Carla Neggers - Cut and Run

“Stay on it, see if anything comes up,” Stark said, and before hanging up, he gave Ziegler the number on the telephone next to the goldfish tank. Given the general disarray of the rest of the place, it was cleaner than he’d have expected, but he had to admit to a certain satisfaction that beautiful, talented, wealthy Juliana Fall didn’t worry about maintaining the standard Central Park West opulence.

“Did he have anything?” Wilhelmina asked, her frustration with her own inactivity mounting.

“No.”

“Bah. I hate waiting.”

“Ready to knock heads together, are you?” Matthew grinned. “We could have used you in ’Nam.”

“A terrible war,” she said.

“Name me one that wasn’t.”

She pursed her thin lips thoughtfully. “A good point. Where are you going?”

He was zipping up his coat. “See if I can find some heads to knock together. Sit tight, Aunt Willie. I won’t be long.”

Catharina pulled out a length of delft-blue ribbon; it was real ribbon, not paper. The Minstrel. Of course. She wasn’t surprised-or, after forty years, frightened. She’d known someone would come, not this man, perhaps, but someone.

“And why do you want the Minstrel?” she asked, nominally curious.

“I don’t like to waste time, Mrs. Fall. The stone, please.”

“As you wish.”

With a few deft movements, she tied the ribbon around the box, which she tucked under her arm, nodding toward the kitchen. They would use the rear exit-less likely to run into any well-intentioned rescuers that way. This, Catharina thought, was what she had to do-and it was going to be easier than she’d envisioned. She hated only to worry Adrian, to sadden him…

No, she wouldn’t think of those things now.

“Come with me,” she said, hearing the resolve in her own voice.

The two men followed her into the kitchen as her mind raced. Where should she take them? Johannes had led his merry chase to Amsterdam. She considered Rotterdam, the Hague-no, she thought. Switzerland. She would tell them the Minstrel was in a safe-deposit box in a Swiss bank. Her husband being a banker and herself a member, if a somewhat eccentric one, of the Park Avenue elite, she could name several. She would pick one, and they would go.

In the front of the shop, the doorbell tinkled again, and Catharina held her breath.

“Mother?”

No! “Juliana-no, get out! Quickly!”

But Bloch was already swinging back around toward the kitchen.

Muttering in Dutch, Catharina grabbed a knife and sent it slicing toward the big gray-haired man. He dodged, swearing, as the knife stuck in the doorframe inches to his left. The younger man lunged toward her. Catharina began pulling pots and baking pans off their hooks and throwing them in their path.

“Juliana,” she screamed, “run! I don’t need you!”

Catharina kicked a stack of baking trays onto the floor, blocking the younger man’s path, and snatched up another knife, an eight-inch Sabatier. She flung it at the sergeant, who was circling around the cooking island toward her. The blade nicked his wrist as he put up a hand to keep the knife from striking his neck. Catharina felt herself going wild, as her wispy white-blond hair hung in her face. She’d never before felt as if she could kill someone.

“Feisty, aren’t we?” Bloch said, grinning as he carelessly shook a spurt of blood from his hand.

“If you touch my daughter, Phillip Bloch,” Catharina yelled hoarsely, “I’ll kill you. Nothing will stop me!”

“Get the girl,” Bloch said calmly to the younger man. “I’ll take care of this one.”

Juliana appeared in the doorway, her face pallid with fury and terror as she held a wooden shoe above her head as a weapon. Catharina felt a surge of pride at her daughter’s courage, but also a sinking sense of despair.

Doing as he was told, the younger man kicked his way over the baking pans, pulling out a gun in a holster over his kidney. Juliana wasted no time. As he swung toward her, she lunged at him and smashed the wooden shoe down on the side of his neck, clearly not expecting to have a second chance. The impact of the shoe on flesh and bone made a sickening sound. The man sank to his knees. His gun flew out of his hand and skidded across the floor.

Catharina was sobbing, adrenaline pumping painfully through her. “Good for you, Juliana! Now for God’s sake, run! ”

But the blow had only stunned the younger man, and he recovered enough to whip around and grab Juliana by the knee, toppling her over. Her head struck the doorframe, and she landed awkwardly, in a sprawling heap. Catharina saw that her daughter had instinctively protected her hands.

“Juliana!”

Catharina reached for another knife, but Bloch bounded over to her and smashed it from her hand, ignoring his flesh wound. He grabbed the baker’s wrist and twisted it behind her, and she cried out in agony as she heard the snap of her own bone.

“You sonofabitch,” Juliana yelled, trying to pull herself up.

“Don’t move or I’ll snap another bone,” Bloch said.

Through her blinding pain, Catharina saw the young henchman strike her daughter across the side of the head, knocking her back to the cool tile floor. Catharina began praying in Dutch for strength and forgiveness. Her helplessness was the worst pain she had ever experienced.

“I should learn not to underestimate you Peperkamps,” Bloch said. He was breathing hard and bleeding significantly, and he coughed and snorted, catching his breath. “God damn women. Still, ain’t this convenient? We got us two little birdies with one stone, don’t we? Pick up the girl, Peters. We’ll go out the back.”

Juliana’s Burberry man had moved across the street to Central Park, where it was dark and getting very cold. Matthew trotted across the street and before the guy could do anything had him pinned against the tree, with a forearm pressed against his throat. “What’s your name?” Stark asked.

“Paul-”

“Hello, Paul. I’m Matthew Stark.”

“Jesus Christ.” The bland eyes widened. “Steelman? Weasel’s told me about you-shit. Look, I’m just following orders.”

“Bloch’s.”

It wasn’t a question. Paul tried to nod but couldn’t. “Hey, look, he’s okay. Just trying to get it together to go after some commies, that kind of thing, no big deal.”

“Then what’s he doing have piano players and old women followed around?”

“He’s just looking after his own interests. I got orders not to hurt nobody.”

“You haven’t got the talent to hurt anybody,” Stark said mildly. “Those women have been running circle around you. What about me? Got any orders?”

Paula licked his fleshy lips. “Truth is, I can do anything to you. I mean, Bloch don’t care what happens to you. But Weaze says you’re okay.”

“Tell me about Weasel.”

“I ain’t seen him in a while, I been up here.”

“Where’d you see him last?”

“I can’t… ”

“Where?”

Stark didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Weaze had been telling stories about Steelman, some of them probably even true. “Florida. Ryder’s place on the Dead Lakes. Bloch knows I told you, I’m dead.”

“Is he there now?”

Paul didn’t say anything. Matthew repeated the question. Paul licked his lips some more; they were purple in the cold. He looked like the kind of guy who considered standing in the cold watching a ritzy apartment building on Central Park West hazardous duty. “No.” It came out as a whisper. “He ain’t there.”

Matthew waited.

“Man, I can’t-”

“You’d better. I can think of lots of things I could do with you if you don’t.”