Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

He was driving up Central Park West moving toward 83rd. He was listening to club music on Sirius and jonesing for a taste of meth, which he’d sworn himself off, at least for tonight.

Need to be clear. Gotta be clear. Have to be clear. Can’t fuck this up.

Occasionally, as police cars from all over the city raced down the street with their sirens blaring and their lights flashing, he had to pull to the right to let them pass. But with so much chaos unfolding on the east side of the Park, he didn’t mind. It was the distraction he needed. Above the Park was a warm, flicking glow from all of those awful fires he’d seen on TV and the idea of them burning warmed him.

He clicked off the radio, turned left onto 83rd and slowly approached the new Bull Pen, which was housed in an elegant, unassuming pre-war building that looked exactly as it should look-like a residence.

If Carra had done her job correctly, the entire building would be sound-proofed, including the entrance. If music was playing anywhere inside, you’d never know it by opening the front door because barriers would be in place to keep the sound out.

You’d also never hear the music if you passed the building, or especially if you lived on either side of it. By all appearances, this was the quietest house on the block, which was remarkable given the sheer number of people who showed up late on those occasional Saturday nights when Carra opened.

As he drove past it, he looked around him on the sidewalks. It didn’t appear that anyone was waiting for him, but that didn’t mean they weren’t already here. He could imagine his little assassin minions tucked away in dark corners, watching him. He could feel their eyes on him as he reached the end of the street. He was anxious to meet them, but he was more anxious to either watch Carra get mutilated by the kindness of one of his strangers-or by someone she used to call her husband.

It should be me, he thought. I should be the one holding her down and gutting her. I should be the last person she sees. Let them take Ira.

And there it was. He’d made up his mind. That’s how it would be. It would be he.

He drove across Amsterdam, shot down 83rd and then turned left onto Broadway. He cruised to 81st Street and took another left. Even if there had been a place to park on 83rd, which there wasn’t, he at least wanted to be a block or two over and have the ability to run if he had to. And in spite of how Carra had cut his feet, Wolfhagen could run. He might be older now, but he was fast. If anyone came after him, he was fairly certain that even in this state, he could get to this car with enough distance between them and take off.

He rolled down the street, found a spot that would be too tight for most cars to squeeze into, but this car was tiny and it fit with some maneuvering. He lowered the vanity mirror and checked his crowded teeth. He cupped a hand over his mouth and checked his breath, which smelled of peppermint. He wouldn’t look directly at his face. This was as good as it got.

He stepped out of the car and started walking toward the Park, which was two blocks away. When he reached it, he turned left and was surprised by what he saw-crowds of people rushing toward him. When he drove by moments ago, none of this was happening. But word was out. New York was burning. As the avalanche of good will swarmed around him and occasionally threatened to topple him, he shouldered his way toward 83rd and couldn’t help being amused.

They were running toward the fires, thinking they could help. They ran past him with the same haunted faces they wore when the terrorists struck the Twin Towers. They actually thought they could do something. They actually wanted to risk their own lives in an effort to help. It was as incredible to him as it was foreign. If a gas main broke, which was possible given the level of destruction he’d seen, some of these people were rushing to their own deaths. It made no sense to him what they were doing. Why die to help a total stranger?

He moved left, as close as he could get to the buildings, and removed from his pants pocket the cell phone the hot goon had given him. He pressed his hand against the side of the light jacket he wore and felt the gun hidden there. In the air was the distinct smell of smoke. All around him, motion, reaction, propulsion. He tapped out a number and waited. Second ring. “Max?”

“You both there?”

“Just waiting on you.”

“Did you see me drive by a minute ago?”

“We saw you.”

“And not even a friendly wave. I’m on foot, about a block away. I’m assuming there’s no crowd or activity yet.”

“Nothing yet. But all the shades are drawn.”

“It’s too early,” he said. “They’re getting ready. They’re probably squeezing into their cute leather suits.”

“How is this going to work?”

“I’m taking Carra. You two take Lasker. This needs to be clean and quick so you can have the rest of the night to do your thing. Inside that door will be security. They’ll be armed. You stay behind me. Whoever is there will recognize me. They’ll be startled that I’m there, which is my moment to act. We’ll take him down and check the room for others. If they’re not right there, they will be lurking somewhere. Security is tight. Try to take them out quietly. It’s our best shot at finding Carra and Lasker, and finishing what we came for.”

He rounded the corner onto 83rd. “I’m here.”

He clicked off his cell, but saw no one. He moved down the sidewalk and listened as footsteps fell in line behind him. They were good. He stopped and turned to face them. The man came forward first, his hand held out.

“Spocatti,” he said, shaking Wolfhagen’s hand.

The woman came forward and did the same.

“Carmen,” she said. “It’s good to meet you.”

“You don’t look at all how I imagined,” he said. He nodded at Spocatti. “I thought you’d be taller, beefier, a real bruiser, but you’re none of those things.”

“I don’t need to be.”

“Well, great. I love confidence. And it’s nice to meet you, too. Are you ready for this?”

“We’re eager for this.”

“Then let’s do this. Just let the man see my face. He’ll be taken aback. That’s when we act. My gun doesn’t have a silencer.” He looked at Spocatti. “Does yours?”

“It does.”

“Let me borrow it.”

They traded guns and Wolfhagen turned. The building was soon upon them. They walked up the stairs and Wolfhagen moved his arm behind him, suggesting that they should step far to the right. Spocatti and Gragera did so, pressing themselves out of site.

Wolfhagen cocked the gun, knocked on the door and cupped his hands behind his back. A moment passed, then a huge man in a black suit opened the door slightly.

“Well, look who it is,” Wolfhagen said. “Bobby.”

The disbelief on the man’s face was unmistakable. Years ago, at the original Bull Penn, Wolfhagen had personally hired him. The door opened wider. Big Bobby peered out to look around, but Wolfhagen was enough to block his view of Spocatti and Gragera. “Mr. Wolfhagen?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see Carra and Ira, and not just because their names go so well together. Would you mind leading the way? They’ll see me.”

“I don’t think they will. Shit’s changed. You know that.”

He needed to get off the street before anyone saw them. “They’ll see me, Bobby.” In a flash, he drew his gun, pressed it against Bobby’s forehead and pulled the trigger. The back of the man’s head exploded, but the noise was muffled. Wolfhagen was stronger than he looked. He hooked his arm under the man’s armpit and helped him down while he started to bleed out.