Weecho: First Shots

Chapter 27 - Sleight of Hand

“You want her to have another stroke?” Tilda said, looking at Weecho’s bleached yellow hair. 

They were on a FaceTime hookup, Tilda on an iPad at the hospital, still on guard duty for Weecho’s mother, Weecho on his iPhone at Nina Galleon’s bungalow where he’d gone back to get the puppy (the ASPCA idea not his best, he’d decided).    

His mother had gotten well enough that the hospital was letting her go back to the prison clinic later that day. 

“You sure she’s ready?” he asked Tilda. 

“I’ll be with her.” 

Which Weecho could tell meant he should be with her, too, bleached hair regardless. “Can we hook her up on this, so we can talk?”   

“Better you’re here in person,” Tilda said. “To explain yourself.” 

“I’ll get there soon as I can.” 

“Check with me first. We might be in transit.” 

“I’ll talk to you later.” 

He disconnected and called for the puppy, who was in the bungalow’s galley kitchen, chewing on some sausage Weecho had picked up before he got on the A train for the trip back out. 

He took a bite of some he’d kept for himself and made another sweep of the living room. Poked around the sofa again, looked out at the deck through the sliding glass door. 

 Where was the DVD? 

He’d missed it first on the train ride back out, when he felt his empty shirt pocket. He retraced his steps – train platform, tree they’d sat under, streets coming back to the bungalow… 

But deep down he knew. 

Juna had it. 

She’d lifted it when she was saying goodbye, hugging him at the bus boarding gate and touching his shoulder. 

When Weecho played it back in his mind, he felt it happening, the disc sliding out of his pocket. Was too numb and distracted at the time. 

In a way it was good she had it – at least he knew where it was. Knew how her mind worked, how she’d justify it: She’d found it in the safe at Lynch’s, had shot her way out of there, it was just as much hers as anybody’s. Whatever she saw as the payoff was anybody’s guess. She just knew it was leverage and there’d be a way to cash in.  

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In a Central Park meadow off by itself, Alex Alexey’s tai chi class was wrapping up. Even in a T-shirt and loose sweats, the man came across with style. He made a series of smooth, slow moves, sweeping his hands, standing on one foot like a stork, then doing something where he looked like a designer tree swaying in the wind. At the end of the series he bowed to the old Asian man who’d been leading the class. Scooped a towel off the grass and draped it around his neck.     

He spent a few minutes talking with his classmates, a typical New York mixed bag – couple of seniors, a waitress he knew from the coffee shop he went to, investment guy between jobs – then said his goodbyes and started walking east, into the mid-morning sun.   

Two minutes along the footpath, he knew he was being followed. Behind him the follower sensed he’d been sensed.  

It didn’t help that the follower was trying to deal with a puppy he had on a length of rope. Weecho had remembered what day Alexey said he did his tai chi and thought it would be a chance to catch him on neutral ground, out of his element.