be women there. If necessary, he can have one of' mine. Just call and have one sent over, on the house." He hung up before Hiram could change his mind.
So what next? Try to find a kid he barely remembered out of thousands at Jetboy's Tomb? Or move on down the list? No. The Kid was reckless and stupid and had just enough power to get himself in real trouble. It had to be the Kid.
The game was almost sold out. Only bleacher seats were left by the time Jennifer got to the ticket window, but that was fine with her. She just wanted to sit down in the warm sun, let the reassuring sounds of the crowd wash over her, and think. She paid for her ticket, and some atavistic sense made her turn around and look behind. There was a man, moderately tall, slimly but strongly built, dark-haired, dark-eyed. He seemed to be watching her intently, but he looked away the moment after their eyes met.
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment. He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and dark running shoes. The muscularity of his lithe build struck her, then she was carried along the wave of ticketbuyers into the stadium.
Had he really been looking at her, or was she just getting paranoid? She let out a deep breath. It was probably her clothes that made him stare. She hadn't exactly had time to try on the clothing she'd taken. The pants were short and tight across her behind and the pullover shirt was also short, leaving a couple of inches of her midriff peeking out. That was it. Her clothes. She was getting paranoid, picking out strangers in a crowd, thinking they were menacing her.
Not that she didn't have a reason to be paranoid. After all, there were people after her. Now she just had to figure out why, and, more importantly, how.
Spector was tired of waiting. His anonymous contact had said eleven-thirty, and it was already several minutes past that. Maybe they hadn't been satisfied with the way he'd handled Gruber. It wasn't his fault the idiot had pulled a gun. They couldn't have been stupid enough to think the bullets did it. He leaned against the statue of George M. Cohan and cracked his knuckles. He was aware of the bulge the Ingram was making in his coat. Most of the cops were in Jokertown, but the rest of the city had to be covered, too. It might be good to dump the gun, now that the Astronomer was off his tail. Then again, you never knew when an automatic pistol might come in handy.
The crowd waiting in line for Broadway show tickets was smaller than usual. Spector had never been to one; they seemed stupid and overpriced. He used to come over from Jersey on New Year's Eve to watch the ball drop at midnight. It was one of the few times he felt like a part of something bigger than just him.
The neon signs around the Square were washed out and dull during the day. If his connection didn't show up soon, he might pick up a whore for some fun. Seeing the tombstones rolled up in some cheap hooker's eyes would give him a few moments' relief from the pain. It wouldn't be great, like the girl in the subway, but it would be distraction. God, he had wanted to kill her. At least hurt her enough to get a reaction out of her. Better to just get drunk and watch the ball game on television, though. A low profile for the rest of the day was not an entirely bad idea.
"Fuck it," he said, walking away from the statue. "Those Shadow Fist boys are going to have to do better than this."
"Don't go away mad," said a deep, nasty voice from behind.
Spector turned. There was a joker a few paces behind him, closing the distance with slow, measured strides. There was dried blood smeared on his shirt. He had a single eye set in the center of his forehead.
"You're late."
"It's been a busy morning. Had a little business to attend to down at the waterfront." The cyclops made a fist, showing his badly bruised knuckles. "You must be Spector."
"Right. So tell me something."
"It's like this." He looked over his shoulder. "The Gambiones are having dinner at the Haiphong Lily tonight. Family meeting, you know. The don is in the way. He has to be taken care of' That's where you