William Brown - The Undertaker

“Thanks, but I think I'll pass,” Sandy said.

“I'm sorry, I forgot you've stopped,” I apologized and waved the waiter away.

“A glass of wine sounds good," she said. “But I don't want to start, not now, not after all I've been through. I'll bet that Joseph Phelps stuff even comes with a cork, huh? When Eddie ordered, it always had a screw top.”

“When you date a guy from California, you get cork.”

“Date?” she giggled. “With all that sweating and moaning, is that what you call it?” She put her hand on mine. “You're going to take a lot of work, you know.”

After we ate, I drew a crude map on the paper tablecloth. “Here's the plan. Billingham will be coming in from the law school buildings on Sullivan on the south side of the square. I'm going over two streets, then north to the park. You go back to MacDougal and up to the park the way we came. Wait for me near the corner, while I talk to Billingham. When we're done, I'll meet you there and we'll take off to one of the subway stations to the west, okay?”

“No, I want to go with you.”

“Look, you're the only one who knows the truth. If they catch both of us, I'm finished, we're finished. That's why you're going to stay over on MacDougal and run like hell if it all blows up.” I put my hand on hers, caressing it lightly. “So you're going to go over to MacDougal, because you know I'm depending on you.”

She stared back across at me for a very long time. “You really are a sneaky, manipulating bastard, Peter Talbott, aren't you?”

She did what I asked, but she didn't like it. Since I looked more like my photo in the newspaper than she looked like hers, she insisted I take the umbrella. The three-block walk to Washington Square was one of the longest walks I'd ever taken. The street was narrow. The afternoon was dark and gloomy with rain dripping off the sycamores. I swore I saw government hit men hiding in every doorway and eyes following me from every parked car. In the 19 ^th century, Washington Square was a green oasis and the best neighborhood in the city. A Sunday afternoon stroll there would have been all the rage, but times had changed. Now, on a rainy afternoon, I saw a totally empty playground in one corner and an equally large, fenced dog run in the other, where the X-ers took their golden retrievers and Russian wolfhounds to growl at each other. Most of the park benches had become homeless “shacks”, with cardboard and blankets draped over them.

It was all pretty depressing stuff. Across MacDougal, at the corner with West Washington, I saw Sandy hiding in a doorway. Her eyes never left me as I took a slow lap around the perimeter of the park. I used the wide diagonal sidewalks to criss-cross it several times, but I saw nothing. Other than Sandy's dark eyes following my every move, the only serious interest I got was from the hookers near the arch and a small army of crack dealers hanging around the fountain at the center of the park.

New York! Ya gotta love it! Where else does a city divide-up its recreational turf on such a non-judgmental basis?

Just a quiet walk in the park…

It was 4:50. I took a seat on a wet park bench facing south toward the NYU Law School buildings, where I had a good view of the entire park. If Tinkerton's men came at me out of the late afternoon gloom, they had better come in numbers and be wearing track shoes, because they would have a tough time cornering me in all that open ground. In the distance, I heard the chime of cathedral bells and knew it must be 5:00. Shaggy college kids with long hair, book bags, and that all-important second-hand grunge look poured out of the NYU class buildings to the east like a jailbreak. After the flood of the great unwashed had ebbed, I saw another group of older and more prosperous students emerge from a building down on Sullivan and scatter. Three men dressed in top coats and business suits followed them out the doors. They crossed 4 ^th Street and marched straight north into the park.

Barrister Billingham was the man in the center, dressed in a stylish, mohair topcoat over a navy-blue pinstriped suit, and a red silk tie. His deep Florida tan completed the outfit, and he was right. Even if I hadn't seen him on television, there was no mistaking him for anyone else in the park. Towering above his bald head were two very large, mono-brow hulks dressed in dark, loose fitting, unbuttoned raincoats. The muscle on the left held a large, dark-green golf umbrella over Billingham's head, his arm straight out, chest high, like the Russian wrestlers carrying their flag at the Olympics. The muscle on the right had his hands in his coat pockets. What else was in there I wasn't sure, but his eyes swept back and forth like two nervous radar dishes until he picked me out of the gloom from a half-block away. He must have said something to Billingham because the lawyer looked my way and gave a brief nod as he continued on to the arch.

I looked around the park one more time and then looked over at Sandy. Satisfied that the three men had come alone, I stood up and headed for the arch where they waited for me at the wrought iron fence at the monument's base. Flanked by the two hulks, Billingham greeted me with a pleasant smile, but there were no hugs or handshakes.

I looked up at the inscription carved on the pediment high above us. “Let us raise a standard to which the wise and the honest can repair,” I read aloud. “George Washington, 1798. Which one are you, Charley?”

A thin smile crossed his lips. “Gino said you were an irreverent smart-ass, Mister Talbott, and I have always found Gino an excellent judge of people.”

“Yeah, a real prince.”

“Before we begin, Harvey here has something he needs to do.” Billingham motioned to one of the beefy bodyguards. “Don't be alarmed, he won't hurt you, unless I tell him to.”

With that, the bigger of the two hulks stepped behind me and quickly frisked me: back, sides, legs, groin, chest, neck, the works. His hands moved quickly, efficiently, and very professionally. Satisfied, Harvey nodded to Billingham. The other goon handed Billingham the green golf umbrella and the two bodyguards walked away, taking up positions far enough away, but not too far, their eyes constantly moving, scanning the surrounding area.

“Now that I know you aren't armed or wearing a wire, we can have that little talk you wanted,” Billingham said pleasantly as we walked off down the sidewalk, side-by-side, each of us under his own umbrella.

“I'm the one they're trying to kill,” I reminded him.

“And for very good reasons.” He pulled what looked like a small transistor radio from his jacket pocket and turned it on. “This little gadget doesn't play any of your favorite rock music, Mister Talbott. It emits a bubble of 'white noise' that drives the neighborhood dogs crazy and renders a directional microphone useless. These days one never knows what they might have set up in a parked car, on a roof, or in some window.”

“It's a little warm for a topcoat, isn't it, Charley?”

He smiled. “I don't mind the extra protection, Mr. Talbott. You never can tell what the weather will bring here in the city.” He looked across the street to the west. “I assume that is Mrs. Kasmarek hiding in that doorway over on MacDougal — the attractive, young woman with the large, shoulder bag?” I made no reply. “Gino was quite smitten by her, so she must really be something. Personally, I am surprised you still have her with you. The comfort factor aside, it is very dangerous for a man in your situation to keep a companion. Inevitably, it affects one's judgment, for the worse I am afraid.”

“Gino said that too.”

“Gino is a very smart man. By the way, you'll be happy to know he is recovering nicely in a clinic up in Montreal.”