Free Smart Moves by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

as Frankie ended his song and said “Thank you.”
    When I made it to the aisle, I stayed low. A few girls glanced at me but they weren’t going to miss a second of Frankie, who launched into “The Continental.” I scuttled to the back of the theater and stood up looking for the seat where Povey was sitting. In this game, I wanted to be behind him and I wanted him to know it. The problem was that I didn’t have a gun and I was sure that he did. I spotted his head of white hair when Sinatra finished his fifth song, thanked us all, and left the stage. The crowd called for him, screamed for him, wept for him, but Tommy Dorsey adjusted his glasses, cradled his trombone, and tried to explain that they had a schedule and two more shows to do that day. The girls were not sympathetic, but after a while they calmed down to whimpers. When Dorsey began to play, Povey turned and looked directly at me, no hesitation. I would have felt better if he had smiled. I would have felt angry, but he didn’t smile. He just stared at me unblinking. It scared hell out of me, but I smiled at him, turned, and went through the exit door as Buddy Rich went mad on the drums and distracted the female teen army.
    It was raining on Times Square, raining and dark. Thunder clapped and I went over my choices. I could try to follow Povey, but he would be ready for that, probably even wanted it. I could get away from him if he was going to keep following me, that wouldn’t be a problem. Or I could hide in some doorway or alley and jump out at him and have it out in front of two or three thousand people running past in the downpour. None of the possibilities appealed to me. I decided to go get that shoulder holster and then have the meeting with Povey. I turned left instead of right in case Povey was not alone. Left took me away from the direction of the Taft. I ran down a street, I think it was Forty-fourth, and looked back over my shoulder. No one was following me. The rain had cleared the street of most pedestrians, though there were a few with umbrellas. No one was running behind me. I kept running and made another turn. The sky went mad and I ducked, soaking, into a small delicatessen.
    The place was packed with people nibbling the minimum and waiting for the rain to let up. I spotted a stool open at the counter and went for it, just beating out a mailman who muttered something under his breath. I pretended not to hear him and straddled a stool that faced the door. There was no wall behind me but I wasn’t Wild Bill Hickok either.
    “Shoot,” came a woman’s voice. I looked up at the scrawny waitress, who had her pencil and pad poised as she waited. I grabbed the menu and ordered the chopped liver on rye and a Pepsi.
    “Check,” she said and shuffled away.
    I watched the door, smelled the food and bodies seeping from the rain, and felt sleepy, but I had miles to go before I slept and a promise to keep. Besides, I was starting to get angry, damned angry. I was angry at the FBI for not helping me. I was angry at the Nazis for everything, and I was angry at myself for that moment of fear back at the Paramount. I wrapped it all together in my gut and got it ready as a present for Gurko Povey. When the sandwich came, I bolted it down fast, keeping my elbow in to avoid knocking over an asthmatic woman on my right and a short guy on my left who grunted every time he took a bite. The chopped liver was terrific. I ate it, my pickle, and all the fries, finished my Pepsi, burped appreciatively, and sloshed my way back to the street after paying my bill.
    The rain had let up but somewhere over Jersey the thunder roared. The sky was still dark, maybe even darker. I trotted up Fifth Avenue and turned west again on Fiftieth. Thunder had decided on a return visit to Manhattan when I ducked under the Taft’s canopy and ran up the steps and into the lobby. I was breathing hard as I looked around for Povey. He wasn’t there. I went to the desk to check for