hundreds of people passed, but not one of them was Hick Sosenko.
It didn’t look as though today was my day to grab a piece of Sosenko, or get to feel just a little bit worthy of the fifty thousand dollars in my pocket. But I glanced out toward Park Avenue and all that changed.
There he was, standing just outside the Park exit looking in, distorted through the curved glass of the revolving door enclosures. But it was Sosenko, no question. The brazen son-of-a-bitch stood there holding the big portfolio case, as if waiting for me to spot him, daring me to chase him.
I headed for the door. He waited till I was halfway there, as though he was giving me a handicap, before he walked off to the right, down Park toward the Helmsley Building. He wasn’t running from me. He was taunting me, staying just ahead of me, defying me to follow him.
Which I did, willing myself to run the first few steps down Park until my constricting arteries screamed an order to stop, which I considered, then disobeyed. Instead, I made what I thought was a necessary compromise, and slowed to a walk. I couldn’t go any faster, but I refused to stop. Best I could do.
Some chase. Sosenko dancing around up ahead, turning every ten seconds to make sure I was still there, and me dragging myself doggedly along after him, hoping this wouldn’t end with giving him the satisfaction of watching me expire on a crowded New York sidewalk, without a shot being fired.
He crossed Forty-Sixth Street and entered one of the open pedestrian arcades that runs through the Helmsley Building. I followed, stiff-legged and wobbly, my arms swinging wide in an effort to maintain what little momentum I had, breathing heavily through my wide open mouth, perspiration pouring off my face. People were gaping at me. You don’t see something every day as grotesque as I was.
By the time I emerged through the arcade onto Forty-Fifth, Sosenko was entering the Met Life Building across the street, holding a door open and waiting for me to get closer before he slipped inside and let the door shut behind him. Drawing me on, the bastard, hoping I’d cave in. Fat chance. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
But how did he know he could play this game with me? Did he take a look at me and figure I was too old and fat to give him any serious competition? Or did somebody who knew tip him off about my little cardiac problem? And why would he take the trouble to goad me, anyway? Maybe for the same reason malicious little boys pull the wings off of flies.
I crossed Forty-Fifth and stumbled into the packed Met Life lobby. The building was emptying out for lunch, and the foot traffic was against me. I thought I saw Sosenko bobbing up ahead as he bucked the traffic, too, but when I finally reached the back end of the lobby, and the crowd began to clear, I couldn’t find him. Only one place he could be now, down one of the escalators into Grand Central Station. Yes, and there he was, already standing at the bottom, on the edge of Grand Central’s cavernous main concourse, looking up, waiting for me. I stepped on an escalator filled with people, watching Sosenko as I descended. He actually grinned at me, pointing first one way, then another, then another. Which way should we go now? No way you can catch me, but keep on trying. Till you drop.
He was on the move again. By the time I stepped off the escalator, he was starting down a stairway that led to the lower concourse.
What now? A tour of Grand Central? Out onto Lexington Avenue? Uptown to the Museum of Modern Art? Was he betting the chase would do me in, or was he deliberately leading me to a convenient place to kill me himself?
Sosenko could keep up this craziness a lot longer than I could. And even if I did manage to catch up to him, what could I do? Pull my gun and make a citizen’s arrest? He’d open that portfolio case, take out the rifle I knew was in it, and we’d have our own private war on the East Side of Manhattan.
I
It didn’t look as though today was my day to grab a piece of Sosenko, or get to feel just a little bit worthy of the fifty thousand dollars in my pocket. But I glanced out toward Park Avenue and all that changed.
There he was, standing just outside the Park exit looking in, distorted through the curved glass of the revolving door enclosures. But it was Sosenko, no question. The brazen son-of-a-bitch stood there holding the big portfolio case, as if waiting for me to spot him, daring me to chase him.
I headed for the door. He waited till I was halfway there, as though he was giving me a handicap, before he walked off to the right, down Park toward the Helmsley Building. He wasn’t running from me. He was taunting me, staying just ahead of me, defying me to follow him.
Which I did, willing myself to run the first few steps down Park until my constricting arteries screamed an order to stop, which I considered, then disobeyed. Instead, I made what I thought was a necessary compromise, and slowed to a walk. I couldn’t go any faster, but I refused to stop. Best I could do.
Some chase. Sosenko dancing around up ahead, turning every ten seconds to make sure I was still there, and me dragging myself doggedly along after him, hoping this wouldn’t end with giving him the satisfaction of watching me expire on a crowded New York sidewalk, without a shot being fired.
He crossed Forty-Sixth Street and entered one of the open pedestrian arcades that runs through the Helmsley Building. I followed, stiff-legged and wobbly, my arms swinging wide in an effort to maintain what little momentum I had, breathing heavily through my wide open mouth, perspiration pouring off my face. People were gaping at me. You don’t see something every day as grotesque as I was.
By the time I emerged through the arcade onto Forty-Fifth, Sosenko was entering the Met Life Building across the street, holding a door open and waiting for me to get closer before he slipped inside and let the door shut behind him. Drawing me on, the bastard, hoping I’d cave in. Fat chance. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
But how did he know he could play this game with me? Did he take a look at me and figure I was too old and fat to give him any serious competition? Or did somebody who knew tip him off about my little cardiac problem? And why would he take the trouble to goad me, anyway? Maybe for the same reason malicious little boys pull the wings off of flies.
I crossed Forty-Fifth and stumbled into the packed Met Life lobby. The building was emptying out for lunch, and the foot traffic was against me. I thought I saw Sosenko bobbing up ahead as he bucked the traffic, too, but when I finally reached the back end of the lobby, and the crowd began to clear, I couldn’t find him. Only one place he could be now, down one of the escalators into Grand Central Station. Yes, and there he was, already standing at the bottom, on the edge of Grand Central’s cavernous main concourse, looking up, waiting for me. I stepped on an escalator filled with people, watching Sosenko as I descended. He actually grinned at me, pointing first one way, then another, then another. Which way should we go now? No way you can catch me, but keep on trying. Till you drop.
He was on the move again. By the time I stepped off the escalator, he was starting down a stairway that led to the lower concourse.
What now? A tour of Grand Central? Out onto Lexington Avenue? Uptown to the Museum of Modern Art? Was he betting the chase would do me in, or was he deliberately leading me to a convenient place to kill me himself?
Sosenko could keep up this craziness a lot longer than I could. And even if I did manage to catch up to him, what could I do? Pull my gun and make a citizen’s arrest? He’d open that portfolio case, take out the rifle I knew was in it, and we’d have our own private war on the East Side of Manhattan.
I
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