DeSanctis grabbed Gallo's wrist and forced him to sit down. Looking at Maggie, he said:
"Please, Mrs. Caruso, there's no need for—"
"They would never do something like that!" Never! Maggie insisted.
"I'm not saying they did," DeSanctis said, his voice soft and calm. I'm just trying to protect them...
"Well, it's funny... but it sounds like someone dying to catch them."
"Call it what you want," Gallo said again. But the more time your children spend out there, the greater the danger they are in.
Hearing those words, Maggie froze.
-What?
Rooster rubbed his head and took a deep breath. Maggie studied him carefully, unable to decide if it was a gesture of frustration or genuine concern.
"We're just trying to help you, Mrs. Caruso. Just that, you know how these things are... you watch the news on TV. When was the last time a fugitive got away with murder? Or did he live happily ever after? Rooster asked. Those things don't happen, Maggie. And the longer he keeps his mouth shut, the more likely it is that some trigger-happy cop will put a bullet through the head of one of his boys.
Unable to move a muscle, Maggie remained seated, letting the logic of that reasoning take effect.
"I know you're trying to protect them, and I understand your doubts," Gallo added. But ask yourself this: do you really want to bury your own children? Because from this moment on, Maggie, the choice is up to you.
Motionless, Maggie Caruso watched through a sea of tears as the world clouded over.
Outside Maggie Caruso's apartment building, the Verizon van parked in a vacant spot just behind a battered black car. There was no racing, or confusion, or screeching brakes on the pavement. The van's side door simply opened and three men dressed in Verizon uniforms jumped out. All three carried phone company IDs in their right pockets and Secret Service badges in their left. His movements were calm as he unloaded the toolboxes. Part of the training. Phone repair guys were never in a hurry.
As personal security specialists in the Technical Security Division, they only needed twenty minutes to turn any home into a perfect soundstage. Gallo had told them they had two hours. Even so, they would finish their work in twenty minutes. The three men went to the entrance of the building and the tallest of them inserted a tiny three-pronged pliers into the lock. Four seconds later the door was open.
"The phone box in the basement," the black-haired man said.
"I'll take care of it," the third man said, moving away toward the stairwell that opened in a corner of the hall. Only novices mic the device they want to control. Thanks to Hollywood, it's the first place everyone checks out.
In the elevator, his two companions noticed the metal doors attacked by rust and the old buttons. Old buildings always gave more work. thicker walls; deeper drilling. Finally, the elevator came to an abrupt stop on the fourth floor. The door slid open slowly; Joey was waiting on the landing. He glanced briefly at the men in Verizon uniforms and lowered his head.
"Have a good night," the taller one said as he left.
"You too," Joey replied, brushing past him into the elevator. Joey's chest brushed against the man's arm. He smiled. She returned his smile. A moment later Joey was gone.
"I swear, I haven't heard from them at all," Maggie stammered, wiping away her tears with the edge of her sleeve.
I was home all day... all my clients... but they never...
"We believe it," Gallo said. But the longer Charlie and Oliver spend out there, the more likely they are to contact you. And when they do, I want you to promise me that you'll keep them on the phone for as long as possible. Are you listening to me, Maggie? That's all you have to do. We will take care of the rest.
As she caught her breath, Maggie tried to picture that moment in her head. There were many things that still didn't make sense to her.
-I dont know...
"I understand this is difficult for you," DeSanctis added. Trust me, I have two little girls and no parent should ever find themselves in this situation. But if he wants to save them, this is what's best for them... for everyone.
-That tells me? Rooster asked. Can we count on you?
It took us almost an hour to get from the Duckworth building to Hoboken, New Jersey, and as the PATH train pulled into the station, I gestured slightly to the other end of the subway car, where Charlie was hidden among the crowd of young professionals. coming home after work. There was no reason to be stupid.
With a gigantic shove, the human wave of passengers poured from the train and flooded the stairs, pushing their way out onto the street. As always, Charlie led the way, slipping through the crowd. He moved easily. When they reached the street he continued to quicken his pace. I stayed about ten meters behind him, without losing sight of him for a moment.
Following Bendini's directions, Charlie sped past the so-called New York bars and restaurants that line Washington Avenue, and when he reached Fourth Street, he made a sharp left. There, the neighborhood is transformed. Coffee shops become private homes... bakeries become three-story residences... and fashion clothing stores become five-story walk-ups. Charlie looks around and stops short.
"There has to be a mistake," he says aloud.
I approach and I have no choice but to agree with him. We look for a store; the entire neighborhood is residential.
However, when it comes to Bendini, nothing can surprise us.
"We just have to look for the address he gave us," he whispered as an old Italian man watches us curiously from a nearby window. His TV flashes behind her. Hurry, I insist.
Finally, three blocks later we find it: in the middle of a row of houses is a one-story brick building with a hand-painted sign reading Mumford Travel above the entrance. The letters are thin and gray in color and, like the bronze plaque next to the bank's entrance, they are meant to be inconspicuous. Inside, the lights are on, but the only person there is a woman in her sixties sitting behind an old metal desk, leafing through a well-worn copy of Soap Opera Digest. Charlie is about to ring the bell. Please call before entering.
"It's open," the woman calls out without looking up. A light push on the door allows us to enter.
"Hello," I say to the woman, who continues to stare at the magazine. I have come to see...
-I got this...! she is heard yelling in a shrill voice with a thick New Jersey accent. From a back room, a lean, wiry man in a golf shirt
Blanca pulls back a red curtain and comes over to greet us. He has slightly bulging eyes and a broad forehead that betrays an inevitable bald spot. Does he have an emergency...?
"Indeed, he sends us…
"I know who sent them," he interrupts, looking over our shoulders and checking the street through the storefront. She does it instinctively, it's part of his job. Safety above all. Convinced we're alone, he motions for us to join him in the other room.
As we follow him to the back of the shop, I see the faded and old-fashioned posters lining the walls. Bahamas...Hawaii...Florida, every ad features flashy-haired women and mustachioed guys. The water fountain is dated to the late 1980s, but I'm sure this place hasn't been visited in years. Travel agency, and shit.
"You first," the man says, holding open the curtain that leads us into the back room.
"Ignore the man behind the curtain," Charlie says, trying to create a relaxed atmosphere.
"You guessed it," the man nods. But if I am Oz, who are you... the Cowardly Lion?
"No, he's the Cowardly Lion," Charlie says, pointing in my direction.
-I? I see myself more like Toto... or maybe a flying monkey; the boss, of course, not one of those primate lackeys who are always in the background.
Oz struggles with his smile, but he's still there.
"They told me they need to travel to Miami," he says, walking over to his desk, which sits smack in the middle of the dirty, messy room. It's the same size as the front room, but here's a photocopier, a paper shredder, and a computer hooked up to a state-of-the-art printer. All around us, the walls are lined with stacks of unlabeled brown boxes. I'm not even interested in knowing its content.
"Hmm... can we start?" - I ask.
"That's up to you," Oz says, rubbing his thumb against his index and middle fingers.
Charlie looks at me and I pull out the wad of cash from my coat pocket.
"Three thousand, right?"
"That's what they say," Oz says, his expression serious now. "I really appreciate his help.
Charlie adds.
"It's not a favor, boy. It's just a job.
The man leans forward, opens the bottom drawer of the desk, pulls out two small boxes, and slides them across the desk towards us. I take one and Charlie the other.
"Clairol hair dye," Charlie reads aloud. On the front of her box is a woman with silky blonde hair. In mine, the model's hair is jet black.
Oz points us to the bathroom in the corner of the room.
"If they really want to disappear," he explains, "they have to start with the head.