forget this ever happened.”

The man forced a laugh and looked at the other two guys.

“One,” Pierre said.

The man who had stood with his hands behind his back now let them fall. In his right was a knife with a five or six inch blade. He took a step forward.

The guy with the bat lifted it off the ground. Held the thin end in his right hand. Tapped the fat end against his left palm.

The thug with the gun remained motionless. Didn’t have the guts to pull the weapon then. Certainly wouldn’t be able to man up and pull the trigger when Pierre beat his friends to near death.

“Two.” Pierre paused a beat. “Three.” He took a breath. “Four.” He looked at each man. Stared at one for a second, then moved to the next. He saw the fear in their eyes. They were frozen. They’d never encountered someone on these streets who stood their ground like Pierre. A man, seemingly unarmed, ready to take them on one versus three.

“Time’s almost up, Frenchie,” the guy with the gun said.

Pierre smiled. He made a face like he was going to say “five,” but instead he delivered a kick to his left. It struck the guy with the bat in the chest, just below his sternum. Judging by the cracking sound, he got a piece of the sternum too.

The guy caved backward. He dropped the bat to the ground.

Pierre ducked, spun, and grabbed the bat off the ground. He faced the street. Heard the steps behind him. He whipped to his left, arm out, bat extending from his arm. He caught the man with the knife on his kneecap. The blow swept the man off his feet. He fell sideways, hard, onto his shoulder and his head.

Pierre looked over his shoulder. The remaining man had his hand on the gun and was pulling it from his waistband. It appeared to be stuck, and the guy tugged and jerked to free the weapon.

Pierre stood and swung and struck the man. The bat connected with the guy’s left arm, just above the elbow. There was a crack and a scream. The man took three steps back. He let go of the handle of his gun.

Pierre slammed the end of the bat into the man’s stomach. The guy bent over. Pierre grabbed the gun and freed it from his waistband. Knocked the man to the ground. He knelt over him and said, “If you are going to carry a gun around, be man enough to use it.” Then he stood and fired a shot into the man who had held the knife. The guy’s body went limp.

The guy on the ground in front of Pierre started to cry.

“Like that,” Pierre said. He knelt over the man. Placed the gun to his head. Grabbed a handful of the man’s jacket and brought it up to shield himself from any blood and brain spray. Then he pulled the trigger. The shot echoed off of buildings. Lights had begun to turn on. Pierre decided to run. He crossed Lexington, then Park, and came to Madison. He hailed a taxi and returned to the apartment.

By the time the taxi stopped to let him out, it was as if nothing had happened. The world was down three criminals, and that was a good night for Pierre.

13

Jasmine, Jack and Clarissa sat around the table in Jack’s room. They discussed the plan. Watched the clock. Refined the plan. They couldn’t put the final part of it together until Clarissa arranged her meeting with Ivanov.

Jack slid the phone across the table. “It’s time.”