The October List Part 6

Using a knife never was.

The problem was you generally couldn't stab somebody to death. You had to slash, go for the neck, the legs the femoral arteries. The groin was good too. But stabbing? It took forever.

And add to the mix: If the person you were fighting was good at defense, as the victim that morning had been, you had to stay alert, you had to move, you had to be fast and you had to improvise; in knife fighting, advantages changed in seconds.

Solid okay, pudgy Frank pulled his Greek fisherman cap off and scratched his unruly red hair and the scalp beneath as he stood at the open cupboard door. With his left hand he absently pinched a roll of fat around his belly. He decided against the potato chips.

He continued to debate the food options. But was distracted.

Gabby was on his mind. As often she was.

Then his mind, his clever mind, slipped back to the fight that morning. Recalling the animal l.u.s.t, the pure satisfaction born somewhere, a shrink would probably say, out of revenge for the bullying he'd suffered as a teenager. He felt pride too at his skill with the blade.

He wished he could tell Gabby about the confrontation, though some things he knew it was best to keep from her. Felt a deep ping in his belly as he pictured her and thought of the present he'd just received. He wondered what she was wearing at the moment.

Then he turned his attention back to mealtime. His kitchen was a central hub of the apartment. The cabinets were white and the handles had actual release levers, as if the room were a galley on a ship that regularly sailed through gales. If the doors weren't secured, Doritos, Tuna Helper and macaroni and cheese would fly to the floor in the swells.

Chips? No chips?

No chips, he decided. And continued to stare.

He took a breath and sensed something smelled off. Not spoiled food. What? He looked around. Noted the old scabby table, plumbed steady with folded Post-it notes under one leg. His hat sat on it. Was the hat gamy? He smelled it. Yep, that was it.

Did Greek fishermen really wear Greek fisherman hats? he wondered.

He'd have to wash it, he guessed. But would that take the good luck away? He'd worn it during the fight that morning. He slipped it into a Baggie until he decided.

Back to the t.i.tanic cabinets and the fridge. No chips, but not doing the celery thing. Celery is evil.

An apple.

Frank snagged a shiny red McIntosh, huge, and a bag of Ruffles and loped back to his cluttered desk, snug in the corner of his bedroom. Just as he sat in the plush chair, he thought: h.e.l.l. Forgot the beverage. The. Beverage. He returned to the kitchen and got a Diet c.o.ke from the chair beside the table, filled with magazines and books, piled high.

He glanced at the present Gabby had sent him. His heart stuttered. Man, he was in heaven.

Gabby ...

How much have we lost? he wondered. Squeezing his belly. Six pounds in the past month. If he weighed himself after peeing.

He munched and sipped, wished the soda was cold. Should have fridged it. Why do I forget things? Frank Walsh knew he had trouble focusing, but he also took pride that it was a negative compensation for being so talented in other ways.

Like his knives.

He regarded his specimens of cutting-edge weapons, which took up two bookshelves.

When was the curved kukri going to arrive? He thought of the beautiful blade the picture on eBay had depicted a cla.s.sic Nepalese army knife.

Then he returned to reality.

All the f.u.c.king Post-it notes I keep buying. Have to remember to use them for more than propping up table legs.

Write: Put the soda in the fridge.

How hard was that?

He slowed down on the chips. Take your time. Write that down too. Don't eat another until you've masticated and swallowed the one you're working on. He noted that the soda because it was frigging warm had sprayed onto the Samsung monitor when he'd opened the can. He wiped the gla.s.s with an old T-shirt, aromatic with Windex he kept beside the computer. He'd have to wash the cloth soon. That was gamy too. Like the Maybe Greek Fisherman hat.

Write it down.

He would.

Frank didn't write it down and returned to the computer, unable to stop thinking of the knife fight again.

Oh, it was beautiful. Ch.o.r.eography. Dance. Beautiful.

His knife sweeping down then stopping halfway as his victim went into a defensive posture which Frank had antic.i.p.ated.

And he'd then spun around backward and whisked his steel blade along the exposed neck.

Blood flew and sprayed and danced into the sky.

Then fast you never hesitated he leapt to the right and slashed again on the other side of the neck.

And the dying eyes stared, motionless for a moment. Then closed slowly as the pool of blood spread.

Wait, Frank Walsh thought. Was that his phone? He grabbed for it.

No.

He'd hoped Gabby would call.

Well, he knew she'd call. But he meant now. This moment. He stared at the phone, willing it to ring. It didn't.

He thought more about the coming Tuesday.

A brief fantasy played itself out: The doorman, Arthur, ringing on the intercom and saying, 'There's somebody here to see you. Her name's Gabriela.'

Frank Walsh would smile. 'Send her up.'

And he'd be waiting for her in his black jeans and black shirt his best look, his thin look teeth brushed and hair sprayed and body deodorized. His fisherman cap would be in a Baggie, if he hadn't washed it first, which probably wasn't going to happen.

He'd pull out the present she'd just had delivered today.

She'd turn her beautiful, piercing eyes on him. And they'd crinkle with fun and flirt. She'd say, 'I've never seen your bedroom, Frank.'

