Shit, Mortimer thought. He’d blown it, and he knew he’d blown it. He’d burned his cover, clued Abe in to the fact that he knew something, and worse, tipped him off in such a way that made him hang on to that fucking gun.
Okay, so, what now? Mortimer labored to put two and two together. Abe had the gun. Caruso was set to show up at the bar. Caruso might try to strong-arm the woman. If he did, Abe would try to stop him.
For a moment Mortimer saw guns blazing, glass shattering, bullets tearing into wood and upholstery… or worse.
The only way to go at it now, he decided, was to screw the deal, and the key to that had to be Stark.
He whirled around and rushed down the street, his short, stocky legs pumping frantically, until he stopped at Stark’s door, rang the buzzer, waited, heard no response, then rang a second time.
The door opened and Stark faced him squarely.
“I need to talk to you,” Mortimer said.
Stark stood before him like a high stone wall.
“I know you’ve got a guy in there,” Mortimer told him.
“What do you want, Mortimer?”
“You think I put that guy on you,” Mortimer said. “But I didn’t. I made a bad deal. I ain’t saying I didn’t do nothing bad. But I didn’t put that guy on you.”
“Who did?”
Mortimer knew that the moment had arrived when he could no longer lie to Stark. The deal was blown, every goddamn bit of it. “The woman you’re looking for, her name is Sara Labriola. It’s her father-in-law that’s looking for her, a guy named Leo Labriola. Not some friend of mine, like I told you. The guy you got in there, he works for Labriola’s son. He don’t mean to harm the woman, which I know is what you’re thinking.”
A low moan broke the deathly silence. It came from down the corridor, a soft wail behind the black curtain.
“Get him out of here,” Stark said. He opened the door and stepped into the apartment. “Get him out of here now. Then come back.”
Mortimer did as he was told, moving quickly down the corridor, past the curtain, and into a room where he found a man bound to a chair.
“Just a second,” Mortimer said as he loosened the plastic cuffs.
“Who are you?” the man asked weakly.
Mortimer gathered up the man’s clothes and helped him dress. “I’m getting you out of here now,” he said.
The man looked at him blearily.
“You got a car?” Mortimer asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll walk you to it.”
The man shook his head. “I don’t think I can-”
Mortimer placed his hand firmly on the man’s back and urged him forward. “Walk, goddammit!”
They walked outside, then like a sober friend escorting a drunk one, they staggered to the parking lot where the man had left his car.
“Keys,” Mortimer said.
The man sunk his hands into the pockets of his trousers and rummaged around until he found them.
“Get in,” Mortimer said as he unlocked the door and yanked it open.
The man slumped down behind the wheel. “What’s… what’s-”
“Everybody’s fine,” Mortimer assured him.
The man looked at him doubtfully.
“Everybody’s fine,” Mortimer repeated. He grasped the man’s shoulder with affectionate respect. “You done good,” he said quietly. “I seen guys break, but you done good.”
The man nodded heavily. “You’re sure… everybody’s…”
Mortimer nodded. “Go home,” he said, then watched as the man pulled himself into the car, hit the ignition, and headed north up the avenue. At the far corner the car took a right, moving east now, toward the river. One problem down, he thought, but plenty more to go.