Chris Mooney - World Without End

"Pretty wild. What are they saying on the news?"

"You didn't catch it?"

"I was out most of the day."

"Yeah, that beauty parlor stuff takes up a lot of time." Booker grinned, his eyes moving away from the paper to Conway's new haircut and his unshaven face.

"You starting to get that city look. Going out and hitting the clubs.

You planning on sticking around?"

"I figured I'd go with you to work today, see I can figure out where you landed the gelt for such a place like this."

"Only way a brother can do it: hard work."

Camille walked out from behind the island counter and moved into the kitchen carrying two plates stacked with omelets and wheat toast. She was tall for a woman, almost five-ten, her body long and slender under the jeans and red cardigan sweater. Her hair was tied up in a bun, her face free of makeup and still radiating that tough but youthful look of the nineteen-year-old business major from UNH who had fought her way through college and life with a blend of natural intelligence and street smarts. Camille was gentle and loved to laugh, but she also was outspoken and rarely held her feelings back; you always knew where you stood with her at any given moment. Conway had known her since college and knew that right now she was biting down hard on a subject matter that had, for the time being, divided the air between her and her husband.

Conway hated the uneasy silence; it reminded him of foster homes. The eternal stranger with the unknown history, the one always stared at and studied like a zoo specimen. When Camille placed the plate of food in front of him, he said, "Thanks again for letting me stay with you, Camille."

"You're welcome, Steve." But the words were forced and so was the smile. She placed a steaming plate of food down in front of Booker, her body rigid, and walked back into the kitchen where she picked up the orange halves and started making freshly squeezed juice.

"This is quite the pad," Conway said, wanting to take off the edge.

"When am I going to see this place on Cribs'?"

"On what?" Booker said.

"MTV Cribs." Conway looked at the massive living room with its big-screen TV Color security cameras were mounted above the screen.

"That where you and the soldiers kick back and watch Scarface?"

"I get it. Us black folks get our homes featured on MTV Cribs while the old and crusted cracker types get Architectural Digest."

"You tell Steve about the phone call?" Camille asked.

Book didn't look at her.

"I was getting to it," he said.

"A woman called for you yesterday. She asked if you were staying here, Camille said yes, and then the woman said she would call back and hung up."

"She didn't leave a phone number?"

"She said you would know how to get in contact with her. Said she had some good news for you."

Conway nodded and ate a piece of toast. Had to be Pasha. He glanced at his gym bag in the living room. The mikes in his watch, Palm, and cell phone were stuffed deep in his bag, so Cole and Raymond couldn't listen to this conversation.

"Who's the girl?" Booker asked, his eyes even.

"Must be someone from work checking in on me. I left this number."

"And here I was, hoping you had a steady. How long you out here for?"

"A couple of weeks. More if I need it. You got time to show me around the company this morning?"

"Only if you're serious about keeping your ass here."

"It's a possibility," Conway said.

"Book's been asking you for years to come work for him," Camille said.

She had stopped squeezing the oranges. The red-colored fingernails of her right hand danced across the lever of the juicer.

"Why the sudden interest now?" she asked.

"Life is short," Conway said.

"I'd like to explore my options."

"You're right, Steve. Life is very short. It's a very precious thing that should never be taken for granted," Camille said, her eyes locked on her husband the entire time.

Booker's company was located on the twenty-first floor of 100 Summer Street in Downtown Crossing less than a fifteen-minute walk from his Beacon Hill condo. Conway followed Book through the narrow maze of one-way streets shaded by the tall, red brick-faced apartments, condos, and townhouses. The first snowstorm of the season had left a little over two inches of snow. Thirtysomethings were out walking their dogs or strolling their kids bundled in coats and hats and mittens; others were brushing off their cars or on their way to work, well-dressed city professionals in a race to get downtown, everyone's face red, their breaths puffing in the cold, sharp morning air.

Book lumbered with his hands in his pockets and chewed his gum with methodical care. He said nothing, his eyes covered behind his black-lens sunglasses. They crossed the street and walked down the steps, and entered Boston Common. The wind picked up again and rattled the branches of the balding trees.

"Late yesterday afternoon, Camille took Troy and Trey to the Public Garden and her cell phone rang," Booker said. They were walking through the park now, heading toward Tremont.

"Some dude gets on and says, "I've got Troy locked in my crosshairs right now. You tell Conway to deliver the decryption code by tomorrow or I'll blow one through the head of your little boy." "Those were the exact words?" Conway asked. He felt pins and needles dance across his scalp and race down his spine. He looked around. No people close by.

"I asked Camille for the exact words. That's what she told me."

Angel Eyes wouldn't speak like that. The words didn't match the polished man Conway had talked with on the phone last night.

It's got to be Cole.

A moment later, they crossed the always busy Tremont Street and walked down Winter Street, a small, red-brick-lined alley that led straight into the heart of Downtown Crossing. Set up on the corner of Filene's department store was a grocer with a green apron selling fresh fruits and vegetables and fresh-cut flowers out of pots. Crowds of people poured out of the T's orange line stop and marched down Summer Street's cobblestone walk toward work.

Any one of these people could be part of Angel Eyes's group or Cole's.

Conway had left his stuff in Booker's condo, but that didn't mean someone close by couldn't pick up on his conversation.

Booker's in danger. You 've got to tell him the truth.

But not here. Cole's men could be lurking close with surveillance gear. It was easy to do.

A Starbucks was on his right. Conway had an idea.

"Let's grab some coffee," Conway said.

"I got coffee at the office."

"But not those fancy croissants you love." Conway opened the door and with a jerk of his head motioned for Booker to join him.

The walls of the Starbucks coffeehouse were painted in shades of yellow and gold; the place buzzed with activity and energized jazz music, the warm, rich air packed with the soothing aroma of fresh coffee and perfume from the well-dressed, good-looking women who crowded the counters as they waited for their venti-size lattes and cappuccinos. A few minutes passed, and a tired kid with blond hair and a pierced nose yelled out, "Next."

Conway ordered a large coffee and two croissants and handed the kid his Visa card. When the kid handed Conway the receipt to sign, Conway signed one copy and on the back of the other wrote a note: We're being followed and watched. Will explain everything but need a room where we can talk without fear of electromagnetic eavesdropping.

Conway held out the receipt so Booker could read the writing and said,

"Hold this for me, will you? I've got my hands full."

Conway grabbed the plastic bag and his coffee and headed out the door.

Booker's office was long and wide and had the mark of a professional interior decorator. A mahogany bookcase lined the far east wall, the shelves filled with framed pictures of Booker with his family and friends and various A-list actors and several high-profile Boston politicians. No overhead lights, just desk lamps that, along with Miles Davis playing low over the ceiling-mounted speakers, gave the room a warm, inviting feel.