Doing Hard Time (25 page)

Teddy walked over there and found the pilot at his desk, updating a maintenance manual.

“I’m Billy Barnett,” Teddy said, offering his hand.

“I’m Tim Peters,” the man said. “What can I do for you?”

“I heard a rumor that Mr. Livingston might want to sell his hangar.”

“Well,” Peters said, “he’s already sold the Pitt Special and the Caravan. Only the Citationjet Four is left, and he wants to move it to Burbank and rent hangar space there.”

“What do you think he would take for the hangar?” Teddy asked.

The man named a very high figure.

“Are you his only pilot?”

“Yes, it’s a single-pilot airplane. I’m an airframe and powerplant mechanic, and I’m type-rated in all the smaller Citations, and I’m a certified instrument flight instructor.”

“Will you go to Burbank with the airplane?”

Peters looked uncomfortable. “I haven’t had any assurances about that. Livingston is type-rated as single-pilot in the airplane, so he doesn’t necessarily need me.”

“And what do you think Livingston would take for the hangar, if the deal included keeping you on here?”

“Come to think of it,” the man said, “I think he might take a percentage less, probably a lot less.”

“That sounds interesting,” Teddy said.

“There’s an apartment upstairs, too, but I don’t use it—I’ve got a place nearby. Let me show it to you.”

Teddy liked what he saw. “I’ll get back to you in a day or two,” he said.

The man handed him two cards. “That’s my card, and the other is for Livingston’s lawyer. Make your offer to him, and a word of advice: bargain hard. Livingston has had some cash flow problems, and he wants out bad.”

Teddy shook his hand and left.

• • •

Pete Genaro moved into the CEO’s office immediately, and after he was completely settled in he went to FlightAware.com and entered the tail number of Majorov’s Gulfstream. The airplane was over New York State and headed southeast, originally filed for Reykjavik, but diverted to Teterboro.

There was a knock on his door, and he waved in Harry Katz.

“Nice new digs, Pete,” Harry said, taking the offered chair.

“Thanks, Harry, and thanks for your good work the past few days. I’m sorry it was for naught.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get my bill.” Harry handed him a slip of paper. “That’s their address in Santa Monica, should you need it.”

Pete slipped the address into a desk drawer. “Majorov is out of my hair,” he said. “I’ve bought him out, and the board has elected me CEO.”

“Congratulations, Pete. Anything else I can do for you?”

Pete leaned back in his chair. “Harry, we’ve never talked about this, but are you available for wet work?”

“How wet are we talking, Pete?”

“Soaking wet.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I would like for Majorov not to return to Vegas—in fact, I’d like him not to return to anywhere.”

“I’m not opposed to that degree of wetness in general,” Harry said, “but you’re talking about a Russian Mafia guy with personal security.”

“I understand that such an undertaking would be expensive. I was thinking twenty-five grand.”

“Do you know the whereabouts of said fellow?”

“His jet is about to land at Teterboro.”

“Do you know where he stays when he’s in New York?”

“At one of his company’s properties, the Excelsior—in the penthouse.”

“If I recall, there’s a taller building directly across the street.”

“I believe that is so.”

“If a person could gain access to the roof, then the deed could be done, but I’d need fifty grand.”

“Forty grand, and you pay your own expenses.”

“I’ll need to make a couple of phone calls,” Harry said. “Can I get back to you?”

“Use my old office,” Pete said, “but not my telephone. Use your own.”

“Give me an hour,” Harry said.

“I don’t know how long he’ll be in New York,” Pete said.

“I understand. Do you have a photograph of the gentleman?”

Pete turned to his computer. “I believe we took one when he joined the board several months ago.” He scanned for the shot. “Here we go.” He printed out the photo and handed it to Harry.

“That will do nicely,” Harry said. He got up and went down the hall to Pete’s old office. He photographed the photograph of Majorov with his cell phone, then he used a throwaway cell phone to call a number in New York’s Little Italy.

“Who are you calling?” a man’s voice answered.

“I’m calling the person I’m speaking to. You know who this is?”

“Right.”

“I’m in need of some extermination work,” Harry said.

“What kind of pest are we talking about?”

“A large rat—you don’t need a name.”

“Tell me what I need.”

“The infestation is in the penthouse of the Excelsior Hotel. You know it?”

“How about access?”

“From the roof of the taller building across the street. It’s well within spraying distance of standard equipment.”

“What sort of markings does the rat have?”

“Give me an e-mail address, and I’ll send you a photo.”

The man gave him an address, and Harry e-mailed the picture.

“Nice one,” the man said.

“You’ll know him when you see him.”

“When is that?”

“He should be there in a couple of hours.”

“Write down this number and wire twenty large.”

“No success, I’ll need a full refund.”

“You got it.”

“Give me an hour, then check and call me back.” He gave the man the number. He hung up and went back to Genaro’s office.

“It can be done tonight,” he said. “I’ll need twenty grand wired to this offshore account number right away and the other twenty in cash.”

