Page 67 of The Accomplice
As the man left the table, almost bowing to Peltier, Harry shook his head.
‘You can have my steak with that, if you like,’ I said. ‘I don’t have an appetite.’
‘When I was in Vietnam,’ said Harry, ‘in deep country, our platoon was ambushed by the VC. Two of my best friends died that day. My lieutenant, a twenty-year-old veteran, told us all to eat double rations that night. Eat while you can, he said. The body and the mind are linked. When that steak comes you better tuck in, Eddie. You’ll need it.’
While Harry spoke, I noticed Peltier’s hands adjusting his knife and fork, aligning them perfectly. Then he folded his arms. As if to resist the temptation to fiddle with the cutlery further.
‘Do you think she’ll really show up ?’ he asked.
Harry and I exchanged glances. I turned and looked over at the fish tank. I’d always found tropical fish soothing. It was something to do with the way they swam and the light dancing off their tiny, luminescent scales. I always wanted one as a kid, but all we could afford were a couple of goldfish in a bowl that never lived long. Even the names of these fish were exotic. This tank had graceful clownfish, who always looked like they were dancing as they swam ; blue angelfish with their feather-like fins ; a shoal of tiny neon tetras, which were just flashes of bright light that shimmered and danced in the water like green and red flames. There were others, but I’d forgotten what they were called.
The lamp gave Peltier a golden glow. Maybe it was his skin, I couldn’t tell. I got up from my seat, said, ‘I’ll go look out front.’
As I passed through the gloom of the Commodore, I took my time to examine the faces at the tables. The men wore suits, or at least jackets and ties. It was that kind of place. Business people wrapped in conversation, ladies with shopping bags from Maison Goyard and Alexander McQueen tucked by their feet, couples hunched over the table in whispered conversation, and two guys in dark suits leaning back in their chairs and studying the menu like it was written by James Joyce. The two suits were at a table by the window, with a view of the front door. Both cradled their heads with one hand, the other holding the large leather-bound menu awkwardly, as if it were about to tip over. They were covering their earpieces. Feds. They may as well have worn tee-shirts and baseball caps with the FBI logo.
I pushed through the front door onto the street. It was a cross street in the low thirties, just off Madison Avenue. A newsstand on the corner. I picked up a copy of theWall Street Journaloff the stack. As I leaned over, I saw a black van parked on the corner. There was a guy beside me in a beige mac with a copy ofTime Magazinein his hand. He flicked through it, but wasn’t really paying attention. I paid for the paper, turned and clocked another panel van across the street with a lone driver at the wheel.
There were two guys in high-vis yellow vests and hard hats drinking 7-Eleven coffee from Styrofoam cups and talking about the Yankees game. I’d never seen two construction workers with cleaner boots, pants and soft pink hands.
They stopped talking when the woman in the white pant suit got out of a cab. She had long neon-blonde hair. It was a wig, obviously. The suit looked like silk, and she wore it with four-inch heels and a purse that probably cost more than my car. A Covid facemask obscured her features, but I caught the whiff of expensive perfume as she entered the Commodore. Between the wig and the mask, it was difficult to get a good look at her. She appeared to be hiding her appearance.
I waited a beat.
Checked my watch.
Thirty seconds was my guess. They would wait until she got seated before they arrested her. Then Peltier, then Harry.
And then me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
EDDIE
The guy in the mac suddenly lost interest in the copy ofTime Magazine. He dropped it and moved quickly inside. At the same time, the construction workers dumped their coffees and followed the guy in the mac into the restaurant, pulling Glocks from the back of their pants as they went. The rear doors of the panel van across the street were thrown open and Bill Seong and DA Drew White leapt out along with two other feds.
I ducked inside the Commodore.
There was some commotion up ahead as the guys in the hard hats darted between tables.
The woman in the blonde wig and the mask was already at the back of the restaurant, oblivious to the scene behind her.
Otto stood up when he saw her approach.
She was one of those women who didn’t exactly walk. She glided. Her purse swung on her arm, the white jacket and pants bloomed and swayed with her movement.
She walked right past our table.
And walked around the fish tank.
I turned and saw Seong dart into the restaurant, followed by White. The DA wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to see Carrie Miller arrested along with her whole legal team.
‘Flynn, hold it. You’re under arrest. Harboring a bail jumper,’ said Seong.
I stood still, said, ‘I’m not harboring anyone. And I’m not meeting anyone. Go on back and see for yourself.’
People say a lot of shit before they get arrested. They threaten the cops, either physically or say that their lawyer will sue them, or sometimes it’s just abuse followed by a lot of resistance, trying to hit out and scramble away from the law. The feds and the cops have seen it all. Every arrest is different. And anything can happen.
But this was a new one on Bill.
