Free The Equalizer by Michael Sloan Page A

awareness of tension had kicked in. There had been nothing in Moses’s two words—“Excuse me”—to indicate anything out of the ordinary. No hint of concern or apprehension. But it had been the shift of focus in the old man’s eyes. A weariness that had come over them, however momentary. He was an old Jewish man who lived surrounded by other people’s pasts, and the Jews had suffered a lot over a couple of thousand years, and he knew this was not going to change. It was the way of the world.
    McCall could hear soft voices in the alcove, but he could not see anyone from the shelves of clocks. He strolled over to an old-fashioned rolltop desk, the kind you see Santa Claus sitting behind in his North Pole workshop on Christmas cards. McCall looked at the price tag. Santa would have to be selling toys to afford it.
    From this vantage point, McCall could look into a large, ornate mirror with gilt trim that had angels playing harps on the top of it. In reflection, he saw Moses talking to two young men. They had been at Luigi’s the night before, in that alcove, drinking Pinot Grigio, laughing with their pals and having a grand old time. They were dressed in sharp business suits, red ties, black shoes that gleamed with polish. One of them sported an ostentatious gold watch chain. Their voices were never raised above a low murmur, although Moses appeared to be getting a little agitated with them.
    McCall took one step to the left. Now, in the gilt mirror, he could see the man who’d caught his attention in the alcove at the Italian restaurant the night before. He could see he was of medium height, slim, with the coiled tightness of an athlete. He was dressed in a gray pinstriped suit with a red-and-gold tie and a red kerchief neatly folded in his breast pocket. He was looking through the alcove into the main part of the antiques store.
    He was looking at McCall.
    McCall did not give a flicker of interest or awareness. He moved again, to a Colonial rocking chair, checking the price, giving the chair a gentle rock. He glanced sideways at the mirror. In it, he could see that the man had lost interest in him. Old Moses shuffled over to his desk, opened the top drawer, took out a white envelope, and handed it to one of the young turks. They looked Russian to McCall, but not quite—Chechen, perhaps. More volatile, more deadly. The young Chechen put the envelope into the inside pocket of his coat and shook Moses’s hand deferentially. Then he and his young partner walked to the back door. As they opened it the bell tinkled politely again. The older man hesitated a moment, looking into the antiques store, then nodded at Moses and walked out, closing the door behind him.
    When Moses came back, McCall was sitting in the rocking chair, gently rocking back and forth.
    â€œYou’re paying them protection,” he said.
    â€œOf course. They protect me from bad men. They are bad men themselves. But no young punks off the street will try to rob me. No homeless man or woman sleeps in my doorway. Not that I would really mind. I walk home at night and back to the store in the morning without fear of being attacked.” He shrugged. “It is the price you pay for doing business in this neighborhood.”
    â€œYou’re not the only store owner they visit?”
    â€œOh, no. They are very thorough.”
    â€œDo they extort money from Luigi’s?”
    â€œNo, they like Luigi. They leave him alone. But the other restaurants, they pay for a good night’s sleep.”
    â€œHow much do you pay them?”
    â€œNothing that will send me into bankruptcy. I need the protection.”
    â€œI could offer you that.”
    â€œWhy should you? I am an old man you chat with, perhaps wonder about, who is he, where did he come from, what’s the story of his life? But you don’t ask. Because it does not matter. You have your own business to conduct, whatever that is. I have