I would extricate myself, I was sure, though I thought, too, of what I’d told the police, how the killer was still out there, and I felt a sense of danger beneath the veneer of the moment, everything about to break loose.
When Angela told Max she was taking a late lunch, Max said, “What about that phone call?”
“I’ll try again from the street,” Angela said. “I have to go – I have a two o’clock appointment at my hairdresser.”
Angela had just said this as an excuse to get out of the office, but on the way downstairs she decided that getting a haircut would be a good idea. Maybe she could get a blow out and a wash every day until she could start using her shower again.
Angela took the 1 train from Times Square and got off at Ninety-sixth Street. Bobby had said he wanted to meet on the Riverside Park promenade, between the Hudson River and the tennis courts.
Angela’s bruises and cuts were still bothering her, especially the one on her thigh, but she knew she’d feel better once she figured out a way to get Bobby out of the way. Maybe she’d sleep with him again if she had to. He had B.O. and he wasn’t the best-looking guy in the world but, she had to admit, there was something kind of hot about wheelchair sex.
She entered Riverside Park at Ninety-sixth Street and walked toward the river. She came to the underpass Bobby was talking about and went through to the promenade. It was a clear, sunny day, about seventy degrees. There were a few old men sitting on benches and other people out jogging and walking their dogs. Angela got to the spot Bobby had described and looked around. She didn’t see him anywhere. She checked her watch – a few minutes after two.
She was tired and her thigh was hurting worse than before. She wanted to sit down, but all the benches nearby were either taken or covered with bird shit. She went back toward the water, leaned against the railing, and stared out toward New Jersey.
Bobby was waiting on a path on the wooded hill behind the tennis courts. The trees had blossomed a few weeks earlier so there was good cover. From his position, he had a nice, clear view of the promenade. Angela wasn’t there yet, but when she showed up he’d be ready for her. In the big front pocket of his windbreaker he had a stainless steel. 44 snub nose Mag Hunter. Yeah, fuckin hardware – it made the man.
Angela would be about sixty yards away – a tough shot for most people, but point-blank range for Bobby. He was already getting flashbacks of all the towelheads he’d taken down in Iraq, the sheer rush he’d get when he had those sand rats in his sight.
A few minutes later, Bobby saw Angela walking along the promenade. For some reason she was limping. She looked pale and drawn, not nearly as sexy as she had the other times Bobby had seen her. He remembered what she’d said, about the wheelchair being “kind of sexy.” An old song began to play in his head, Where was the love?
When she got to the spot where they were supposed to meet Bobby took out the Mag and fitted on a silencer. Man, just holding a loaded gun again got Bobby juiced.
He looked around to make sure there was no one nearby, watching him, then he raised the gun and aimed at Angela’s chest.
Angela limped toward a bench and looked like she was about to sit down, then she turned and went back toward the railing of the promenade. She put her hands on the railing and looked out across the river. Bobby was locked in on a spot right between her shoulder blades, figuring he’d give it to her in the back. But when Bobby fired, the bullet tore through Angela’s right thigh instead, his chair bucking from the recoil. Angela fell back against the railing, then her legs buckled and she coiled onto the cement. Bobby fired again, but the angle was shitty and this time he missed completely, the bullet whizzing by above Angela’s head. Bobby cursed and fired again. The bullet hit the concrete on the promenade and ricocheted into the Hudson. Angela was on her knees now. He fired two more times – one bullet entered the left side of her stomach, the other, finally, ripped through her chest. Now Angela was on her side, covered in blood. Bobby twisted off the silencer, put it and the Mag back inside his windbreaker, and wheeled out of the park, thinking, Who sang that goddamn song?