The Sixth Station(44)
“You already are.”
“Damn! You’re right. Anyway, if you call me from a pay phone tomorrow morning, I’ll tell you where to fax it.”
“Fax? Who faxes anymore?”
“Nobody. That’s why I’m going old-school all the way. Go to a Staples and get it faxed. No e-mail, no nothing. Fax.”
“You got it. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Two things. I need for you and Donald to both buy prepaid phones. And two: If you make any money on the street tonight, send it to me,” I joked.
“You need money?”
“Was Jesus a Jew? Yeah, I need money.”
“Let me figure out how to get you some.”
“Bless you. But I can’t generate any trail, so I don’t know if it’s possible.”
“Right.”
“Now listen up. More than money, I need Donald to get somebody trustworthy who’s not connected to me in any way to book me an e-ticket for tomorrow. Not that anyone he knows is trustworthy, but at least they’re all so untrustworthy that they’d never turn. Tell him to make sure that whoever he picks isn’t using a damned stolen credit card or something.”
“What did you ever see in him again?”
“I like bad boys. You like cute cops. Okay?”
“Destination?”
“Ephesus.”
“Turkey?”
“I think you have to fly into Istanbul.”
“But they’ll be looking to track you. You can’t get past immigration anywhere.”
“Maybe. I’m counting on some old foolishness of mine to buy me a few days. See, in some bizarre, desperate bid at saving my marriage, I had renewed my passport in my married name of Zaluckyj.”
“You didn’t!”
“Is this the time to give me a lecture on independence?”
“No,” she said, and I could hear the sadness in her voice. It was all different now. “From where?”
“Toronto. There’s a shot they won’t be looking for that name. Oh, and my first name’s really Alexandra with an x—I changed it when I got my first byline at twenty-one because I thought it sounded much more sophisticated. So the passport is in the name Alexandra Zaluckyj.”
“Oy. Anything else I don’t know about you?”
“Sure. Anyway, I’ll set up a Hotmail account, and you both need to do the same. Donald is to just e-mail me the ticket number and confirmation code to the account of … Got a pen?”
“I’ve got my iPhone.”
“No. A pen. Then tear up the paper. Old-school, remember?”
“Gotcha.” I could hear her digging through her bag while juggling the receiver on the pay phone.
“Shoot.”
“C-A-T-H-A-R-A-Z at Hotmail dot com. Got it?”
She repeated it verbatim. “What is he supposed to pay his connection with for the ticket? I’m sure the Feds and Interpol and everyone else will be looking at his credit card and ATM records.”
“Tell him to go play poker or some goddamned thing. He knows how to get cash better than anybody.”
“Got it.”
“Dona? Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Be careful. Don’t get yourself in trouble because of me.”
“Too late for that, pal. What about your folks?”
“Oh, God. Please tell them nothing. If they know nothing, they can’t inadvertently give away anything. Do me a favor, though. Make sure they get plenty of media exposure. They’ll want to defend me all over the place. The more they’re on camera, the safer they’ll be ’cause the cops will surveil them twenty-four/seven.”
“That should make your pinko parents happy,” she said in her jaded, loving way. “You sure I can’t hint to them that you’re okay? So far?”
“Dona? No. Noth-ing! They’ll know. At Columbia they helped draft dodgers escape to Canada during the Vietnam War. They know they didn’t raise a sissy.” We both let the Canada irony go by without mention.
I really didn’t want to put them in any danger. And my corporate lawyer brother in LA? Definitely not. The twins were only six years old. God—I didn’t want them tainted with this filthy brush.
With that we hung up and I put the car into “drive,” and started to pull out.
I could see “Leering Boy” at the store’s glass front door staring out at me. He was wagging his tongue lasciviously.
Instead of shooting him the bird as I would normally have done, I waved politely and drove slowly out of the parking lot and back onto the Thruway.
You can never find a good hit man when you need one.
16
The GPS informed me that it was still 380 miles to Toronto with a driving time of six hours and thirty minutes. With no “Christine” in sight, I headed north. If I could get halfway—drive another three hours and get some rest—I figured I’d be safe enough.