Page 61 of The Picasso Heist
Bergamo takes out his cell, searches, his thumbs a blur as I dodgetraffic. I’ve got one eye on the road, the other on the van’s headlights. They look like two eyes staring at us in the night. I take a right on Third Avenue heading uptown, and the eyes turn with me.
“The Thirteenth Precinct,” says Bergamo, scrolling. “That’s the closest one. Straight up on East Twenty-First Street between Third and Second.”
“Perfect,” I say, darting around a cab. The driver honks in anger when I nearly cut him off, then flips me the bird.
We pass Sixth Street, then Seventh and Eighth, the lights cooperating—green, green, green. Up ahead at Ninth Street, the light turns yellow. I’m too far away to gun it. I jam on the brakes, screech to a stop.
“Where are they?” asks Bergamo.
“Far left lane, behind the bus,” I say.
He looks again, craning his neck. “Fuck.”
“What?” I ask, but I don’t need to hear the answer. I can now see it. The van has veered out from behind the bus and is crossing lanes, heading straight for us.
“Go!” says Bergamo, his head still turned. His eyes are glued on the van. “Go now!”
“I can’t!”
We’re wedged between a Tesla and the cab I just passed. In front of the Tesla, people are in the crosswalk. There are cars driving by as well. Bergamo’s head whips forward, taking it all in. We’ve got nowhere to go.
It’s like a line of ducks. The Tesla, then us, then the cab. Behind the cab the van pulls to a stop. There are too many headlights in our eyes, so we can’t even get a glimpse of who’s behind the wheel.
“Oh no,” says Bergamo.
“I see it.” I seethem.Two guys stepping out of the van. They’re silhouettes but what they’re doing is as clear as it gets. They’re walking straight for us.
“Go!”yells Bergamo.
I still can’t but that’s not about to stop me. I hit the horn and shift the car into reverse to buy whatever space there is. It’s a chain reaction. The cabbie honks back, thinking we’re crazy, but by now I’m in drive again and I yank the wheel, edge out from behind the Tesla in front of us.Move, Tesla!
Or don’t. I don’t care. One way or another, we’re getting around you.I hit the gas; Bergamo’s Porsche lurches forward and squeezes out of the lane with no more than an inch to spare. People in the crosswalk are scattering, and the cars at the intersection screech to a halt to avoid smashing into us as we blow through the red light.
I’m gunning the engine, weaving through traffic. Bergamo’s staring out the back.
“What are they doing?” I ask.
“They’re getting back in the van.”
The next light is green. “Now what?”
“They’re not moving.”
“Good.”
“No, wait. Here they come.”
We get green lights at Eleventh Street, then Twelfth, but the lights won’t stay green forever. We can’t make it to the precinct on Twenty-First without hitting another red, and there’s too much traffic around us. I don’t know for sure if I’ll be able to run the light.
“What are you doing?” asks Bergamo.
“Plan B,” I answer, taking a right onto Fourteenth Street.
You hear native New Yorkers boasting all the time that they know this town like the backs of their hands. Nonsense. They only think they do. Sure, they might be able to out-travel-guide me when it comes to restaurants and shopping, but, having grown up within a half an hour’s drive of this city, I’ll forever have them beat in one category.
Parking garages.
Before Bergamo can ask what plan B is, I’m turning into the twenty-four-hour garage on Fourteenth Street, the one my father used when we went to the Lilac Gallery so he could search for up-and-coming artists. I blow right by the attendant and loop down the familiar L-turn just far enough to ensure that no part of Bergamo’s Porsche is visible from the street.