Genaro took the account number. “You’ll be responsible?”

“I’ll return the money if it doesn’t happen.”

Genaro nodded. “Go.”

Jolly Tonio got the call and agreed to ten thousand for the job.

“It’s gotta be tonight,” his client said. “There’ll be a photo in your mailbox in five minutes.” He recited the address and details of the building. “The custodian will spend the evening in a bar down the street. A key to the building will be taped to the photo.”

Jolly noted everything, then opened the case that held the custom-made sniper’s rifle that he relied on for such work. He checked the weapon’s action and the number of rounds in the magazine, then closed the case and went to a closet, where he selected his wardrobe: a gray business suit, white shirt, dark tie, and a black fedora, then a reversible raincoat—tan on the outside, black on the inside. He tucked a folding stool into an inside pocket of the raincoat, then folded the soft fedora and stuck it in the inside pocket. Finally, he went into his bathroom and selected a dark, bushy mustache from an assortment, tucked it into a little box with some adhesive, and selected a pair of black eyeglasses with nonprescription lenses.

He put on the raincoat, black side out, locked his apartment, then opened the mailbox and removed a blank envelope. On the cab ride to a corner a block short of his destination, he checked the photo and slipped the building key into a pocket, then, using his reflection in a window, he glued the mustache in place and put on the fedora and the black glasses.

As he walked to the building he presented a dark figure—dark everything—and older. He stopped in front of the building. The lobby was lit only by a single fixture, and his key worked. He checked a back exit and found that it opened into a walkway to the street behind the building. Ideal. He unfolded his stool, stood on it, and unscrewed the bulb in the fixture; he wore driving gloves so there would be no prints.

Jolly took the elevator to the top floor, then blocked the door open with a trash can from the hallway; he walked up a flight and, using his key, let himself onto the roof. He walked to the parapet and looked down one floor and across the street at the Excelsior Hotel. The penthouse was, literally, a house set down on top of the building, surrounded by a planted deck. The living room lights were on, and a bedroom was lit by a single bedside lamp. Two people were standing at a bar in the living room having a drink. The man was the man in the photograph; the woman was wearing a tight black dress, low-cut.

Jolly unfolded his stool and sat down on it, the case in his lap. He opened it and assembled the weapon, bolted on the scope, then laid it carefully on the parapet. He used a pocket range-finder to get the correct distance, then sighted in the weapon and adjusted the sight for the range. Finally, he shoved in a magazine of six rounds and laid the rifle on the parapet again.

Jolly took an iPhone from his pocket, switched it on, and plugged an earpiece into his ear, then selected an album of Chopin waltzes and settled in for the duration. He was a calm person who could sit for hours, unmoving, as long as he had music to listen to.

Most of an hour passed while the two people chatted and drank, then they moved into the bedroom and began to undress. The process was businesslike; the woman was a hooker. That meant she wouldn’t stay long after her work was done; the man would then be alone, and there would be no one to call the police until the following morning, when the maid found him.

The two people had sex by the light from the living room and the single lamp by the bed. They were done in twenty minutes.

Jolly rechecked everything as the woman got dressed, collected her money from the dresser top, and left. The man went, naked, into the bathroom, and the light came on. Jolly decided to take him as he came out of the bathroom. He would be a better target standing than in the bed. The rifle was semiautomatic; he would fire three times rapidly: the first to shatter the glass of the sliding door, the second at the man’s chest, the third to the head. Jolly liked head shots; they were final. He took careful aim through the scope at the empty space outside the bathroom.

The man stepped out of the bathroom, and Jolly fired the first round through the thick glass. It shattered. A second later, as he was squeezing off the second round, the man dived back into the bathroom.
Shit!

The bathroom light went off. Jolly waited for a moment, but it was clear the man wasn’t coming out, not until he had summoned the police or hotel security from the bathroom phone.

Jolly quickly picked up the ejected shells, dismantled the rifle, and packed it into the case. As he stood to leave he heard a police car in the distance, then saw it come around the corner and head for the hotel. He walked quickly to the door, let himself into the building with his key, and removed the trash can blocking the elevator door. As the car moved down he used a corner of the rifle case to break the light fixture over his head, so that when the door opened, light would not pour into the dark hallway downstairs.

Once down, he let himself out of the building through the rear exit, set down his case, folded the fedora and put it into a pocket, then took off the raincoat and reversed it, so that it was tan on the outside. He removed the mustache and the glasses and put them into his pocket, then he walked to the street behind the building, then another two blocks before hailing a cab.

Once headed downtown, he made a quick phone call.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me. Negative result—couldn’t be helped.”

The man at the other end hung up, and so did Jolly. He wouldn’t get paid for tonight, but there would be other nights.

• • •

Harry Katz got a cell phone call a few minutes later.

“Hello?”

“The operation failed—the patient survived. A wire is on its way back to you.”

“What happened?”

“It couldn’t be helped.” The man hung up.

“Damn it,” Harry muttered to himself. Tomorrow morning, he’d have to refund Genaro’s money.