5
After a slow, frustrating trip uptown, mostly on First Avenue, Thompson's cab made a left on 39th Street and headed west.
Back to his publisher?
Could have a meeting, could be going out to lunch. That meant another lengthy wait. Jack wished he knew whether or not he had the book on him. If not, this was all a waste of time.
The cab pulled to the right and stopped, not before the Vector Publications building but a branch of the Bank of New York. Three words immediately tumbled through Jack's brain.
Safety deposit box.
Maybe Thompson had one, maybe he was about to rent one, but whatever the case, Jack couldn't let him stash the Compendium in a bank. He'd never see it again.
"Quick! Pull up behind him. Close as you can."
As Thompson paid the cabby, Levy eased to a stop and Jack crawled into the backseat. He lowered the rear passenger-side window and stuck his head out. Thompson was stepping out of the cab, swinging his backpack over his shoulder as Jack called.
"Mister Thompson! Hank!" Jack waved as Thompson turned. "Hey, buddy! Remember me?"
Thompson's curious expression morphed into a glare. "I remember you, you phony bastard!"
Must have done some checking up. Jack pretended not to hear.
"I'm so glad I ran into you. I have a couple of follow-up questions I'd like to—"
"You lying fuck!" Thompson was striding toward the car. Now that Jack knew they were brothers, he could see Bolton in his eyes. "What are you after?"
"Nothing. I—"
Closer.
"I mean, what's your game, man?"
"I just need to ask," Jack said, then let his volume fall. "Do you hang it to the left or right'/"
Closer.
"What?"
"You deaf or something? Left or right? Does yours hang left or right?"
Jack eased back as Thompson pushed his face right up to the window opening, a definite Texas Tower look growing in his eyes.
"I want you out of my sight, scumbag! I ever see you again I'm gonna—"
Jack hit the window up button as he grabbed a fistful of his curly Morrison locks and yanked his head inside. Thompson tried to pull back but the rising edge of the window caught him under the chin, trapping him without quite choking him.
Thompson went wild. Red-faced with bulging eyes, he filled the car with incoherent screamed curses as he thrashed about like a trapped animal, twisting, kicking, straining, pounding his fists against the window and door and roof.
Jack slid toward the opposite side of the seat. He saw Levy's white face and wide eyes staring at him over the backrest.
"Dear God! What are you doing?"
"Only be a minute."
Jack slipped out the door on the driver side and stepped around the rear of the car. Few people were looking, and only long enough to nudge and point and grin. This was New York, after all.
Still, Jack hated this. He preferred subtle, preferred to operate shielded, from a distance, invisible. This was crude and it exposed him, but he couldn't stand by and watch the book sealed away in a bank vault. Sometimes you had to go with the most direct method.
Thompson made quite a sight with his head buried in the car and his limbs flailing and kicking in a pattern somewhere between the Charleston and an epileptic fit. His screams of rage were muffled out here but still audible. He'd dropped the backpack. Keeping an eye on the thrashing arms and feet, Jack picked it up and unzipped the rear compartment.
There she lay in all her metallic glory: the Compendium ofSrem.
He pulled it free, dropped the backpack, and returned to the other side of the car. As Jack slipped back into the rear seat, Thompson saw the book and lost it.
"That's mine! That's-mine-that's-mine-that's-MINE!"
"Wrong," Jack said in a low voice. "Never yours."
Thompson squeezed his eyes shut and gave out a long, inarticulate roar.
Levy looked ready to jump out of his skin. He shouted over Thompson's screech. "What do we do now?"
Jack wasn't sure. He'd gone with his gut instead of his head. Never a good thing.
Well, at least he had the book. Now he had to come up with an exit strategy, a way to leave Hank Thompson in the dust. Sure as hell couldn't sit here much longer with a guy hanging out the window.
He checked out the street ahead. The cab was long gone, leaving the space ahead of them clear. The light was green but the pedestrian sign was flashing orange.
"Start moving… easy," he shouted back.
Levy gave him a panicked look over his shoulder. "But he's still—"
"Just do it. And be ready to floor it and make a left onto Fifth when I tell you."
As Levy put the car in gear and let it edge forward, Thompson stopped his screeching.
"Hey!" He had to start walking to keep up with the car. "What're you doing?"
"Going for a ride." He tapped Levy's backrest with his left hand while his right found the window button. "A little faster."
"No!" Thompson cried as fear started crowding the rage from his face. "No, don't! You can't!"
The Infiniti reached the corner just as the light turned orange. Jack lowered the window and gave Thompson's head a shove.
"Hit it! Go!"
Levy glanced back. When he saw that Thompson was free, he did indeed hit it. The Infiniti screeched onto Fifth Avenue.
"Dear God, that was awful! Who do you think you are? You can't go around doing that to people."
Jack didn't answer. He glanced back through the rear window and saw Thompson sprawled on the pavement.
"He's probably memorized my plates by now. He'll be calling the police and before you know it—"
Thompson didn't stay down long. In a heartbeat he was up and racing after them.
"He won't be calling the cops."
"Why not? You assaulted and robbed him."
"He's not about to report the loss of something he stole."
"Stole? From whom?"
"Me."
Ahead, the light at 38th Street turned green but ears were backed up. waiting to move. Levy slowed to a crawl.
Jack said, "If you check behind us you'll see an angry man coming our way."
"What?" Levy straightened in his seat and looked in the rearview mirror. "Oh, no."
"If you want to avoid another scene and perhaps some vehicular damage, I suggest you get moving."
The cars ahead began to move, but slowly.
Another backward glance showed Thompson gaining, and quickly. Murder in his eyes, veins standing out on his neck… his face was scarlet, his mouth working—looked like he was screaming a lot of words beginning with the letter F—and… was that foam flecking his lips?
"In your professional opinion, doc, would you say that we've yanked his trigger gene and his oDNA is in the driver seat?"
"Dear God!" Levy wailed.
Finally the traffic got rolling. A lane opened ahead and Levy darted into it, leaving Thompson in the dust, but still running, still screaming, still waving his arms as honking cars swerved around him.
"Guy could do with a little anger management."
Levy was panting as if he'd been running. "Now you know what happens when you push an oDNA-loaded man like Thompson over the edge."
Had to admit it had been an awe-inspiring exhibition of rage. Jack had had his share of rages over the years, but they tended toward the cold type—subzero cold.
Levy glanced over his shoulder. "You put us through all that for a book? Why?"
"Well, number one: He had it and it's mine. And number two: It's mine and he had it."
Jack resisted the urge to open the Compendium and leaf through it to the Kicker Man page. This was not the time or place.
"Where can I drop you off?" Levy said. "I've got to get back home."
"Not yet. I'm going to work on getting you those samples from my customer."
"Customer? You mean client?"
Something about having "clients" had always bothered Jack, but he was playing the private investigator now.
"Right. Client. If I can work a meet with her I can probably get you those samples. I want you around so I can give them to you. No sense in you driving all the way back in from Rathburg again when you're already here."
"Do you want me to meet her with you?"
"Hell, no. You don't see her, talk to her, come within a mile of her."
"Then what am I supposed to do while you're meeting her?" Was he kidding?
"This is New York City, doc. You can't kill a few hours here, you're already dead and don't know it."