He looked at the note that accompanied the gift.

Dear Frank. Thinking of you ...

Oh, man ...

Then Frank revised the fantasy. In the remake, a slightly more risque version, they sat on the couch, knees touching, and watched an old movie on cable, instead of going to the film festival. The present he found himself actually stroking the box now would play a role in this fantasy too. A central role.

They'd pick something noir to watch, of course. Maybe The Asphalt Jungle. Or Pulp Fiction. It would be like Travolta and Uma Thurman dancing. He loved that movie (though he always wondered: If Travolta was such a brilliant hit man, why the h.e.l.l did he leave his machine gun outside the bathroom, for Bruce Willis to find it, when he went to take a dump?).

They could watch that, or Reservoir Dogs or Inglourious Basterds.

Or h.e.l.l, they'd watch anything that Gabby wanted to watch.

They'd talk, they'd f.u.c.k. He pictured her crying with pleasure, maybe with a little pain.

And then they'd talk some more. She'd learn all about him, she'd learn who was the real Franklin Walsh.

He flopped down on the saggy bed and sent her a text. He thanked her for the present and then he couldn't resist described what he had in mind for their date next Tuesday. He included a few suggestions about apparel.

All very tasteful, he decided.

Then he replayed in his mind the knife fight. Once, twice, again and again. The blood, the screams, the body twitching.

Mostly the blood.

CHAPTER.

28.

1:00 p.m., Sunday

40 minutes earlier

In his rhythmic, purposeful gait, Joseph Astor walked through the maze-like streets of this curious neighborhood like a tourist, eyes constantly moving.

He'd swapped the long black trench coat for black cargo pants, T-shirt and leather jacket. He was making his way back to the apartment he'd been to earlier this morning, though via a different route. This part of town was confusing. Avenues going every which-away. His GPS app was helpful but he wasn't moving in the most direct route, of course. He was taking his time, doubling back, striking through alleys and vacant lots. This confused the smartphone app girl Siri but there wasn't an option for picking routes to 'avoid spots where some a.s.shole is waiting to put a bullet in my head.'

The air was chill and clouds ganged on the horizon sending bands of long, dim shadow over the sidewalks and streets and buildings here. The earlier sunlight was history. This was too bad because, believe it or not, bright light made witnesses' accounts less reliable than overcast; glare could be wonderfully obscuring. Victims too might not even see you or the gun when you approached.

He looked around once more. The residences were small, many of them red brick or dirt-brown stone that had once been white or light gray. A lot of soot and grime. He pa.s.sed a bookstore for the gay-lesbian-transgendered crowd, a Laundromat, apartments with elaborate wrought-iron security bars. You could look right into the minuscule, street-level living rooms, which would fit no more than four or five people. Who'd live like that?

Plenty, Joseph reflected, to judge from the number of the cells he pa.s.sed.

Manhattan ...

In his mind once more, Joseph ran through the complex scheme he was orchestrating this weekend. Many parts, many challenges, many risks. But, being in a reflective mood, he was thinking that men are born to work. It didn't matter how difficult your job, how filthy your hands got in all senses of phrase. It didn't matter if you were a poet or a carpenter or a scientist or whatever. G.o.d made us to get off our a.s.ses and go out into the world and do something with our time.

And Joseph was never happier than when he was working.

Even if, as he was about to do in a few minutes, that job was murder.

The silent GPS sent him around the corner and he paused. There was the brown brick building where his victim lived.

Thinking of how the night would unfold, Joseph again pictured Gabriela, her beautiful, heart-shaped face, her attractive figure, all of which jarred with the edgy voice. He thought too of the man with her, Daniel Reardon. He'd seemed smart and his eyes radiated confidence, which diminished only slightly when Joseph had displayed the b.u.t.t of his pistol.

He thought too of the October List.

A complicated night lay ahead. But nothing he couldn't handle.

Now, no police in sight, he strode nonchalantly past the apartment building's door, glancing in. Yes, the doorman he'd seen earlier was still on duty. Joseph was a bit irritated at the old man's presence at the desk, which added a complication, but no matter. Anything could be worked around with enough determination and ingenuity. And Joseph was well fitted with both. He circled around to the back and counted windows, recalling the diagrams from the NYC Buildings Department of the structure's layout. Yes, his target was home. He could see movement and the flicker of light, as if from a TV or computer monitor. Shadows. A light spread out and a moment later shrank and went out; probably from a refrigerator door, since the glow came from the kitchen.

This reminded him he wanted a long sip or two from his Special Brew. But later. He was busy now.

Work to be done.

Joseph went to the service door. It was locked, naturally. Verifying that he couldn't be seen from any of the windows, he removed a screwdriver from his inside pocket and began to jimmy. This was all you needed 90 percent of the time; lock-picking tools were usually more trouble than they were worth.

He double-checked his pistol, then concentrated again on his task of cracking the lock, irritated that his target, Gabriela's friend Frank Walsh, lived on the sixth floor. His breath hissed out softly as he reflected that the last thing he needed right now was a climb up that many stairs.

CHAPTER.

27.