MANHATTAN – THE PRESENT
John Wyse pressed the ‘down’ button in the back of the yellow cab and gratefully gulped some slightly cooler air as it struggled in the window. Another hot Manhattan day, more humid than usual for spring. Why do I always seem to get a cab without air con, just when I need to stay cool? It had been a stressful few days since he’d shot the truck bomber, dealing with the suits in internal investigations, while making sure his name didn’t get into the press. He was looking forward to this first date with Anna and the last thing he wanted was to arrive with a sweaty shirt. Or late.
He leaned forward to peer through the windshield and cursed the kaleidoscope of angry red brake lights blocking their way. The cab was making slow progress in heavy evening traffic on Church Street. Anna had been delighted with his suggestion that they have dinner at Emilia’s, in his view the best Italian on Union Square. Good start. Wyse sat back on the shiny, slippery seat and glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time. 7.05 p.m. Fifteen more minutes oughta do it – even at this speed.
He made himself take the time to absorb the sights around him. The sidewalks were crammed with armies of office workers, heading for the subways or bars. Red stars on Macy’s bags fought for attention with the black and silver of Bloomingdales and the pale blue Tiffany & Co. branding, as shoppers stepped around tourists heading for the shows on Broadway. Early evening diners, some in suits, some in sweats, were making for the restaurants in Chinatown and Little Italy. Within one hundred yards or so, those looking for faster food could choose between McDonald’s, Subway, Burger King, Dunkin’ Donuts, Pret A Manger or Quick ’n’ Tasty. Starling-like flocks of yellow cabs dived between red sightseeing buses, jaywalkers and roller-bladers, as they competed for inches with the world’s largest collection of white vans. Sirens screamed and horns hollered as pedestrians pushed their way past stubborn cars at every traffic light. Every pole was a godlike octopus, bristling with commandments: No Standing, No Stopping, Lane Ends, Buses Only, Truck Route, Don’t Walk.
Wyse grunted. He remembered how awed he’d been at the scale and energy of Manhattan when he moved here. His workplace was these streets, as they pulsed relentlessly with the throb of commerce. It was a prize posting and one he’d thought he would never tire of. But, for the last year or so, he had felt a growing emptiness; a feeling that something was missing in his life. And he was growing tired of the violence that seemed to follow the job around. His father had been a career man with the Bureau and had all the contacts to ease a transfer to the FBI and a posting in Washington. But, for the moment, he’d let Connolly persuade him to stay. Maybe I just need to settle down, get married, have kids.
He tipped the driver with the remainder of the twenty-dollar bill and walked quickly through the open door of the restaurant. Massimo, the white-haired maître d’, was ready, as always, with a cheery smile and a warm handshake.
‘Signor Wyse, what a pleasure to see you again.’
‘Thank you, Massimo, you’re looking well.’
‘Ah grazie, grazie. It’s the good food you know,’ Massimo said with a wink.
‘I hope I’m first here?’ Wyse asked, looking around.
‘You are, Signor Wyse, and I have the best table in the house ready for you.’
Massimo, who was a legend in the Union Square district, knew well that John Wyse was a police detective. The job did bring a certain range of perks.
‘Thanks, Massimo,’ said Wyse, as he sat at the table facing the door and accepted the leather-bound menu.
‘Grazie, a pleasure always.’
John Wyse scanned the antipasti, one eye on the entrance. He had just reached Emilia’s selection of salamis, olives and mozzarella, when his eyes were drawn to the woman walking through the door. She stood close to six feet tall. She had thick black, shoulder-length hair. She was wearing a beautifully fitted white cotton dress, which seemed to glow in the evening sunlight streaming through the doorway behind her. She was stunningly beautiful.
Christ, thought Wyse, as he began to stand. Normally women look better when you’re drunk – not the other way around. He waved and she caught his eye and waved back. He noticed the admiring glances from both men and women seated at other tables as Anna followed Massimo to the table.
‘Hi, John.’ She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek.
‘Hi, Anna, nice to see you again. You look awesome.’
‘Thank you, you’re looking pretty good yourself.’
They both laughed as they sat down.
Wow, John thought, those amazing green eyes. Like a Persian cat’s. Sultry, deep, intelligent. He could look into those eyes for ever . . .
Massimo broke the spell. ‘Signore e Signora, a glass of champagne, with my compliments?’
‘Oh yes, please.’ John smiled.
‘Gorgeous, thank you,’ said Anna.
They clinked glasses. John looked at his companion again. There was that cute crinkle of her nose as she smiled. Christ, he thought again, don’t mess this up, John!
Anna returned his gaze and he smiled, then broke away to look down at the menu, almost shyly. He was gorgeous, but she detected a genuine softness.
Don’t mess this up, Anna.