Page 27

Twenty-Seven

Wednesday 12.30

For the second time in less than a week, Charlie dived for cover, pushing the homeless man down in front of him. He heard the crack of another shot, and then another. The homeless man pulled at him, half dragging him behind the steps he’d been sitting on. There was another shot. Something sharp hit his cheek and he felt blood under his fingers when he touched it. The next thing they heard were sirens in the distance and a car accelerating away,

“Motherfucker. Some fucker’s trying to kill me.”

On past evidence, more likely they were trying to kill me.

The homeless man didn’t smell great, but Charlie wasn’t going to let go of him until he was sure the shooters had gone. There were a few yells from behind them.

“Get off me,” the man said.

Charlie did, mostly so he could look round at whoever was shouting. If someone planned to shoot him, he wanted to at least see them. But none of the gathering crowd were waving guns.

“What happened?” People were asking. “Did you see?” A woman pulled two school-age children away from the crowd, and berated them for their curiosity.

The homeless man sat back on his step, and it was Charlie’s turn to ask what happened.

“Some motherfuckers in a fancy car, that’s what happened. Poking a fucking gun out of the window. Motherfuckers.”

“Shooting the homeless,” came a voice from the crowd, and several others joined in agreement.

“Has anyone called the police?” Charlie asked.

No one answered. Charlie got his new phone out and pressed 911. As he waited for the reply, he saw the watchers begin to disperse. The homeless man started gathering his possessions. Charlie cut off the call.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Someone just tried to shoot us.”

“And they’ve fucking gone. No way am I waiting round for another set of fucking murderers to show up. Some motherfucker tries to kill me, but I’ll be the one with five cops on my back.”

Charlie looked around. His was the only white face. He put the phone back in his pocket.

“No police, then,” he said.

The man breathed out and sat back down on his step.

“Did you see the make of the car?” Charlie asked.

“Black SUV with some chrome on the side. Pimp car,” came the answer.

“Did you see who was shooting?”

“I was too busy being knocked off my feet. I should sue you for pushing me down.”

“Do it,” Charlie said with a grin. “I’ll explain to the judge how I was saving your life.” He got a half-smile in return. “Then you saved mine, dragging me behind those steps.” He held out his hand. “Thank you.”

“They weren’t trying to shoot Miro.” Charlie turned round to see that one of the bystanders, a Black man in a tracksuit with dreadlocks showing beneath a wooly hat, had moved closer.

“What makes you say that?” Charlie asked.

“Because it’s true, stranger. That guy coulda shot Miro the first two times he drove by. He was waiting for you.”

Charlie’s blood ran cold.

“You got lucky my friend. Still, you can go away now. We’ve got enough trouble of our own.” The man wasn’t hostile, but he wasn’t friendly either. Charlie thought he had exhausted his chances of getting more questions answered. But he asked one anyway.

“Did you see the shooter?”

The man shook his head. His expression was beginning to harden.

“I was hoping for a taxi,” Charlie said.

The man jerked his head. “Next block. Ya might get a cab. There’s a bus going downtown.” The man stood with his feet planted firmly on the pavement and his hands on his hips. Charlie had worn out any welcome he might have had.

“Thanks,” Charlie said, and began to walk, feeling eyes on his back as he went.

Someone in a black SUV with chrome on the side had tried to shoot him, or at least tried to frighten him. The bookshop shooter had driven off in a black SUV with chrome on the sides. Charlie didn’t believe in coincidences, not like this one, anyway. Murphy had known where Charlie was, but it wasn’t Murphy who had shot at him. Had Murphy told the shooter where to find him, or had the shooter already known?

At the end of the block, he reached a north-south avenue, with all the traffic heading south. The rain started again, without warning. Clear sky to bouncing off the pavements in the blink of an eye. A bus drew in to the side of the street and people began to get on and off. Charlie joined them. He tapped one of Tom’s cards on the reader and found a seat by the window. Outside, the rain streaked the window with diagonal dashes until it was obscured as if by a net curtain. Charlie stared out, unable to make out much through the murk, with no real idea about where he was going. A mechanical voice reeled off the street numbers, winding down as they progressed towards midtown. The rain got heavier.

The mechanical voice had now reached numbers Charlie recognised. They were close to the Empire State Building.

This part of the city was crowded, a steady stream of people entering and leaving, closing and opening their umbrellas as they got on and off the bus. Charlie caught sight of himself in the window. He had a smear of dried blood on his cheek and his hair was dark and flattened by the rain. His trousers clung to his thighs where the rain had soaked through and though his jacket had done remarkably well, his shirt was wet around his neck. At least his feet were still dry. He could stay on the bus where it was safe, and no one knew where he was. At least until the rain stopped. Then he could decide what to do.