“That dude…” The cab driver pointed to a man standing on the island between the east and westbound lanes of traffic, “needs to get off his ass and get a job.”
Tate glanced at the man in question. He was probably in his mid-thirties, although it was hard to tell for certain because his long hair and scruffy beard hid most of his face. Strangely enough, there was something about him that seemed familiar. Probably because he looks like half the panhandlers hanging around the city, Tate decided.
“Jobs aren’t that easy to find these days,” Tate replied to the cabbie’s comment.
“For damned sure not when someone looks like him,” the driver muttered caustically.
As the cab moved past the man, Tate saw he was holding a sign of some sort, facing them. Taking a closer look, he read, ‘Hungry, homeless, please help’. For a second, Tate was tempted to tell the driver to slow down, so he could give the guy a couple of dollars. But he had more important things on his mind. Then, as he watched the guy fade into the distance in the side view mirror, he had a sudden thought. “Perhaps…”
When Tate didn’t finish, the cabbie asked, “Perhaps, what?”
“Nothing,” Tate told him. “I just had an idea about how to solve a problem that’s been…bothering me. But I’ll have to think about it before I decide to put it in motion.”
“Something to do with your job? Or why you were at the hospital when I picked you up?”
Tate refrained from rolling his eyes. How did I end up with Mr. Chatty Kathy, or—he glanced at the hack license—Chatty Carl?
“Yep,” he replied succinctly to the cabbie’s questions. “There. The house on the corner.”
The cab stopped in front, Tate paid, and got out. He strolled up the path along the side of the house, as if he was going to go in through the back door. As soon as the cab disappeared from view, he returned to the street, walked down to the far corner, and entered a tall highrise. Less than five minutes later, a non-descript car—one Tate didn’t own—left the building’s parking lot, with Tate at the wheel.
* * * *
“The eagle has landed,” Tate said, his phone gripped tightly in his hand as he paced the living room of an apartment across town from where the cab had dropped him off.
“Could you be any cornier?” Zavier, his handler at C21, asked.
“Probably, if I weren’t so…tired.”
“Our subjects have been dealt with successfully?”
“One of them. He’s out of the picture for good.”
“Tate…”
Tate could imagine his handler shaking his head. “Sorry, but it came down to him or me and I rather value my life, Zavier.”
“As do I,” Zavier replied. “I’d hate to lose a good operative. Is Gwen with you? I want to talk to her if she is.”
Tate took a deep breath. “No. We ran into a problem and…Fuck, Zavier.”
“What happened?” Even over the phone, Tate could feel Zavier’s panic.
“Apparently someone managed to figure out why we were there. Barone and Hicks were waiting for us when we got to the club parking lot last night. As I said, I was able to deal with Hicks, but Barone grabbed Gwen before she could fight back, shoved her in a car, and took off.”
“Goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch!”
“I’m sorry, Zavier. I did my best but I had my hands full. Hicks was out for blood.” Tate instinctively touched the thick bandages on his side.
“Why the hell did you wait until now to let me know?”
“I just got home from the hospital a few minutes ago. Don’t worry, I’m pretty much okay. As far as the cops are concerned, they believed me when I told them Hicks was trying to mug me and I managed to get his gun and use it on him. But not before he shot me. I avoided saying anything about Barone. I wanted you to know what happened first, but I didn’t think you’d want me calling on an unsecured phone, all things considered.”
“No, but…” There was a long pause. “Find her!” Zavier said angrily.
“I’m going to do my best.”
“Who do you need to help you? Give me names, and they’re yours.”
“No one—yet. Not until I figure something out.”
“She could be dead by then.”
“No. Barone has a thing for her. That’s how she got the job in the first place.”
Zavier sighed deeply. “Why the hell did I let her talk me into sending her with you?”
“Because she can be real convincing and she’s got the body of a stripper.”
“Like you’d notice that,” Zavier muttered.
