Christa Jones sat on the floor of an apartment on East Sixteenth Street in New York City. It belonged to a friend, Amy Upshur, who’d known Christa from Des Moines. In fact, Amy had been the only friend Christa had in Des Moines, the only one she could turn to when things had become particularly unpleasant with Quentin Hughes.
Amy had moved to New York to chase a retailing career and had progressed through a succession of jobs with department stores and boutiques, then managed a few small shops until finally opening her own children’s boutique on the Upper East Side. Not having heard from Christa in a long time, she was surprised to receive her call, then quickly sensed that her old friend was in some kind of trouble. She readily agreed to her coming to stay with her for a few days.
It was late afternoon of the third day of Christa’s visit. She’d told Amy that morning that she planned to leave New York after dinner, and so Amy insisted on leaving the shop early so that they could have a leisurely dinner together.
“What’s your pleasure, Christa?” Amy asked.
“Oh, I really don’t care. I like most things, except Indian and Mexican.”
Amy shook her head. “My two favorites. Tell you what. There’s a great place up on East Forty-Ninth, Antolotti’s, northern Italian. A guy I’ve been seeing takes me there. It’ll be my treat, no arguments.”
Christa checked the time. It was five. “Amy, could we go now? I’m hungry and I do want to get to the airport in time for an early flight back.” She’d already packed her suitcase, which sat on the floor next to the front door.
“I really can’t, honey… I’m expecting a couple of phone calls, one of them from a man who’s very important in my life and who’s in California on a business trip. Let’s do this. I’ll make a reservation and tell them you’re on your way now. You go in, ask for Joe, give him a big kiss on the cheek for me and gorge yourself on antipasto and have a drink. I’ll catch up with you soon as I can. How’s that sound?”
“Fine, except I really don’t mind waiting for you—”
“No, nothing worse than sitting around listening to lovebirds on the phone, especially when it gets a little gushy. Go ahead, grab a cab and settle in. I’ll be there before you know it.”
Actually Christa was relieved to be able to be on her own for a while. The day had started okay but as the afternoon wore on she felt increasingly anxious. A walk would do her good, and maybe get her to the restaurant about the same time as Amy. She double-checked Antolotti’s address, picked up her suitcase and left the apartment.
Darkness had fallen on the city, and a cold wave that had moved in during the afternoon had dropped the temperature considerably. Christa set down her suitcase and buttoned her coat. She hadn’t brought many clothes with her, in fact owned very few. She allowed a twinge of optimism and decided she’d buy a new wardrobe soon, one that was in style, for a change. She picked up the suitcase and walked briskly along the street toward a main avenue. As she approached it, she decided to take a bus. She liked buses, and trains, enjoyed watching the people.
She crossed the avenue, went to where a large group of people waited at a bus shelter, asked someone whether a bus that stopped there would go up as far as Forty-Ninth Street and was told it would. She settled into line and waited until a blue-and-silver bus fought its way through the intersection and stopped six feet from the curb. Christa noticed on the side of the bus that exact change was necessary. She fumbled through her purse in search of the right combination of coins, and luckily came up with them just as it was her turn to deposit her fare in the meter. For a moment she had an image of herself being lined up in front of a bare wall and shot for the high crime of insufficient coins…
She navigated the crush of passengers and moved toward the rear of the bus, spurred on by the driver’s command, “Move to the rear.” Or be shot down… The last passenger boarded, and the driver pulled away from the curb, which jolted Christa into another passenger. “I’m sorry,” she said. The man didn’t even seem aware of her, kept his nose buried in his newspaper.
As the bus slowly proceeded north, Christa crouched down in an attempt to read the street signs. No one else on the bus seemed to be doing that, which made her feel very much the tourist.
After what seemed forever, the bus arrived at the corner of Forty-Ninth. Christa went through the rear exit door behind three other passengers, not noticing that other passengers had left through the front door, including a man who’d been the last to board at the corner where Christa had caught the bus.
She waited for a large group of people to pass, then crossed the sidewalk and stopped to look in a store window. The man stood just out of her sight, behind a bus shelter.
She looked up at the street sign to make sure she was in the right place, then turned the corner and began walking east on Forty-Ninth. The man quickly left the shelter, peered around the corner and followed her. If he had turned to look behind him, he might have noticed another man who’d ridden the same bus, and who’d waited until Christa had turned the corner before falling in step with her.
