moment, with things going well, it’s casual and flippant, almost unthinking. But when Lebrecht starts throwing real tantrums?
Forget about it.
Baxter clears two more e-mails and puts his BlackBerry away.
It might be time to move on, to look for something else.
But right now he could do with an espresso.
He steps forward a few paces and scopes out the immediate vicinity. Two blocks down there’s a Starbucks.
He catches the driver’s eye again. “I need some coffee,” he says, over the sound of the traffic. “You want something?”
The driver pushes himself forward from the car, clicks his tongue, and then says, “You want me to go? I’ll go.”
Baxter is about to take him up on the offer when the driver’s eyes widen slightly and he nods at something—indicating to Baxter that he should turn around.
Lebrecht.
Shit .
The driver straightens up. Baxter turns, thinking fuck it, he’ll get a coffee at the Wilson, and a proper one.
With real cream.
In that moment Lebrecht emerges from the revolving doors, and Baxter can tell he’s distracted, sulky—complications with Ballantine Marche, no doubt.
He has that look .
But in the next second, the look changes. Everything does, the air, the weight of things, the density, the speed at which they move.
Lebrecht’s arms go up, his whole body recoiling from … what ?
Baxter turns to the right. There’s a guy rushing toward Lebrecht, his arm outstretched, something in his hand. The doorman of the Rygate, a bulky streak of gold and red in his overcoat, epaulettes, and Pershing hat, intervenes. He deflects the outstretched arm, but wrestles the guy as well, the two figures then careening toward Baxter himself, who steps back in horror, arms up and out, glaring down at his shoes. But the entangled figures keep coming, and a full-on collision is inevitable. It’s like a football tackle, with Baxter suddenly deciding he has to resist, arms bunched in tight now, upper body pushing forward and over them. But on contact he loses his balance and falls, rolling off the doorman’s back and onto the sidewalk.
There are voices, roars, shouts, but in all the confusion, as he clambers up, hand on the front of a town car next to Lebrecht’s limo, Baxter has no clear idea of what he’s hearing. Nor, when he turns around and manages to focus, does he have much idea of what he’s seeing, either.
Because there on the ground, still struggling, are the doorman and what Baxter can only assume is a gunman, while a few feet away there appears to be a separate struggle going on, as two of the limo drivers try to restrain a second man.
Behind them, a stunned Lebrecht staggers backward, stopping at the granite wall beside the revolving doors.
Baxter doesn’t see any blood or obvious wound.
But then, why would he?
And it’s only in that moment, as he hears the gunshot ring out, that he realizes why he wouldn’t—
Because there was no gunshot before.
There’s certainly one now, though, and it’s followed by a general recoil, a shocked pulling away, which loosens up the two nodal points of the skirmish. In the next couple of seconds the gunman on the ground, along with his accomplice, breaks free. They start running, but in different directions—one to the nearest corner, the other out into the traffic, where he proceeds to zigzag his way through the midmorning chaos of Broadway.
Lebrecht’s driver, standing next to Baxter, decides to give chase and slides over the front of the town car onto the street.
But he is immediately thwarted—blocked by a passing MTA bus.
Baxter turns around again. Like everyone else here, he’s in shock, and having a hard time processing what has happened—in particular the fact that when the gunman discharged his weapon a few moments ago someone apparently took the bullet …
It was—he sees now—one of the other drivers.
He’s alive, still standing, but clutching his side, a fellow driver giving him support. The doorman, back
Forget about it.
Baxter clears two more e-mails and puts his BlackBerry away.
It might be time to move on, to look for something else.
But right now he could do with an espresso.
He steps forward a few paces and scopes out the immediate vicinity. Two blocks down there’s a Starbucks.
He catches the driver’s eye again. “I need some coffee,” he says, over the sound of the traffic. “You want something?”
The driver pushes himself forward from the car, clicks his tongue, and then says, “You want me to go? I’ll go.”
Baxter is about to take him up on the offer when the driver’s eyes widen slightly and he nods at something—indicating to Baxter that he should turn around.
Lebrecht.
Shit .
The driver straightens up. Baxter turns, thinking fuck it, he’ll get a coffee at the Wilson, and a proper one.
With real cream.
In that moment Lebrecht emerges from the revolving doors, and Baxter can tell he’s distracted, sulky—complications with Ballantine Marche, no doubt.
He has that look .
But in the next second, the look changes. Everything does, the air, the weight of things, the density, the speed at which they move.
Lebrecht’s arms go up, his whole body recoiling from … what ?
Baxter turns to the right. There’s a guy rushing toward Lebrecht, his arm outstretched, something in his hand. The doorman of the Rygate, a bulky streak of gold and red in his overcoat, epaulettes, and Pershing hat, intervenes. He deflects the outstretched arm, but wrestles the guy as well, the two figures then careening toward Baxter himself, who steps back in horror, arms up and out, glaring down at his shoes. But the entangled figures keep coming, and a full-on collision is inevitable. It’s like a football tackle, with Baxter suddenly deciding he has to resist, arms bunched in tight now, upper body pushing forward and over them. But on contact he loses his balance and falls, rolling off the doorman’s back and onto the sidewalk.
There are voices, roars, shouts, but in all the confusion, as he clambers up, hand on the front of a town car next to Lebrecht’s limo, Baxter has no clear idea of what he’s hearing. Nor, when he turns around and manages to focus, does he have much idea of what he’s seeing, either.
Because there on the ground, still struggling, are the doorman and what Baxter can only assume is a gunman, while a few feet away there appears to be a separate struggle going on, as two of the limo drivers try to restrain a second man.
Behind them, a stunned Lebrecht staggers backward, stopping at the granite wall beside the revolving doors.
Baxter doesn’t see any blood or obvious wound.
But then, why would he?
And it’s only in that moment, as he hears the gunshot ring out, that he realizes why he wouldn’t—
Because there was no gunshot before.
There’s certainly one now, though, and it’s followed by a general recoil, a shocked pulling away, which loosens up the two nodal points of the skirmish. In the next couple of seconds the gunman on the ground, along with his accomplice, breaks free. They start running, but in different directions—one to the nearest corner, the other out into the traffic, where he proceeds to zigzag his way through the midmorning chaos of Broadway.
Lebrecht’s driver, standing next to Baxter, decides to give chase and slides over the front of the town car onto the street.
But he is immediately thwarted—blocked by a passing MTA bus.
Baxter turns around again. Like everyone else here, he’s in shock, and having a hard time processing what has happened—in particular the fact that when the gunman discharged his weapon a few moments ago someone apparently took the bullet …
It was—he sees now—one of the other drivers.
He’s alive, still standing, but clutching his side, a fellow driver giving him support. The doorman, back
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