Jeffery Deaver - Manhattan Is My Beat (Rune Trilogy)

By the author of

THE DEVILS TEARDROP

THE COFFIN DANCER

THE BONE COLLECTOR

A MAIDENS GRAVE

PRAYING FOR SLEEP

THE LESSON OF HER DEATH

MISTRESS OF JUSTICE

HARD NEWS

DEATH OF A BLUE MOVIE STAR**

BLOODY RIVER BLUES

SHALLOW GRAVES

Available from Bantam Books

Coming soon from Bantam Books

The land of faery:
where nobody gets old and godly and grave,
where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,
where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

William Butler Yeats

CHAPTER ONE

He believed he was safe.

For the first time in six months.

Two identities and three residences behind him, he finally believed he was safe.

An odd feeling came over himcomfort, he finally decided. Yeah, that was it. A feeling he hadnt experienced for a long time, and he sat on the bed in this fair-to-middling hotel, overlooking that weird silver arch that crowned the riverfront in St. Louis. Smelling the mid-western spring air.

An old movie was on television. He loved old movies. This was Touch of Evil. Orson Welles directing. Charlton Heston playing a Mexican. The actor didnt look like a Mexican. But then, he probably didnt look like Moses either.

Arnold Gittleman laughed to himself at his little joke and told it to a sullen man sitting nearby, reading a Guns & Ammo magazine. The man glanced at the screen. Mexican? he asked. Stared at the screen for a minute. Oh. He went back to his magazine.

Gittleman lay back in the bed, thinking that it was damn well about time he had some funny thoughts like the one about Heston. Frivolous thoughts. Amount-to-nothing thoughts. He wanted to think about gardening or painting lawn furniture or taking his grandson to a ball game. About taking his daughter and her husband to his wifes gravea place hed been too afraid to visit for over six months.

So, the sullen man said, looking up from the magazine, whats it gonna be? We gonna do deli tonight?

Gittleman, whod lost 30 pounds since Christmas he was down to 204said, Sure. Sounds good. Deli.

And he realized it did sound good. He hadnt looked forward to food for a long time. A nice fat deli sandwich. Pastrami. His mouth started to water. Mustard. Rye bread. A pickle.

Naw, said a third man, stepping out of the bathroom. Pizza. Lets get pizza.

The sullen man who read about guns all the time and the pizza man were U.S. marshals. Both were young and stony-faced and gruff and wore cheap suits that fit very badly. But Gittleman knew that these were exactly the kind of men you wanted to be watching over you. Besides, Gittleman had led a pretty tough life himself, and he realized that when you looked past their facade these two were pretty decent and smart guysstreet-smart, at least. Which was all that really counted in life.

Gittleman had taken a liking to them over the past five months. And since he couldnt have his family around him hed informally adopted them. He called them Son One and Son Two. He told them that. They werent sure what to make of it but he sensed they got a kick out of him saying the words. For one thing, they said, most of the people they protected were complete shits and Gittleman knew that, whatever else, he wasnt that.

Son One was the man reading the guns magazine, the man whod suggested deli. He was the fatter of them. Son Two grumbled again that he wanted pizza.

Forgetaboutit. We did pizza yesterday.

An irrefutable argument. So it was pastrami and cole slaw.

Good.

On rye, Gittleman said. And a pickle. Dont forget the pickle.

They come with pickles.

Then extra pickles.

Hey, go for it, Arnie, Son One said.

Son Two spoke into the microphone pinned to his chest. A wire ran to a black Motorola Handi-Talkie, clipped onto his belt, right next to a big gun that might very well have been reviewed in the magazine his partner was reading. He spoke to the third marshal on the team, sitting by the elevator up the hall. Its Sal. Im coming out.

Okay, the staticky voice responded. Elevators on its way.

You wanta beer, Arnie?

No, Gittleman said firmly.

Son Two looked at him curiously.

I want two goddamn beers.

The marshal cracked a faint smile. The most response to humor Gittleman had ever seen in his tough face.

Good for you, Son One said. The marshals had been after him to lighten up, enjoy life more. Relax.

You dont like dark beer, right? asked his partner.

Not so much, Gittleman responded.

How do they make dark beer anyway? Son One asked, studying something in the well-thumbed magazine. Gittleman looked. It was a pistol, dark as dark beer, and it looked a lot nastier than the guns his surrogate sons wore.

Make it? Gittleman asked absently. He didnt know. He knew money and how and where to hide it. He knew movies and horse racing and grandchildren. He drank beer but he didnt know anything about making it. Maybe hed take that up as a hobby tooin addition to gardening. Home brewing. He was fifty-six. Too young for retirement from the financial services and accounting professionbut, after the RICO trial, he was definitely going to be retired from now on.