4:56 p.m.
New York City (Queens)
David Zemmer Art Gallery
Spreading apart the lapels of his black suit coat and shoving hands into pants pockets, Jacob ambled from one painting to the next, stealing glances at the other gallery patrons; two middle-aged couples, an elderly man with a cane and a mid-thirties man dressed similarly to Jacob.
He ogled the next painting, depicting a high-heeled shoe on a woman’s fishnet stocking-clad leg. The top part of the thigh ran off the canvas at the upper right corner. The stocking’s lace band was an inch from the painting’s edge. A ‘one-way’ street sign—pointing left—was forward of the knee. Jacob shook his head, checked his watch—4:59—and gave the room another look, his mind going over the phone call he had received earlier:
Jacob put the mobile to his ear, “Hello?”
A man’s voice: “Hello, Mr. St. Christopher.”
“Who’s this?”
“You don’t know me, but I know you.”
Jacob pivoted in his seat at the table, observing the other restaurant goers. “Is this a prank?”
“I’d like that to change,” said the voice. “You have skills of which I am very much in need. To that end, I’m offering you a job.”
Jacob bobbed his head backward. “That’s funny. I don’t remember submitting my resume to any employment agencies. Who are you?”
“This type of work, Mr. St. Christopher, won’t be found in the classified section of any newspaper.”
“Answer my question.”
“All in good time, Mr. St. Christopher. All in good time.”
“I’m hanging up now. Good b—”
“I can tell you this. I’m giving you the chance to help people, to save lives, to make a real difference in the world.”
Jacob clutched the phone tighter and inspected the area, and the people around him, one more time.
“If you’re the least bit curious about what the future may hold for you, Mr. St. Christopher, meet me at the David Zemmer Gallery in Queens this afternoon at four fifty-five.”
“How will I know what you look like? Hello?” Jacob spied his cell and saw a strong signal indicator in the upper right corner. “Hello?”
Jacob flipped his wrist—5:00. Just a crackpot who’s seen too many spy movies.
“I’ve always thought Zemmer to be a tad…” said a man, arms crossed, forefinger touching pursed lips, holding a thin leather binder under his armpit, “odd…if I may say so myself.”
Jacob turned his head to the right. His eyes went down and up the length of the man, who was four or five inches shorter, fifty pounds lighter and fifteen to twenty years older than Jacob, and sported a salt and pepper head of hair. He wore a black double-breasted pinstripe three-piece suit, crisp white shirt and navy blue tie. Gold, wire-rimmed circular spectacles and Black Oxfords completed his ensemble.
The man pivoted his upper body toward Jacob. “What would you say about his work?”
Jacob went back to the painting and shrugged. “I love a woman’s leg as much as the next guy, but to me,” he glimpsed the artwork on either side, “all this stuff is crap.”
The man looked down and let out a slow sustained chuckle. “That’s not exactly how I would have put it, but I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” said a uniformed guard. “The gallery is closing. Please make your way to the main doors.”
Jacob stepped behind Pinstripe and headed for the exit.
“Please remain, Mr. St. Christopher.”
Jacob halted and stood straight, eyeing the guard, who waited for the old man with the cane to pass by before sliding a metal gate across the entrance to the room. The guard waved, and Jacob turned around to see Pinstripe nod at the guard.
Jacob rotated his body a little to the right, while slipping his hand inside his jacket and gripping the Coonan.
Noticing the tiny bulge under Jacob’s armpit, Pinstripe lifted open hands. “I assure you, you are in no danger.” He pointed toward the gate and the departing guard’s back. “I know the owner of the gallery. We are free to talk here.”
“So start talking. Who are you? And why all the cloak and dagger stuff?”
The man strolled to a bench, unbuttoned his coat, sat, and put the padfolio on the space next to him. “My name is John Doe.”
Jacob scoffed. “Are you serious?”
Doe folded his arms and looked away. “Until I know you’re officially part of this endeavor, that’s the best I can afford you.”
“Wow, you really have seen too many spy movies.”
“No need, Mr. St. Christopher…not when you’ve lived the kind of life I’ve lived.” He gestured to his right. “Please have a seat.”
Jacob hesitated.
“As I said, you are in no danger. And if you were, I’m highly confident you’d come away unscathed.”
“See, hearing you say things like that,” Jacob sat, “what makes you think you know me so well? I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Let’s just say that I have access to vast amounts of data on people. I have to…in order to do my job.” Doe twisted his torso toward Jacob. “If you come to work for me, you’ll have that same access. In fact, it will be paramount to your success.”
“Vast amounts, access, paramount…who talks like that and what exactly is this job you want me to do? It sounds crooked, illegal, on the black side.” A beat. “Those are the kind of words I use.”
Doe pursed his lips, stared at his shoes and nodded. “Every day in this country, people wind up in all sorts of trouble. Good, honest, hardworking individuals—fathers, mothers,” he shot a look at Jacob, “children—wake up in the morning a hair’s breath away from being murdered, kidnapped,” he paused, “or just disappearing from the face of the earth.”
“That’s why we have police, detectives…criminal investigators.”
Doe shook his head, expanded his lungs and blew out the air. “If it were only that simple. While the law enforcement community is excellent at what it does, criminals have become more adept at plying their trade. And then there are the perpetrators with wealth, power and connections that keep them above the law.”
Jacob shrugged. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. Do me a favor and skip to the part that explains why I’m here. What exactly does this job you’re offering me entail?”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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