He took a pen from his jacket pocket and jotted down the name of the bank, followed by the account number. He sure he could call the bank in London...try to get hold of the money...but by the time he was done, the money would be gone. Besides, why interfere now?
The phone started ringing and he immediately picked up the receiver.
-Hello? He answered with his usual security.
-And good...? asked a gruff, unpleasant voice.
"Well what?"
"Don't joke with me," the man warned. Have they caught it?
"Anytime..." he said without taking his eyes off the screen. At the bottom end of the account there was a quick blink and "Pending" became "Paid."
"There you go," he added with a wide smile. Shep... Charlie... Oliver... if they only knew what was coming.
"So, is it already?" the man asked.
"That's it," he replied. The snowball has officially started to roll.
Someone is watching me. I didn't notice him when I said goodbye to Lapidus and left the bank; it was after six and the December sky was already dark. Nor did I see him follow me up the dirty stairs to the subway station or through the turnstile; at that hour there are too many people changing trains in the urban anthills to notice the presence of anyone. But when I reach the subway platform, I swear I hear someone whisper my name.
I turn to check but all I see is the typical crowd that has left their jobs on Park Avenue: men; women; tall; low; youths; old; a few blacks; mostly white. All of them with coats or thick jackets. Most with their eyes fixed on some book or newspaper—a few seem absorbed in the music coming from their headphones—and one, just as I turn around, quickly raises his copy of the Wall Street Journal to cover his face.
I crane my neck as far as I can to get a look at shoes or pants—anything that might give me a clue—but at rush hour the crowds are too dense. I don't feel like taking chances, so I move to the end of the platform to get away from the man from the Journal. At the last second, I turn quickly and look over his shoulder. A few more people join the compact mass but, for the most part, no one moves. No one except the man, who, like the bad guy in a lousy cold war movie, raises the newspaper again to cover his face.
Don't lose your temper, I tell myself, but before my brain can respond to that command, a thud fills the air. Here comes the train, which enters the station at full speed and ruffles my hair. I run my fingers over my head to push it back into place and take one last look at the platform. Every ten meters there is a small crowd pushing towards an open door. I don't know if he's boarded one of the carriages or given up the chase, but the man from the Journal has disappeared.
I push my way into the already crowded car, where I'm squashed between a Hispanic woman in a puffy anorak and a bald guy in a brightly colored coat. As the train moves toward the center, the crowd begins to thin out, leaving some seats empty. In fact, when I transfer at Bleecker and catch the D train at the Broadway-Lafayette stop, all the fashionable downtown people in black shoes, black jeans, and black leather jackets come out of the subway. It's not the last stop before reaching Brooklyn, but it's the last cool stop.
I take advantage of the free space in the wagon and lean on a nearby metal bar. It's the first time since I left my office that I can catch my breath. That is, until I see who's waiting for me at the end of the car: the man hiding behind the Wall Street Journal.
Without the crowds and distance, it's easy for me to take a quick look at it. It's all I need. I head towards him without thinking twice. He lifts the newspaper up some more, but it's too late. I slap it from him and find out who's been tailing me for the last fifteen minutes.
"What the hell are you doing here, Charlie?" My brother tries a mischievous smile, but it's useless.
-Answer me! I demand.
Charlie looks up, almost impressed.
—Wow... "Starsky and Hutch" in full. What if he had been a spy...or a guy with a hook?
"I saw your shoes, stupid. Now tell me, what do you think you're doing?
With a jerk of his chin, Charlie points to the passengers in the car who are now looking at us. Before he can react, he scuttles away and heads to the other end, beckoning me to follow. As we walk through the car, a few people look up, but only for a second. Typical of New York.
"Now you want to tell me what this is all about, or should I just add it to your ever-growing list of stupid actions?" I tell him as we continue through the car.
"Always growing?" he asks, advancing among the passengers. I don't know what you...
"With Shep," he interrupted; I feel the vein beating on my forehead. How could you give him the final destination of the transfer?
Turning to me but not slowing, Charlie waves a hand in the air as if it's a silly question.
"Come on, Oliver, are you still upset about that?"
"Dammit, Charlie, enough of the kidding," I say, catching up to him. Do you have any idea what you've done? I mean, do you ever, by any chance, stop to think about the consequences of your actions or just jump off the cliff, happy to be the village idiot?
At the end of the car, he stops short and turns to stare at me.
"Do I look stupid to you?" "Well, considering what you've…" "I didn't give Shep anything," Charlie says quietly. He has no idea where he is.