Jack Higgins - Drink With The Devil

“No problem,” Mori told him. “I’ll make a few calls,” and he went out.

IT WAS ONLY one and a half hours later that he parked his limousine outside the small photo and print shop on a Bronx side street and entered. A black youth was attending a machine that churned out holiday snaps.

He paused and came to the counter. “Yes, sir?”

“Mr. Cassidy. Tell him he’s wanted.”

“He’s in the back, I’ll get him.”

“No need, kid, I’ll handle it myself.”

Mori went behind the counter and opened the door. Cassidy, a small balding man with wire spectacles, was working on what to Mori looked like a share certificate.

Mori said, “Up to your old tricks?”

Cassidy, who knew trouble when he saw it, stood up. “What is this?” he blustered.

“I represent the Russo family, and Don Antonio’s nephew and lawyer, Mr. Marco Sollazo, would appreciate your help in a small matter.”

Cassidy went very pale and removed his spectacles with a shaking hand. “Anything I can do.”

“I thought you’d feel like that. You do a nice line in false passports, and I take it you’re the careful kind of guy who keeps records. Am I right?”

Cassidy licked his lips nervously. “That’s right. Who are we talking about?”

“A guy you shared a cell with at Ossining, Liam Kelly. His niece came to see you some time ago.”

“Sure,” Cassidy said. “I’ve got all the details.”

“Then stick them in a file and let’s go. Mr. Sollazo doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“IRISH PASSPORTS YOU say?” Sollazo said to Cassidy, who stood before his desk.

“Sure, Mr. Sollazo, in the names of Daniel and Nancy Forbes. There was no problem getting a current photo of Kelly. They have one of those photo machines at the prison. They’re always needing pictures for various security tags the cons use up there.”

“When was this?”

“Eighteen months ago. They’re current passports of the European Community variety with brown covers. Kelly’s supposed to be an artist. I thought that was good because he paints in his cell.”

“And the girl?”

“Nurse, which is what she is.”

“I know,” Sollazo said. “And this was first-class work?”

“Oh, sure, entry and exit stamps for everywhere from Hong Kong to the U.K. I even gave them visas for Egypt. Good work, I swear on my life, Mr. Sollazo.”

“I’m sure you’re telling the truth.” Sollazo turned to Mori. “If he proves false, Giovanni, you have my permission to break both his legs and arms.”

“A pleasure.” Mori didn’t even smile.

Cassidy was sweating. “Please, Mr. Sollazo, I’m an honest guy.”

Sollazo burst out laughing. “Get out of here.”

Mori saw him through the door, then returned.

“Anything else, Signore?”

“Yes, I want you to go and see Salamone. It seems Ryan is being taken to Green Rapids General Hospital on Tuesday morning for a heart scan. Find out all you can, how the system works when they take one of the inmates for that kind of check.”

“Does the Signore mean what I think he means?”

“Perhaps. Afterwards, check out the hospital. I don’t need to tell you to be discreet. You always are.”

“Thank you, Signore,” Mori said, face impassive, and went out, and Sollazo went back to work.

SALAMONE WAS DESPERATELY afraid of Mori, but then most people were, for he was the Russo family’s most feared enforcer, so he received him with some trepidation. They walked over the grass toward the lake and Mori told him why he had come.

Salamone, eager to please, was more than helpful. “They use a special security ambulance to take guys down to the hospital. I’ve gone myself when they’ve had a stretcher case needing a nurse.”

“How many guards?”

“The driver and a guy riding shotgun beside him. Usually another two in the back with the cons. It depends how many, but I can tell you Tuesday morning is light, just Kelly or Ryan, or whatever they call him, and a guy called Bryant, who’s going to have a keyhole op on his prostate. I’ve seen the schedule.”

“Fine,” Mori said. “So where would they take Ryan?”

“Third floor. There’s a clinic there called General Heart Surgery.”

“So a guard takes him up there or two maybe?”

“Usually one. I mean, the guy has a heart condition. He’s handcuffed, of course.”

“At all times?”

“Not while he’s having treatment.”

“Good,” Mori said. “That’s all I need to know. You know the old saying from Sicily? ‘Keep the tongue in the mouth or it gets cut out.”’

“Jesus, Giovanni.” Paolo sounded shocked. “I mean, I love my Don.”

“Sure you do.” Mori patted his face and walked away.

THE HOSPITAL CAR park was full, but someone pulled out as Mori arrived, so Mori took the space which he noted was reserved for the Chief of Surgery. He went in through the main entrance. It was very modern, lots of tiling and high technology, staff everywhere, nurses in uniform, doctors in white coats, and many people who were presumably visitors.

He strode confidently through the concourse and took a lift to the fourth floor quite deliberately. The corridor he stepped out into was very quiet. A door opposite said Storeroom, then there was an elevator with very wide doors, obviously designed to carry stretchers and trolleys. Next to it a door said Staff Rest Room. Mori opened it without hesitation and went in.

There were washbasins and toilet cubicles and a row of pegs, some of them occupied by overalls and white coats, one of which had a plastic security card pinned to it in the name of a Doctor Lynn, Radiology. Mori put it on and went out.

He took the elevator down to the third floor, exited, and strolled confidently along, looking for the clinic Salamone had described, and there it was. General Heart Surgery. He opened the swing door and went in.

There were two or three patients on the benches, a young black nurse at reception. She looked up and smiled and Mori put his hands in his pockets so that the white coat parted just in case she knew the name on the identity card.

“Can I help you, Doctor?”

“I’m new, I’m afraid, Radiology. I’ve got to see a patient up here on Tuesday morning, an inmate from Green Rapids Detention Center. I was just checking. You know, getting my bearings. A heart patient.”

“Oh, sure, Mr. Kelly. He’s been here on several occasions. Yes, you’re in the right place. Clinic Three right down the hall, that’s where he’s treated.”

“Well, thank you,” Mori told her and went down the hall. He glanced through the round window in the door of Clinic Three, saw a patient on a trolley, a nurse bending over him.

He passed on to a door marked Fire Exit, opened it, and found himself in a quiet corridor. The doors opposite were marked Freight Elevator. He called it up and when it arrived, punched the basement button. When he stepped out, he found doors standing wide to an underground car park, walked through, and found himself in the car park where he had left his limousine. He stood there smiling, then went and opened the driver’s door, took off the white coat and threw it in the back, then he got behind the wheel.

WHEN KATHLEEN RYAN entered the Pharmacology Department of the hospital, the young doctor on duty was Indian, a Doctor Sieed. She wore a sari. She knew Kathleen and liked her.

“What can I do for you, nurse?”

“My uncle is an angina patient. I was just talking to him and he told me he was on new pills, something I’m not familiar with. Dazane.”

Doctor Sieed nodded. “A recent addition. It has an excellent record, but the dosage is critical. One, three times a day.”

“Yes, I noticed that.”