He was an odd mix, Tad. He slouched around like a thug, someone who might disappear out the back entrance after lifting your wallet between dinner courses, yet he was meticulous and had an innate intelligence.
That first night, he’d left a scrawled note behind, explaining exactly where and when to meet him the following evening. I was to be at the corner of Houston Street and the FDR Drive at eight P.M.
I was there at ten to eight. It was likely he wouldn’t show, and that both relieved and horrified me. In the East River, a barge crept by at a drowsy pace.
Tad had told me little at the dingy leather bar where we’d met the night before. I’d first seen only his image reflected. The place was dark and murky. He slunk across the room, blurred in the mirror lining one wall. A tall, swarthy y
