Curtains by Scott Nicholson Page A

laughing, the laugh spasmed
into a coughing fit. The news anchor's voice fought with the racket
of the man's lungs.
    "—no survivors have been found. The Boeing
747 was reported to be carrying a full contingent of 346
passengers, according to NationAir records. F.A.A. authorities are
arriving on the scene—"
    "It was one of them Aye-rab bombs, I bet,"
said the shopkeeper. "Don't see why the rest of us got to suffer
'cause the kikes and the ragheads can't get along."
    "They said the plane was full," Vincent said,
half to himself.
    "Yep. You know how they are these days. Wedge
'em in with a crowbar. They interviewed the man who was first in
line to go standby. Everybody showed, so he never got on. He was
thanking God seven ways to Sunday."
    No standby passengers. But what about the
ticket belonging to Robert Wells? Someone must have used it.
Someone—
    Vincent stumbled toward the street, his head
reeling.
    "Hey, got a special today on handguns," the
shopkeeper called after him. "No waiting."
    But Vincent was already out the door. He
walked fast, fell into the New York rhythm, blind to
everything.
    Someone must have used his ticket. Who?
    The mugger.
    The mugger must have checked in with the
ticket, became "Robert Wells" himself, and grabbed a seat across
the country. Maybe the mugger wanted out of this town so bad that
he'd risk having the authorities waiting for him at LAX. And for
his trouble, the idiot was probably now in a thousand pieces,
feeding fish in Long Island Sound.
    If so, the creep had gotten what he deserved.
Vincent touched his sore head to remind himself that everybody had
to go sometime. Everybody had to pay that one big debt. The trick
was to put it off as long as possible.
    As he turned the corner, another thought came
to him. Unless the spooks had been watching, then they didn't know
that Robert Wells a.k.a. Vincent never boarded the plane. They
would get the list, see the name, go over the data on the terminal
computer, and verify that indeed Robert Wells had met his end on
Flight 317.
    A perfect bow-tie on their witness protection
program. Case closed. The Fed's star witness against Joey Scattione
was now utterly and forever safe from the mobster's long reach.
Even Scattione couldn't finger a man in the afterlife.
    Vincent walked faster, excited, his pulse
racing, red wires of pain shrieking through his temples. He
realized that Scattione would also think him dead. Scattione was
way sharper than the Feds, even though he'd been convicted on
racketeering and drug charges. Thanks to Vincent, who'd been one of
his best street lieutenants.
    But Vincent knew a good deal when he saw one.
When the net tightened and the Feds needed a pigeon, Vincent did
even better than squawk: he'd sung like a deflowered canary. After,
of course, he’d elicited a long sheet of promises, including
permanent immunity and protection. And a new identity.
    An identity that was dead.
    What he needed right now was his old friend
Sid.
    Vincent turned into a bar, though it was
scarcely ten o'clock. A man in drag who looked like he hadn't slept
was slumped in one corner, holding a cigarette that was four inches
of ash. Two cabbies were drinking off the effects of the third
shift. The bartender kept his attention focused on the tiny
black-and-white that hung in one corner. It was tuned to the same
news coverage of the crash.
    "Help you, buddy?" the bartender said,
without turning.
    "Scotch and water. A double."
    "Poor bastards," the bartender said, still
watching the television as he reached for the stock behind him. "We
think we got it bad, but at least we ain't been handed our
wings."
    "Yeah," Vincent said. Catholic humor. Like
everybody was an angel.
    The man poured from the Johnny Walker bottle
as if dispensing liquid gold. The ice cubes were rattled into the
glass before Vincent could complain about the weak mix. Then
Vincent remembered he had no money. He acted as if reaching for his
wallet, then said, "Excuse me, where's the rest