He came back to the closet with coffee in his hand and stood there with the door open, looking at what was on the rail. As a cop, he had always been a pants-and-jacket type of guy. Grey flannels, checked sportcoat. He had favoured tweed, although he wasn’t strictly Irish. In the summer, he had tried linen jackets, but they wrinkled too easily and he had settled on thin polyester blends. But none of those outfits was going to do on a day when he had to show up somewhere looking like David Forster, high-priced attorney. He was going to have to use his wedding suit.
It was a plain black Brooks Brothers, bought for family weddings and christenings and funerals. It was fifteen years old, and being Brooks Brothers didn’t look a whole lot different from contemporary items. It was a little loose on him, because losing his wife’s cooking had brought his weight down in a hurry. The pants were a little wide by East Village standards, but that was OK because he planned on wearing two ankle holsters. William Curry was a guy who believed in being prepared. David Forster had said probably won’t be anything involved at all, and if it worked out that way he would be happy enough, but a twenty-year man from the NYPD’s worst years tends to get cautious when he hears a promise like that. So he planned on using both ankle holsters and putting his big .357 in the small of his back.
He put the suit in a plastic cover he had picked up somewhere and added a white shirt and his quietest
tie. He threaded the .357 holster on to a black leather belt and put it in a bag with the two ankle holsters. He put three handguns in his briefcase, the .357 long-barrelled Magnum and two .38 snub-nosed Smith and Wessons for the ankles. He sorted twelve rounds for each gun into a box and packed it beside the guns. He stuffed a black sock into each of his black shoes and stowed them with the holsters. He figured he would get changed after an early lunch. No point in wearing the stuff all morning and showing up looking like a limp rag.
He locked up the apartment and walked south to his office on Fletcher, carrying his luggage, stopping only to get a muffin: banana and walnut, reduced fat.
Marilyn Stone woke up at seven o’clock. She was bleary-eyed and tired. They had been kept out of the bathroom until well after midnight. It had to be cleaned. The thickset guy in the dark suit did it. He came out in a bad temper and made them wait until the floor dried. They sat in the dark and the silence, numb and cold and hungry, too sickened to think about asking for something to eat. Tony made Marilyn plump up the sofa pillows. She guessed he planned to sleep there. Bending over in her short dress and preparing his bed was a humiliation. She patted the pillows into place while he smiled at her.
The bathroom was cold. It was damp everywhere and smelled of disinfectant. The towels had been folded and stacked next to the sink. She put them in two piles on the floor and she and Chester curled up on them without a word. Beyond the door, the office was silent. She didn’t expect to sleep. But she must
have, because she awoke with a clear sense of a new day beginning.
There were sounds in the office. She had rinsed her face and was standing upright when the thickset guy brought coffee. She took her mug without a word and he left Chester’s on the ledge under the mirror. Chester was still on the floor, not asleep, just lying there inert. The guy stepped right over him on his way out.
‘Nearly over,’ she said.
‘Just starting, you mean,’ Chester said back. ‘Where do we go next? Where do we go tonight?’
She was going to say home, thank God, but then she remembered he’d already realized that after about two-thirty they would have no home.
‘A hotel, I guess,’ she said.