Mortal Encounter [antikvár]

OneIn a public phone booth on Eightieth Street and Lexington Avenue a man spoke with controlled savagery into the phone."They went all the way, the goddamn barbarians , Yes, he's dead. They finally killed himthe poor bastard. Damned Neanderthals. No brains, only brawn. If they'd let him alone, he'd have led us to it. . . . Christ, we all ask for it one way or another. . . . You're damned right, I'm complaining^sloppy, inefficient, unprofessional idiots. . . . Only that it take some doing to clean up the mess they left. I've got someone working on it. . . . Yes, she'll be easier, all right. She's there now. . . . Don't worry about that. rU be in touch."The man dropped the receiver onto its hook and stepped outside into the cold rain of the December ni^t. Across the street on the fifth floor of the twenty-story apartment building he could make out a dhn shadow outlined against bare windows. He didn't have to see more than that to know what the apartment looked like. He didn't have to see the woman to know what she looked like.Hunching deeper into his coat against the icy rain, he pulled a flask out of his pocket and with a quick, practiced hand twisted the lid off and tipped it to his mouth, recapped it, and slid it back into his pocket. Then he leaned against the booth and waited motionless in the shadows.