Читать книгу Manhattan Voyagers - Thomas Boone's Quealy - Страница 7

Carl Pizzi, 36, left his ramshackle apartment building in Brooklyn at dawn and climbed into the backseat of the black Lincoln town car idling at the curb. Limousines were as scarce as Good Samaritans in the gritty Bushwick neighborhood so the early-risers took notice on their way to the subway that would take them to low-paying service jobs in Manhattan. The car crossed the Williamsburg Bridge in light traffic and merged onto the FDR Drive North. Then it exited at the Bruckner Expressway and drove up the Hutchinson River Parkway that ultimately led onto I-95. Forty-four miles later the car arrived on the Boston Post Road in the very upscale suburban town of Darien, Connecticut. Limousines were a dime-a-dozen there and the Lincoln garnered no attention when it stopped near the Metro North railroad station.

He got out and joined the throng of commuters herded together like sheep on the platform waiting for the ride to Grand Central Station in New York. Ten minutes later the train pulled into the station and he was careful to follow instructions and enter the third car from the front. Sitting down next to an empty 4-seater, he removed The Wall Street Journal from his briefcase. His dark hair slicked-back and dressed in an expensive, chalk-striped suit, white shirt, and yellow power tie, he appeared to be just another drowsy executive making the daily commute from the Gold Coast of Fairfield County.

The train departed the station and chugged clickety-clack through the scenic countryside towards Greenwich, the wealthiest town in the state, if not in the entire nation, home to hedge fund billionaires and the top echelon of American business. Four well-dressed men entered the car at Greenwich and took their usual seats kitty-corner to him. They were dark-skinned and began to converse softly in Arabic once the train picked up speed and became a direct express from that point on.

Carl didn’t understand Arabic and had no idea what the men were talking about. All he’d been told was that they worked for the sovereign wealth fund of a major oil-producing country in the Middle East. He didn’t need to know anything more and pressed a finger on the lock of his briefcase to activate the directional microphone and recorders within. Although he much preferred reading The New York Post for its gossip and sports coverage, he pretended to be engrossed in the financial newspaper during the thirty-five minute ride to the city, never once glancing at the men.

At Grand Central he disembarked with everyone else and melted into the gaggle of commuters flowing out onto Vanderbilt Avenue. Stopping at a food cart on the corner of 44^th. Street, he ordered a coffee, placing his briefcase on the sidewalk while he rummaged in his pockets for the correct change.

A fashionable blonde wearing a peach-colored silk chiffon dress scooped up the briefcase as she passed by and sashayed towards Fifth Avenue with it. He savored the coffee and admired her shapely figure until she got lost in the crowd. Then he glanced up at the giant clock adorning the façade of 320 Park Avenue. A lopsided smile enlivened his face, it was only 8:15 A.M. and his workday was already over. Maybe he’d take the subway out to Coney Island and go on the new parachute jump ride. Later, he’d visit his pals at the Bull & Bear Tavern near Wall Street.

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