thought you’d like to know,” Frings said.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Red Henry’s driver pulled up to the curb across the street from Puskis’s apartment building. Henry watched Smith as he stood at the corner, chin buried in his coat against the brutal wind now blowing. The driver gave a quick punch to his horn. Smith looked up and jogged over to the awaiting car. Henry took up most of the backseat, forcing Smith to lean hard against the door, and still there was an uncomfortable amount of physical contact. Henry was unperturbed. In fact, he liked other men to experience the power of his body. It was another way to intimidate.
Henry said, “Why am I here?”
It was only a seven-block drive from City Hall, but Smith had insisted that it needed to be a face-to-face and that it needed to be here, on the street. Henry was torn between annoyance at being dragged from his office and interest in what was so goddamn important that Smith would dare to insist that Henry take this trouble.
Smith came straight out with it. If he had screwed up by bringing Henry out here, delaying would only exacerbate the situation. “That’s Arthur Puksis’s building. I’m eyeing him, just like you told Peja to tell me. He comes walking up to his door, you see, and out of nowhere comes Frankie Frings. They chin for a second and then they go inside together.”
Henry sat absolutely still, thinking. This might be a good sign or it might be a terrible one, Smith knew.
“Are they still in there?”
“Yeah, pretty sure. I was gone for maybe—what?—a couple minutes calling you. I don’t think I’d have missed him in that time.”
“You have any idea what they might be talking about?”
Smith shook his head.
“Okay. Good work. Stay here and keep an eye on Puskis. What building is this?” Henry indicated the building where Smith had been standing.
“The Bangkok Hotel.”
“Get yourself a room where you can watch the street. No use in you catching goddamn pneumonia out here.”
It was the most compassionate thing Smith had ever heard Henry say.
Feral was in Red Henry’s office a half hour later, watching Henry smoke a cigar and pace. Feral could comfortably wait almost indefinitely—a skill that was valuable with Henry, who didn’t like to be rushed.
“Sit down,” Henry said, billowing smoke as he talked.
Feral sat. Out of habit, he placed most of his weight on his feet and on his forearms, which rested on the arms of the chair. He could do this without significant physical strain.
“For once, Smith actually did something useful. He was watching Puskis—that troll who runs the Vaults—and saw Frankie Frings talking to him. They went up to Puskis’s apartment. Might still be there.”
Feral nodded. This situation was fraught with possibility.
Henry continued, “As you no doubt realize, this is a very bad development. Mr. Puskis has been expressly forbidden to talk to the press, but things have been a little dicey for him recently and he may be moving in his own direction. The catch is that we can’t deal with this situation in the usual ways. Puskis is too valuable in the Vaults. There’s no one who has any idea of what goes on down there. This new system that Ricks is putting together will be fine, but we have to have Puskis to shepherd the process. We need him, as strange as it seems. Frings, on the other hand, is a whole different problem. If anything happens to him, there will be an investigation, public pressure, all holy hell. So we come to our earlier plan.”
“Nora Aspen.”
“That’s right. As soon as possible.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
What passed for the intersection of Kopernik and Stanislaus streets was in a desolate part of town at the northernmost reaches of the Hollows. It was hard to believe that such a barren, empty place existed in the City. The tracks here had been abandoned nearly two decades ago when the railroad was rerouted south and east at the behest of some member of the City Council who stood to profit from the new route.
As the letter instructed, Frings stood on the tracks. He was exposed out there, with at least a two-hundred-yard sprint to the nearest cover. Kopernik and Stanislaus streets were themselves largely abandoned, unpaved and scarred with ruts and potholes. It was a strange place to meet, the one advantage being that the bombers could easily see if Frings had brought anyone.
Frings stood with his hands in his pockets and his back to the wind, which