Free F Paul Wilson - Sims 04 by Zero (v5.0) Page A

“I
don’t care if your hair is on fire, you can’t leave that car here. There’s a
garage right there. Pull it in and—”
                 “I
don’t have time. I’ll be right back.”
                 “You
leave that car there, I promise you, it’ll be long gone and far away when you
come back.”
                 “Fine,”
Luca said, moving off. He tossed the keys to the cop. “Take it. Merry Christmas.”
                 The
cop opened his mouth, then closed it. Luca doubted
he’d ever had anyone tell him to go ahead and tow his car.
                 Luca
dashed straight through the garage—down, across, and up onto Fifty-third. He
stopped when he reached the sidewalk, frantically peering east and west through
the lights, the shadows, the people hurrying to escape
the chill.
                 Which
way, damn it?
                 He
glanced longingly at the locator unit, dangling from his hand like a small
valise. If only there had been some way to affix a transponder to Sinclair
himself.
                 Never
mind the wishing. What now?
                 He
couldn’t see Sinclair on Fifty-third. Maybe he’d headed downtown on Sixth Avenue . Luca’s instincts urged him in that
direction. He started off at a run but the crowds on the avenue slowed him to a
crawl. The Radio City Music Hall Christmas Show was in full swing, jamming the Sixth Avenue sidewalks with parents and their screaming
kiddies. But that meant Sinclair couldn’t move fast either.
                 Luca
bullied and bulled his way through the throng as fast as he could, earning angry
looks and comments. Yeah, merry Christmas to you too,
fuckers. He kept rising on tiptoes to check the other side of the
street—he saw oversized Venus de Milos framing the
Credit Lyonnaise Building, and a line of fifteen-foot
nutcrackers standing guard against the columns of the Paine-Webber, but no
Ellis Sinclair.
                 An
Art Deco marquee directly ahead now, Radio City blazing in red neon, and the damned charter
busses vomiting tourists onto the sidewalk blocked his view of the opposite
side. No sign of Sinclair here, so he stepped between two buses to check the
other side—just in time to spot Sinclair starting down a subway entrance by the Time
& Life Building .
                 Luca
congratulated his instincts. And his luck. But it
occurred to him that Sinclair was moving pretty quick for a guy who was
supposedly dosed to the eyeballs on antidepressants.
                 No
time to wonder about that now.
                 He
sprang forward to follow but a horn blared him back.
The light was against him and traffic was moving just fast enough to make crossing
impossible. Cursing, he edged to the corner. As soon as the light changed Luca
lunged forward, damn near knocking down a few slow movers on his way to the
subway. He flew down the steps and raced along the longest, fanciest goddamn
subway ramp he’d ever seen—marble tile, brass trim, all part of the Rockefeller
Center complex.
                 When
he reached the token booth, Sinclair was nowhere in sight.
                 Uptown or down?
                 He
saw the ALL TRAINS sign and ducked under the turnstile—no time for a token—and
followed the sound of a train pulling in. He reached the platform just in time
to see the doors of an F train pincer closed behind Sinclair.
                 Luca
pelted after the train as it began to move, intending to grab a handle and jump
onto the landing between the cars, but it picked up speed too quickly and he
was left standing on the platform.
                 The
lighted sign on the rear car said its last stop was 179th Street in Jamaica . That meant Sinclair could be going across
town or to the far side of Queens , or
anywhere between.
                 He
let out a roar and kicked