East Forty-Ninth Street was relatively free of people. A few office workers who’d returned home were walking their dogs. One of them carried an elaborate device for scooping up the dog’s droppings. Unbelievable. An old woman with two dachshunds carried a piece of newspaper and a small plastic bag to accomplish the same thing.
Christa came up now to a fenced parking lot that served a small commercial building. She looked through the fence and admired a silver Rolls-Royce. She put her suitcase down to give her hand a rest, then looked up the street and saw a sign on a canopy: ANTOLOTTI’S. It looked mighty inviting an oasis. She picked up her suitcase and was about to move toward the restaurant when a man came up behind her.
The suitcase dropped out of her hand. She turned and looked into his face. God… Quentin Hughes… She wanted to scream but nothing came out of her throat. He grabbed her arm and put her up against the fence. “Where is it, Christa?”
She felt frozen to her spot.
“What are you doing here?” was all she managed to get out.
“The tape, Christa, give me that tape.” He looked down at the suitcase. “Is it in there?” He decided not to wait for an answer, took the purse from her shoulder, picked up the bag and started to leave… when the man who’d been following him suddenly came up.
“What do you think you’re doing, friend?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m saying leave the lady alone.”
Hughes tried to push by him, which was a poor idea. The man leaned his bulk into Hughes, then slammed him against the fence. Hughes lost his grip on the suitcase. The man yanked away Christa’s purse from Hughes’s other hand and dropped it to the sidewalk, then rammed his hand up against Hughes’s throat and held a cocked fist inches from his face. Hughes tried to bring his right knee up into the man’s groin. Another bad move. “You do that again, mister, and you’re dead.”
Christa grabbed up her suitcase and purse and ran up the street toward the restaurant. She stopped in front of it, turned to look back at the parking lot fence. As far as she could tell, neither man had realized she’d left, too busy with each other… she hoped. She darted into the restaurant and said to the first person she saw, a man in a tuxedo, “Could I use your phone?”
“Of course—”
And it occurred to Christa that if Hughes got away from his attacker he might well look for her in the closest place, which happened to be this restaurant. “I was supposed to meet someone here,” she said to the tuxedoed maître d’. “Her name is Amy Upshur. My plans have changed and I’ve got to leave. Would you tell her that…?”
“Miss Upshur called. Are you sure you can’t wait for her?”
Christa shook her head. “No, I have to go right now. Tell her I’m sorry, I’ll write her.”
Christa started to leave, turned. “Are you Joe?”
“Yes.”
She kissed his cheek. “That’s from Amy.” Also from herself now.
***
The Eastern Airlines shuttle to Washington was full, and a second section had to be put on. Christa sat back in her seat on the 727 and tried to collect her thoughts. Having Quentin Hughes come up to her on the street in New York was still like a bad dream. She had no idea how he’d learned that she was in New York. It didn’t matter. What did was that he clearly was not about to accept the loss of that damned tape. Of course he won’t, she thought as the plane pushed away from the gate and the pilot increased engine power to begin his taxi toward the active runway. That tape is worth too much to him…
Unlike her mood—her life—the flight to Washington’s National Airport was easy and smooth. Christa went directly to a bank of public telephones, where she dialed several numbers, all in the hope of reaching Lydia James. Each one produced nothing but a long succession of unanswered rings. She clenched her teeth, swore silently, then she rummaged through her purse until she came up with a scrap of paper another telephone number was written on. She dialed it, and Ginger Johnson answered.
“This is Christa Jones, Miss Johnson… Quentin Hughes’s producer. I’m sorry to bother you but—”
“That’s okay,” Ginger said, “I know that Miss James was anxious to hear from you. What can I do for you?”
“Do you know where Miss James is?”
“Matter of fact I do. She told me she and Mr. Foster-Sims are attending a concert at the Caldwell Center—”
“They’re there now?”
“I suppose so. I’m not sure what time the concert started but I’d think it’s any minute now. Can I help you, Miss Jones? Lydia and I work together very closely and—”
The sound of a receiver being clicked into place.
“Who was that?” Harold asked.
“Somebody the committee’s been involved with.”
“I’ll be glad when you’re through with that damned committee.”
Ginger, who was wearing a thigh-length blue terry-cloth robe, plopped down on the couch next to him. She ran her fingertip around the outline of his ear. “I wasn’t thinking about any committees, Harold. Care to fool around?”
He said he did.