Don Winslow: A Cool Breeze on the Underground

“Well then, gentlemen,” said Hatcher, “the only thing to do then is to get his nuts under the boot… and step on them.”

He had said goodbye to Hardin at the door and thanked him.

Hardin shook his hand and said, “You brought some excitement to the dog and me. We don’t much care for excitement.”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing you or the lady again.” “I don’t suppose you will.”

“I’m glad I had the gun loaded for crow, young man.” “So am I.”

Hardin fumbled for a minute, then said, “That’s a good young lady.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Hope you get her back safe.”

“I will.”

It was nine in the morning before Neal had laid down to try to sleep. Tired as he was, he couldn’t drop off. He was thinking about Allie. The same thing happened this afternoon as he tried to rest. There was too much going on. Ferguson had made a few phone calls to the right people and arranged for twenty thousand pounds in cash. A very nervous young accountant arrived with the briefcase a couple of hours later.

“Rather irregular, this,” he observed to Ferguson.

Colin stared longingly at the stacks of bills.

“It’s a great shame, Neal,” he moaned. “A bloody great shame.”

“Get moving,” Neal answered, “before I change my mind.”

“Right, rugger.”

Colin had left, followed at some distance by Hatcher. An hour later, the call came through.

“Hello, Neal,” Colin said. “Four o’clock, Piccadilly Circus. They’ll bring her. They’re expecting me, though.”

“Colin! How is she?”

There was a long silence. “Well, sport, you know junkies.”

Dickie didn’t believe it, but there it was, twenty thousand pounds, neatly laid out in a briefcase, Colin’s insipid face grinning at him behind it.

“I hope this is good stuff you’re selling me, Dickie.”

“Don’t push your luck, Colin.”

“Right you are.”

The waiter brought over two small glasses of fiery Chinese wine. “All good deals begin with a toast,” Dickie said. “Here’s to our new relationship. Gan bei, bottoms up.”

“Bottoms up,” he said. “Let’s go fetch my smack.” Bottoms up, indeed, where you’re headed, you fat fart.

Vanessa had a bit of trouble getting Allie out of bed, and she finally had to hold out the promise of a fix if she’d be a big girl and come along. They walked down into the tube station and got her on the train with no more difficulty. They emerged at the Piccadilly station with Allie gentle as a lamb.

“She’s a walking zombie,” Crisp noted.

“That’s Colin’s problem,” Vanessa said. She hoped there’d be no trouble getting their share of the money from Colin. She wanted to get Crisp well away from him.

The Dilly was crowded and noisy. Sirens blasted the afternoon air, and it seemed like every cop in London was pouring down into Soho. It made Vanessa edgy, anxious to find Colin, shake him, and quit this scene.

Except Colin wasn’t there. Neal was.

The Circus was crowded with tourists and zoned-out kids. They didn’t stand out or draw any attention.

“Where’s Colin?” Vanessa asked. Crisp stood behind her. He didn’t trust Neal a bit.

Neal made a point of listening to the sirens, figuring that Colin, with his twenty grand of Kitteredge money in nicely marked bills, must have made out all right. “In jail, probably.”

Vanessa just nodded. Losing had become a way of life.

Allie stared at Neal. This dream was one of the best she’d had, and she was running on low. “Neal?” she asked. “That you?”

“In the flesh.”

She took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes, real close. “Neal, I’m very glad to see you but I’m very fucked up.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s like we’re floating around the city, you know… all over… everything is going whoosh, whoosh like? Are you fucked up, too?”

“I think so.”

She hugged him tight. “Oh good. Didn’t want to be the only one. Didn’t want to be alone. You don’t think I remember stuff, but I remember. They sent you to get me. Good old Mom and Pop did, that’s what you said. You gonna make me go home now? To good old Mom and Pop? You’re not, huh, Neal?”

“I’m not.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Good, good good.” Her face turned serious. “Can we go now?”

“Right now.”

“Love you, Neal.”

“Love you, Allie.”

Neal started walking her to Oxford Street to hail a taxi. He wanted Ferguson to see her as soon as possible. He hadn’t gone a block before he made them. Footsteps behind him-two pairs… not pros. He picked up the pace and listened. They were coming faster, Could he afford to pause, even if there was a cab handy? Would it be a knife, a sap, or another gun, maybe? The thought of the gun got to him and he fought off the fear. He slowed down a little but tightened his grasp around Allie’s waist. The steps pulled closer, then alongside: Crisp on one side, Vanessa on the other.

Neal kept moving as they talked. “You want something?”

“We’re in a bit of trouble,” Vanessa said.

“I’m not in the mood.”

Crisp grabbed him by the elbow. “Listen, mate-”

Neal straightened his elbow and grabbed Crisp by his belt. He lifted his arm as he moved. The motion hurt like crazy but it kept Crisp off balance and vulnerable. “I’m not your mate and if you give me any shit-any shit at all-I’ll kill you right here.”

Neal didn’t think he would or could kill Crisp, but it sounded good.

“As I was saying. We’re in a bit of trouble. What with Colin in the lockup and all.”

“Your friends are your problem, not mine.”

Vanessa was half-running to keep up with him. “That’s not really true, you know.”

She shoved something into his stomach. It was a magazine. “Have a look at this.”

It was a Newsweek, opened to a page. On the page were the smiling faces of John Chase, wife Liz, and daughter Allie.

Neal tried to bluff. “So?”

Vanessa was much tougher, much smarter, than he ever gave her credit for. “Come off it,” she said.

Neal dropped his head. He was so damn tired. He looked up again.

“What do you want?”

“Out of here.”

He thought about it for a few seconds. It was doable. “And then how do I know I can trust you?”

“You’re a fine one to be talking about trust.”

True enough.

“Okay, I’ll think about it. Go back to the old flat. I’ll ring you tonight.”

She let go of his arm. “Midnight, Neal. Or I see if Newsweek wants to print my pictures of Allie.”

Crisp tossed him a decent imitation of a confident smirk and the pair walked away. Neal flagged a taxi and gave the driver Ferguson’s address.

“Where we going?” Allie asked.

“Someplace to get some sleep.”

She narrowed her eyes like a bad actress doing suspicion. “You’re not taking me home, Neal.”

“No.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Assured of that much, she fell asleep in the cab and was no problem putting to bed.

Lombardi handed ed Levine the phone.

“It’s for you.”

Ed was grateful for a break from the sullen atmosphere of the hotel room, where John Chase sat in a near-catatonic state of anger.

“Levine,” he said into the phone. He had made a habit of answering phones this way. It was professional, efficient, cool.

“So, Ed,” said the mocking voice on the phone, “where do you want her? Providence… New York… Newport?”

“Carey, you son of a bitch bastard. Where are you?”

“I’m with Allie Chase.”

“You got her.”