William Bayer - Blind Side

"Smack? Crack?"

"Grass? Ass?"

"Love for sale," I heard a throaty voice whisper in my ear.

I merged into the crowd on Seventh, paused before a three-card monte dealer, then looked back to see if I was being followed. There was no one lingering, so I walked back to the corner, then quickly descended the subway stairs. I bought a token, passed through the turnstile, found a pay phone and dialed the hotel.

"Mrs. Lynch? This is Mr. Lynch,"

"Geoffrey! I've been worried. I was afraid to call the loft."

I told her about Scotto and the hints I'd dropped. She especially liked my insinuation about the Duquaynes.

" I, meantime, have spoken with Mrs. Z," she said.

"It got pretty hairy there for a while. I told her the photos were back in play and she'd better get the money and pay up. I told her Rakoubian had taken the pictures, then had tried to pin them on you. I told her you were in the thing now, you and I were partners, that someone had tried to burn out your eyes, you didn't like that, and next time any lye was thrown, you'd be doing the throwing. I told her if she didn't think you had the balls, she should check you out with Rakoubian."

"Jesus!"

"Yeah, I really hit on her. She stayed quiet the whole time. I told her she may have thought the business was finished but as far as I was concerned it had just begun. I didn't give her time to answer. Just told her she and Darling had forty-eight hours to make up their minds. She thought little Kimberly was out of her life. Now here I am, back again, talking like a bad-ass too." She paused.

"I'm feeling good, Geoffrey. Real good. Why don't you come on up and see old horny Mrs. Lynch?"

"Nothing I'd rather do," I said.

"I have to call Frank first.

"I'll be waiting," she panted.

I had no trouble getting hold of Frank; it was only 11:00 P.m. in New Mexico. when I'd told him "Good moves with Scotto@," he said, everything.

"Of course, now you can't go back to the loft."

"What about the hotel?"

"Probably okay. But be careful. Take the subway shuttle to Grand Central, get off, then get right back on. Anyone else does the same thing you'll know you're being followed. But I don't think you are. I think what happened was Scotto slipped a twenty to someone in your neighborhood to watch your windows and call him when the lights went on. I doubt he has the manpower to follow you, and I doubt he has the motivation." That was pretty much what I'd been thinking, but it was nice to hear it confirmed.

"How do you like the way they traced my airline tickets?"

"They're methodical guys. We should have thought of that. When you come back out you'll buy your tickets under another name. And no connecting flights. Spend the night in Dallas, then fly Dallas-Albuquerque the following day under still a third name. Pay cash, of course."

"Maybe there's other stuff we should have thought of, Frank.

"Maybe. But things are breaking good. Feels like we're on a roll.

"What do I do about Scotto?"

"Keep your contacts to short calls from public phones."

"He won't like that."

"He won't mind so long as you keep in touch. Hey! Relax, Geof! The best part's still to come. Round-trip the shuttle, then get yourself back to that lusty girlfriend of yours. But not too much excitement. You still got big things to do………

Mrs. Lynch was lusty indeed. She was all over me the moment I entered the room.

"Don't know what's wrong with me," she said, pressing herself against me.

"I must be high on the excitement." She kissed me. "The power too." She unbuttoned my shirt, lightly clawed her nails down my chest, then slowly ran her tongue across the red lines she'd made. "I think it's you, Geoffrey. The way you smell, taste. You know how I love your skin." She licked at me again.

"Can't get enough." She stroked my arms with her thumbs.

"I'm crazy for you. You know that. Your . . . hardness. She fell back upon the bed, pulled up her dress, spread her legs. She wore no underwear. "Geoffrey, I'm so wet down there. Put it in me. Please………

Arnold Darling lived on upper Fifth Avenue in an old apartment house just north of the Metropolitan Museum. It was a Stanford White building famous for its high ceilings, well-proportioned rooms and celebrity residents, including two rival talk-show hosts, and the sister-in-law of the former dictator of Indonesia.

When I arrived a little before 8:00 A.M., there were two Cadillacs and a Bentley double-parked in front. It was a beautiful morning, the first decent one of the season. For e straight months the city had suffered through one the great heat waves of the century. Now, at last, the was clear and there was a cool autumnal breeze. stationed myself across the street, on a stone bench against the wall that defines the eastern edge of Cc raF Park. From there I watched the entrance to the building through my old Key West Post Office spying device, my R-4 mounted with a 135mm. lens. My second "Leica," the one with the barrel of the Beretta concealed in the lens housing, hung from a strap around my neck and rested just below my heart.

At 8:15 a distinguished-looking gentleman with wavy gray hair and a crocodile attache case exited the building and got into one of the Cadillacs. I recognized him as the former CEO of a major aerospace manufacturer, indicted and awaiting trial for bribery and conspiracy to defraud the government.

A few minutes later a genuine celebrity came out, the Italian-American film star Tony Demarco, known for his stupendous physique, sad spaniel's eyes and winsome groans while undergoing torture. Interrogation scenes, during which he hung half naked by his wrists while being 'Soviet military officer, tormented by one or another evil were the inevitable centerpieces of his movies. People went to see a Demarco picture as much for the pleasure of watching him suffer as for the stunning brutality of his revenge.

I watched him get into the Bentley, then was distracted by the arrival of a tall skinny young woman, easily six feet two, who wore a Knicks T-shirt, a Mets baseball cap backwards, and held eight leashes attached to an equal number of dogs

She was that peculiar creature of Manhattan's Upper East Side, a professional dog walker. Each of her dogs was of a different size, shape and breed. There was a wrinkled-faced boxer, a proud poodle, a high-strung Dalmation, and the star of the pack, an elegant Afghan, who, prancing, led the others, all panting and slobbering, forcing their walker to lean backwards as she pulled them to a halt in front of Darling's building.

She had stopped, it was clear, to pick up another animal. The doorman recognized her and retreated to the

by. She stood ramrod-straight as she waited, her wards settling down before her in various postures, some sprawling on the sidewalk, the boxer sniffing lasciviously at her crotch, the Dalmatian snapping viciously at the legs of an innocent passerby.

A few moments later the doorman emerged, holding a leash attached to a russet-coated English setter. The walker took the leash, joined it to her others, then flicked them together like a cat-o'-nine-tails.

Suddenly all the dogs stood, poised to proceed with their walk, and, at that same moment, through a welter of leashes and canine flesh, I spied the figure of Arnold Darling as he stepped out of the lobby into the brilliant morning light.

He was wearing a sober dark pin-striped suit and a shirt so white it glittered as he paused outside the door. He stared curiously at the dogs, muttered something to the doorman, then took off fast walking south.

By this time I'd twisted the telephoto off my camera, slapped on a wide-angle, and was making my way through the gridlocked traffic across to the other side of Fifth.

My plan was to get ahead of him, then turn and confront him before he reached the corner. I was just stepping between a stalled commuter bus and a Jaguar when the light changed and the traffic began to surge.