CHAPTER FIFTY

 

 

The evening air was chilly. It was above freezing, so everything was wet. An odor of damp despair swirled about. Henry parked his car a couple of blocks from the warehouse. He was two hours early. Henry calculated the number of outcomes that ended with him floating face down in the East River as being considerably greater than the number where he slept in his own bed.

With this fuzzy and upsetting math in his head, he decided it would be best to look over the property, check for all the routes of egress, and generally get a feel for the place. Henry had been in tight spots before, some of which nearly ended in sorrow, but because he was good at seeing the options and reading his adversary, he had gotten through unscathed.

The warehouse was in a part of town that teemed with life during the day as ships brought in goods and trucks took them away. When 5:00 pm arrived, everything ground to a halt. Thirty minutes of chaos would ensue as everyone scurried off to their lives, then it would be quiet.

The city was never completely quiet, though. Henry listened to the city sounds as he walked slowly around the blocks adjacent to the warehouse property. He checked for doors that might be unlocked. He looked for escape routes, which might lead them into a dead end, both literally and figuratively. He covered all the angles as they say.

Henry had a plan A and a plan B. Running away from Tommy and his thugs on foot with a frightened, likely exhausted Sylvia in tow was plan Q. But one never knew; it was best to try to think of everything. There were a bunch of variables, and he counted on a lot of egos in the room. There would be more guns than Henry could imagine. He had his own revolver. It would likely be futile to try to shoot his way out of a jam, but he added it to the plan list - somewhere around letter M.

The far side of the warehouse was next to the river. The docks found a few sailors meandering about, smoking, and securing lines as well as a bum on a bench drinking a bottle of wine out of a bag. Henry chuckled to himself. He wondered if the bum would agree that 'Gallo Brings You Fine Wine.' He shook his head from side to side and brought his focus back to Sylvia.

Henry moved in to take a closer look at the warehouse. He didn't think she was here yet as he imagined Tommy was planning on bringing her here shortly before their meeting. Of course, Tommy wasn't known for thinking things through. Perhaps they had been here all day? The windows were filthy and, at first look, all of the ones on the ground level were impossible to see through.

Henry decided it was too risky to try one of the doors. He looked around for another way to see inside and saw a promising spot. Near one end of the building was a stack of pallets that was in front of a window, and it had pushed out one of the panes of glass. He carefully removed the pallets from the stack, one by one, then looked through the hole. He couldn't see the entire warehouse, but he could listen. There weren't any sounds. It was still.

He looked at his pocket watch; one hour had slipped by, and he now was as ready as he could be. Henry began to fidget. The tension was becoming almost unbearable, and he needed to be calm with a clear head. He walked down a street that seemed like it might have a bar.

The sign said, "Joe's Place"; an ad for Lucky Strikes was in the window. Henry didn't smoke much, but he needed one now. The bartender was wiping the bar with an ancient artifact of a bar towel. He grunted, "What can I get ya, Mack?"

"Pack of Lucky's," Henry said. He left off the please as he figured such politeness might come off as being a wise guy. Henry's brain was firing on all cylinders. Just the idea that he would worry about a 'please,' and how it might change the dynamic told him he was ready. The meeting would be tense and the slightest blunder could be deadly. The bartender set a fresh pack on the counter. Henry paid him, grabbed a book of matches, and gave a quick look around the bar.

Henry wasn't sure who he was looking for, but there was a point, when facing a possible end, that made one look for the familiar, the friendly. There was nothing familiar or friendly about this crowd. Henry gave a clipped, "Thanks," and walked out.

He tapped the Lucky's several times, opened it, and pulled a cigarette from the pack. The first match didn't light, but the second did the trick. He walked back to his car. The coolness of the evening, the dampness of the air, and the glow of the cigarette in hand seemed exactly as it should be. Now Henry felt the calmness and clarity that he would need. Forty-eight minutes until the meet.