Chapter04a

 

Ponci’s teeth chattered, making his teeth hurt.

The cold had seeped down into his bones so he felt twice his age as he stuck on slick black shoe out the cab door and onto the street, then the other. Black snow greeted him along the curb, so soaked with soot it looked like piles of black shit. It slipped under his shoes like shit, but didn’t stick. But it disabled him even more so that he had to lean against the side of the cab, the brief case banging against the cab’s yellow side, while his free hand pressed hard against his wounded side. He felt the warmth oozing through the bandages and his clothing.

A sneeze made him cringe and sent a wave of pain through him so that he gasped.

“You all right, buddy?” the cab driver asked, leaning out the driver’s side window, but making no move to open the door or to help him.

A typical New Yorker, Ponci thought.

In Miami, the driver would have helped him to the door, even carried him if necessary, looking for a big tip, of course, but who wasn’t these days?

Ponci eased his hand out from under his coat and gave the driver a vague wave, then eased over the slick mound of ice to more solid concrete, where he paused and glanced up at the brownstone that was supposed to be the place he wanted – a place so run down that someone had boarded up the first floor windows. Booze bottles and loose sheets of news print decorated the cracked concrete steps leading up to the door.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Ponci asked.

 

 

The driver’s weathered face crinkled into an annoyed look, especially around the mouth, as he snarled out one side of it.

“This is the address you gave me, buddy. You don’t like it, I’ll drive you some place else. I’m not exactly pleased as punch leaving you here. You get bushwhacked and the cops’ll blame me.”

“Never mind,” Ponci mumbled, pulling out a wad of bills from his pocket with his free hand to peal off four twenties that covered the cost of the ride.

“You don’t look too good either,” the driver said, folding the money into his jacket pocket without a second glance. “You look like you need a doctor or something.”

“I’m fine,” Ponci said, glancing again at the building. “If this is the right address then this is the place I want.”

“Do you want me to wait?”

Ponci didn’t answer immediately. His thinking had dulled with the increase of pain, and the ever gnawing idea that something was wrong: the empty briefcase the last, but the shooting and the chase. This felt doomed to him, and he hated working against his basic instincts. He kept thinking that half the money was better than having something even more serious go wrong. He’d killed the soldier. That was worth half the price.

And yet, in the back of his head, he knew that those who hired him wouldn’t be satisfied with the killing; they wanted what was inside the briefcase, and that half of it matter more than if the solider had lived or died.

And the briefcase was empty.

“Well?” the impatient cabbie asked.

“No, don’t wait,” Ponci said finally.

“Okay, buddy, it’s your funeral,” the cabbie said, engaging the gears. “You’re obviously not from around here and don’t know just how bad this neighborhood is.”

“That’s my problem, not yours,” Ponce said.

The cab pulled away, and for a few moments, Ponci stood at the curb staring after it, brief case hanging from the tips of his fingers on his left side. Even with the army field jacket on, something about his appearance gave him a professional air, and he half resembled a stranded commuter up from Wall Street.

In the cab, the driver shook his head and mumbled, “Dumb, Whop.”

His cell phone buzzed on the passenger seat, drawing his attention and even nastier look. He snatched it up, swiped the surface until he heard a voice on the other end.

“Where are you?”

“In The Bronx, way up.”

“Come back to the garage.”

“Now? I’m only half way through my shift.”

“It’s a police matter.”

“For Christ’s sake. What did I do now?”

“Just come back.”

“All right, all right, I’m headed back to Manhattan now.”