traffic passing them, looking at several cars, staring at the faces of the drivers and passengers. He turned from the street, looking at the shoppers and tourists and neighborhood kids on the sidewalks.
Across the street, Blancanales saw Lyons pass in the phony yellow cab. He glanced at Bernardo, winked to Lyons. Lyons raised his eyebrows slightly as he hid his face behind a newspaper.
"Where now?" Blancanales asked Bernardo.
"Wait here." Bernardo went into a corner luncheonette and moved to the phone. He dialed a number, watching Blancanales while he talked.
Blancanales leaned against a light pole, talked to himself. The minimike was in his inside coat pocket.
"He's making a call. I tell you, this kid is one very paranoid young man. But he doesn't know anything about counter-surveillance. I think he's just a street kid that they recruited. Also, when we went past the WorldFiCor, he didn't even notice."
Looking back to the luncheonette, he saw Bernardo hang up and step outside. "Talk to you later, he's coming back."
Bernardo returned and held up a hand for a taxi. "The meeting is set," he told Blancanales. "But first, we..."
"We must lose any surveillance?"
"My commander instructed me to be very careful."
They took a taxi to the next block, got out, ran through traffic to the entry of a tenement. Bernardo led him through the central hallway to a back stairway. Up the stairs to the second floor, through a window to a fire escape, down the fire escape to an alley. They crossed the alley.
Bernardo pulled open the unlocked rear door of a restaurant and hurried through the kitchen. The cooks and dishwashers turned their backs. Blancanales saw a waiter go to the rear door, lock it. Then they wove between the tables. The few patrons didn't look up from their lunches and conversations.
Out on the street, Bernardo flagged another taxi. "Where to, kid?"
"Drive." Bernardo pointed straight ahead.
"We're sight-seeing," Blancanales explained.
"Tourists, huh?" The driver commented. "Where you from?"
"My friend here's from New York," Blancanales said, "but I'm from California." .
"California! First time in the big city?"
"No. But it's the first time I've had time to look around. Any tourist attractions around here?"
"Hey, man! This is Little Italy. Unless you're into crime, you know, gangsters, the mob, Mafia, you got to go uptown for tourist action."
"This is Little Italy? This where Lucky Luciano grew up?"
"Out!" Bernardo interrupted. "We're getting out here."
They dodged traffic as they crossed the avenue. Bernardo led Blancanales around a corner, and without breaking stride, pushed him through the side door of a waiting florist's van. Bernardo slid the door closed, then got into the driver's seat. They were alone in the van.
There were no windows in the back of the van. As Bernardo started the engine, he leaned back and said tersely, "If you try to look outside, no meeting. If you try to signal anyone, no meeting. Understand?"
"Entiendo."
Bernardo jerked a curtain shut, then raced into traffic. Blancanales rode in the dark van, his companion a funeral wreath.
* * *
Cruising through the narrow streets of shops and tenements, Lyons watched the sidewalks and cars for his partner. The afternoon's heat had thinned the pedestrians. Kids sat on steps sipping Cokes. Teenagers gulped from bag-wrapped beer cans, passed wine bottles. But he saw no Latin ex-Green Beret in a business suit walking with a twenty-year-old FALN soldier. He glanced into the cars in traffic, trying to keep his face concealed behind the headlines of that afternoon's paper. He knew the boy would be watching the traffic for surveillance: for him to see Lyons might mean death for Blancanales. Lyons knew his threats had impressed Bernardo, but the boy was only one of the soldiers in this operation. The others might not give a damn about Bernardo's friends and family.
The D.F. signal faded.
"Go north a few blocks," Lyons told his driver. The secure
Across the street, Blancanales saw Lyons pass in the phony yellow cab. He glanced at Bernardo, winked to Lyons. Lyons raised his eyebrows slightly as he hid his face behind a newspaper.
"Where now?" Blancanales asked Bernardo.
"Wait here." Bernardo went into a corner luncheonette and moved to the phone. He dialed a number, watching Blancanales while he talked.
Blancanales leaned against a light pole, talked to himself. The minimike was in his inside coat pocket.
"He's making a call. I tell you, this kid is one very paranoid young man. But he doesn't know anything about counter-surveillance. I think he's just a street kid that they recruited. Also, when we went past the WorldFiCor, he didn't even notice."
Looking back to the luncheonette, he saw Bernardo hang up and step outside. "Talk to you later, he's coming back."
Bernardo returned and held up a hand for a taxi. "The meeting is set," he told Blancanales. "But first, we..."
"We must lose any surveillance?"
"My commander instructed me to be very careful."
They took a taxi to the next block, got out, ran through traffic to the entry of a tenement. Bernardo led him through the central hallway to a back stairway. Up the stairs to the second floor, through a window to a fire escape, down the fire escape to an alley. They crossed the alley.
Bernardo pulled open the unlocked rear door of a restaurant and hurried through the kitchen. The cooks and dishwashers turned their backs. Blancanales saw a waiter go to the rear door, lock it. Then they wove between the tables. The few patrons didn't look up from their lunches and conversations.
Out on the street, Bernardo flagged another taxi. "Where to, kid?"
"Drive." Bernardo pointed straight ahead.
"We're sight-seeing," Blancanales explained.
"Tourists, huh?" The driver commented. "Where you from?"
"My friend here's from New York," Blancanales said, "but I'm from California." .
"California! First time in the big city?"
"No. But it's the first time I've had time to look around. Any tourist attractions around here?"
"Hey, man! This is Little Italy. Unless you're into crime, you know, gangsters, the mob, Mafia, you got to go uptown for tourist action."
"This is Little Italy? This where Lucky Luciano grew up?"
"Out!" Bernardo interrupted. "We're getting out here."
They dodged traffic as they crossed the avenue. Bernardo led Blancanales around a corner, and without breaking stride, pushed him through the side door of a waiting florist's van. Bernardo slid the door closed, then got into the driver's seat. They were alone in the van.
There were no windows in the back of the van. As Bernardo started the engine, he leaned back and said tersely, "If you try to look outside, no meeting. If you try to signal anyone, no meeting. Understand?"
"Entiendo."
Bernardo jerked a curtain shut, then raced into traffic. Blancanales rode in the dark van, his companion a funeral wreath.
* * *
Cruising through the narrow streets of shops and tenements, Lyons watched the sidewalks and cars for his partner. The afternoon's heat had thinned the pedestrians. Kids sat on steps sipping Cokes. Teenagers gulped from bag-wrapped beer cans, passed wine bottles. But he saw no Latin ex-Green Beret in a business suit walking with a twenty-year-old FALN soldier. He glanced into the cars in traffic, trying to keep his face concealed behind the headlines of that afternoon's paper. He knew the boy would be watching the traffic for surveillance: for him to see Lyons might mean death for Blancanales. Lyons knew his threats had impressed Bernardo, but the boy was only one of the soldiers in this operation. The others might not give a damn about Bernardo's friends and family.
The D.F. signal faded.
"Go north a few blocks," Lyons told his driver. The secure
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