14
Stan had found a spot on Seventh Avenue to wait for Joe. He'd just settled himself onto a shady bench near the Fashion Institute when his cell phone rang.
"Lost the fucker," said Joe's voice.
Even through the tiny speaker Stan could feel the heat of his brother's barely suppressed rage.
"He spot you?"
"Couldn't have. I kept my distance and he never even looked at me. Fucker must have a sixth sense or something. You pin down his apartment?"
"Sure did. Three-C. Checked the mailbox downstairs. Says the place belongs to 'J. Vega.'"
"J. Vega, eh? 'J' as in 'Jack'? I like it. You keep an eye on the door so we know when he comes back. I'm goin' home to put a few things together."
"What few things?"
"I'll show you when I get back. See you soon."
Stan hit the OFF button. If Joe wouldn't discuss the few things on the phone, that meant they weren't legal. But Stan had a pretty good idea of what Joe was going to put together. Something that went boom.