Chapter 3

The Saturday before Thanksgiving, Eric moved to Larchmont, to his sister’s where the rent was dirt cheap. He wasn’t even getting any calls for ‘bodyguard’ jobs, so he might as well take time off to be with his son. He and David liked to pal around, and he wanted to begin teaching the boy some martial arts. He was sure that David could learn something that relied on body-based rather than brain-based, intelligence and memory.

It was probably a dumb move, but Eric had put a—very small—display ad in The Wall Street Journal, advertising his services as a security consultant. The ad was a long shot, but he was trying everything at this point.

Now, he’d had a call on his cell using the code he had placed in the ad. When he arrived home at his sister’s, he made the return call using her house phone while he recharged his cell.

The voice at the other end was male, young, and nervous sounding, without polish.

This wasn’t going to be an affluent corporate client, Eric realized at once.

“I need someone to do a hit for me,” the kid blurted out.

Eric nearly choked. “Uh huh,” he responded. He had placed a recording device on his sister’s phone a couple of years before when she was getting obscene calls. Now he messed around with the recorder, which was still in the drawer, trying to get it operational again. No tape, but he did have a tape of music nearby that he used for exercise. He covered the holes that made it record-proof with utility tape and turned it on.

“Let me see, let me see.” He stalled until he could tell that the machine was recording. “You want me to do a hit?” he repeated mildly. “You want me to kill someone?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said the boy, gaining confidence. “A guy in my school. He’s a real asshole. I need to get rid of him.”

“It happens,” said Eric. “Sure. Let’s talk about it. Should we meet?”

Unfuckingbelievable. He had actually paid kind of a lot of money for that ad. This was the way his luck was running. What the hell went through people’s minds? The boy wanted him to do a hit on some classmate of his? Had kids been this way when Eric was in school? He was pretty sure they hadn’t. How had this madness happened overnight?

He was supposed to meet the boy at the Donnell Library on 53rd Street in Manhattan, an appropriate place to have a discussion with a young scholar. Before the appointed hour, though, he decided to bring his tape to Midtown South, the closest New York Police Department precinct.

He told the woman at the desk his situation, glancing around as if the kid—Steven Perrault, if he wasn’t lying—could overhear him. Eric was sent upstairs to tell his story to Lieutenant Steinberg. He had cued the tape to the right spot and played it for Steinberg at once, looking at him for the proper incredulous reaction.

“There are a lot of meshuginas—crazies—out there,” Steinberg commented, shrugging, as Eric snapped off the tape player. Then he wanted to know why the kid had called Eric, what Eric’s background was, what Eric intended to do.

Eric gave him a quick sketch, then cut to the heart of the matter. “I’ll meet with the kid, but I’d like for you to arrest him for solicitation of murder, or whatever the charge is. It’s still considered illegal in New York State, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes.” Steinberg picked up the phone and called for an assistant district attorney, who was in the building. Steinberg then sat back and smiled at Eric in a grumpy way, offering him a cup of coffee while they were waiting.

“Is police station coffee as bad as they say on the cop shows?”

“It’s worse,” said Steinberg. Eric shook his head in the negative.

They wired him up. “This isn’t going to burn me if I sweat?” asked Eric. “Like in the movies?”

“You watch a lot of TV and movies, don’t you?” noted Steinberg.

“When you’re protecting someone, mostly nothing happens,” admitted Eric. “Television is the most exciting thing going on.”

He went to meet Perrault, entering the library and walking upstairs to the mezzanine research section. He picked up a copy of The New York Times and sat at the table Perrault had directed him to. He looked around, then looked at his watch. Ten minutes to go. He read the paper. Mostly kids killed one another themselves, he considered, they didn’t hire anyone to do it for them. Perrault must be the intellectual type.

After about five minutes, a young guy with glasses moved over from another table and sat next to Eric. “I’m Steve,” the boy told him. “You’re Eric, I guess. I’ve been watching you to make sure you were alone.” He seemed proud of his clever move.

Eric looked the kid over, trying to get the gist of him, then glanced around. “We can’t talk in here,” he said. “Let’s go outside.”

Perrault was a junior in high school, he explained as they stood on the sidewalk. The boy he wanted killed had been bothering him for years. Now the harassment was getting worse. He recounted a litany of offenses for which he wanted his enemy executed. Like the intended victim had laughed at the size of Steve’s genitals in the locker room. Crucify him—no punishment too severe.

The street was noisy, motors running, horns honking, along with the general background hum of the most frenzied city in the world. Eric wondered if Steinberg was picking them up clearly enough.

“Are you sure you want this?” Eric asked. The kid had a homely baby face, the soft ineffectual look of a boy who should study for the clergy or become a nuclear physicist. “The day after tomorrow will be too late to change your mind.”

“I want you get rid of him,” Perrault told Eric passionately.

“How much are you going to pay me for this?” Eric wanted to know.

“I don’t have much,” said Perrault.

“How much?”

“Twenty-five dollars.”

“I’d better not bring a car into the city and park. I’d blow my whole fee right there,” Eric responded. Twenty-five bucks, that was some murder contract. “Okay,” said Eric. “We have a deal.”

Steinberg and his partner got out of their car parked across the street, wended their way over, and showed Perrault their badges. They read him his Miranda rights. Perrault looked at Eric, stunned. He had been betrayed by someone he trusted. Eric wondered how to explain to the kid why he was in the wrong.

“After how he humiliated me?” Perrault whined.

Eric threw his hands up in the air. “So you have a small dick. Is that a reason to kill someone?” he asked in a deliberately irritating manner. Maybe he should feel some compassion for the kid, but he didn’t.

He’d go back to the precinct and give them their equipment, then he wanted to come back to 53rd. He had noticed an interesting photography exhibit across the street at the Museum of Modern Art. He didn’t get to this part of town that often, at least not with so much free time on his hands.