The Getaway - By Tom Barber Page 0,23

the dashboard that would save him from being clamped, they had walked over and moved inside the coffee shop. Gerrard headed to the counter whilst Archer grabbed them a seat and a table across the room by the window, asking for tea instead of coffee. He couldn’t abide the black stuff. Once Gerrard had placed their order, the barista took a few moments to prepare the drinks then passed them over the counter. Gerrard paid and approached the table, taking a seat across from the younger man and placing the two cups on the table-top. Archer noticed that the older man had brought something with him from the car, an A4 sized yellow folder containing some white documents. He nodded thanks for his drink.

More silence followed. Archer looked out of the window, lost in thought, watching people walk past on the sunny street. Much like yesterday, today just felt surreal, as if it was a dream.

‘You’re looking well kid. Your dad said you’d ended up a cop in the UK?’ Gerrard asked.

‘Yeah. That’s right.’

‘Forget that, you should be a damn model with a face like that,’ the older man added, trying to lighten the mood.

Archer forced a smile, but said nothing.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘Marriott. Times Square.’

Gerrard whistled. ‘Who’s picking up the bill?’

‘My boss.’

Gerrard went to say more, but suddenly remembered something, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair of keys wrapped in a small piece of paper. He slid them across the table.

‘These are for your Dad’s place in Astoria,’ he said. ‘He’d been renting an apartment off 30 Avenue for the past few years. I figured there might be some stuff there you wanted to…see. He was on a lease so there’ll be new tenants moving in there soon. I figured you’d be the best person to take what you want and leave the rest to be thrown out. The address is on the paper.’

Archer nodded and took the keys and scrap of paper, tucking them into his pocket, saying nothing. Light guitar music flowed from speakers around the Starbucks, filling the moments of silence between the two men, and people chatted and tapped away on laptops around them, all sorts of ethnicities enjoying all sorts of different drinks and specials from the counter. It was busy with weekend activity, but the coffee shop still felt relaxed.

Archer looked down at his tea, at the circular green Starbucks logo printed on the side of the cup. A mermaid wearing a crown, two stars either side of her, with the company’s name printed in a semi-circular shape underneath.

‘Shit, I’m sorry, Sam,’ Gerrard said, sighing. ‘Jimmy didn’t deserve to go out like that.’

‘No. He didn’t.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

Archer glanced out the window.

‘About eleven years ago.’

‘He always talked about you, you know. He was proud. That terrorist thing in London at Christmas? He wouldn’t stop going on about it. It made the front page of the New York Times. When it was over, he kept saying that’s my son, my son did that. He was real proud of you, you know.’

‘No. I didn’t know.’

There was a pause.

Archer loosened the long black tie around his neck and unbuttoned his top button, then lifted the white cap off his tea. Steam swirled up from the cup, the water tinted and infused. He lifted the string on the bag and dunked it up and down, watching the water darken as it soaked up the tea leaves inside the bag.

He dropped the bag inside and watched it sink to the bottom. His mood felt just as low.

‘I know he screwed up,’ Gerrard said. ‘Made some mistakes. But he turned his life around, Sam. He quit the booze. He joined the Bureau. Neither one is easy to do. He hadn’t taken a sip in almost two years.’

Archer listened but didn’t respond. He looked back out the window again, at the people walking past on the street, each with their own cares and concerns.

There was such a wide variety of people out there. Tourists distracted as they looked at maps and tried to establish their bearings, looking for the way to Macy’s or the Empire State Building over on 34 and 5. Locals accustomed to the sights, dodging and stepping past them. A young street busker on the corner, singing and strumming a guitar, people tossing the odd coin or spare dollar note into the open guitar case beside him. This place really was a melting pot. If he took a photo right