Alonso stared at him for a long time without speaking, and then he sank down in the only armchair in the room and ran his fingers through his hair.
Toby bolted the door of the bathroom. He kept the gun with him. He laid the heavy porcelain top of the toilet tank against the door, and he took a shower with the curtain open, washing and washing until all the dark tint was gone from his hair. He smashed the glasses. He wrapped up the gloves, the shattered glasses, and the scarf and put them in a towel.
When he came out, Alonso was talking on the phone. He was deeply absorbed in his conversation. He was talking in Italian or a Sicilian dialect, Toby wasn't sure. He'd picked up some words at the restaurant, but this stream of words was much too fast.
When the man hung up, he said, "You did get them. You got all of them."
"That's what I told you," said Toby. "But others will come. This is only the beginning of something. The information in this lawyer's computer is invaluable."
Alonso stared at him in quiet amazement. His guardian angel stood with his arms folded watching everything sadly--or that is as well as I can describe in human terms his attitude. The angel of Toby was weeping.
"Do you know people who can help me use these computers?" Toby asked. "There were desktops in the house and in the office. I didn't know how to get out the hard drives. I need to know that next time, how to remove the hard drive. All these computers, they have to be loaded with information. There are phone numbers here, hundreds most likely."
Alonso nodded. He was amazed.
"Fifteen minutes," he said.
"Fifteen minutes what?" asked Toby.
"They'll be here, and they'll be very glad to see you and very glad to teach you anything that they can." "You sure of this?" he asked. "If they wouldn't help you before, why won't they simply kill both of us?"
"Vincenzo," said Alonso. "You're just what they don't have right now. You're just what they need." Tears came to Alonso's eyes. "Son, do you think I would betray you?" he said. "I am in your debt forever. Somewhere there are copies of all these deeds, but you've killed the men who were handling them."
They went downstairs. A black stretch limousine was waiting for them.
Before they got into the car outside, Toby threw the towel with the glasses and the scarf and the gray gloves into a trash can, pushing it deep down into the crackling mess of paper cups and plastic sacks. He hated the smell of it on his left hand. He had his suitcase and his lute, and the briefcase and the leather shoulder bag with the computers and the cell phones.
He didn't like the look of the car and he didn't want to get into it, though he had seen many such cars inching up Fifth Avenue in the evenings, and lumbering past the entrances of Carnegie Hall and the Metropolitan Opera.
Finally, after Alonso, he slipped in and sat facing two young men on the opposite black leather seat.
Both of them were fiercely curious. They were pale, and blond haired, almost certainly Russians.
Toby almost stopped breathing like he had the time his mother had smashed his lute. He kept his hand on the gun in his coat. Neither man had a hand in a pocket. All hands were in plain sight except for Toby's hand.
He turned and looked at Alonso.You've betrayed me.
"No, no," said the man opposite, the elder of the two, and Alonso was smiling as if he had just heard a perfect aria. The man spoke like an American, not a Russian.
"How did you do it?" the younger blond-haired man asked. He too was American. He looked at his watch. "It's not even eleven o'clock."
"I'm hungry," Toby said. He held the gun steady in his pocket. "I've always wanted to eat at the Russian Tea Room." Whether he was to die or not, this answer made Toby feel profoundly clever. Also it was true. If he was to have a last meal, he wanted it to be in the Russian Tea Room.
The older man laughed.
"Well, don't shoot either of us, son," he said, gesturing to Toby's pocket. "That would be stupid because we're going to pay you more money now than you've ever seen in your life." He laughed. "We're going to pay you more money thanwe've ever seen inour lives. And of course, we'll take you to the Russian Tea Room." They stopped the car. Alonso got out.
"Why are you leaving?" Toby asked. Again came that breath less fear and his hand tightened on the little gun that was almost tearing his pocket.
Alonso leaned in and kissed him. He grabbed his head and kissed his eyes and kissed him on the lips, then let him go.
"They don't want me," he said. "They want you. I sold you to them but for your sake. You understand? I can't do the things you can do. We can't follow up on this, you and me. I sold you to them for your protection. You're my boy. You'll always be my boy. Now go with them. They want you, not me. You go on. I'm taking my mother down to Miami."
"But you don't have to do this now," Toby protested. "You can have the house back. You can have the restaurant back. I took care of things."
Alonso shook his head. Toby immediately felt stupid.
"Son, with what they paid me, I'm glad to go," Alonso said. "My mother will see Miami and she'll be happy." He grabbed Toby's face with both hands again and kissed him. "You brought me luck. Every time you play those old Napoli songs, you think of me."
The car moved on.
They ate lunch at the Russian Tea Room, and while Toby ate the Chicken Kiev almost greedily, the older man said:
"Do you see those men over there? They're New York policemen. And the man with them is from the FBI."
Toby didn't look. He just stared at the man who was speaking. He still had the gun in easy reach, though he hated the weight of it.
He knew that he could, if he wanted to do it, shoot both of the men with him, and probably shoot one of those other men before the others got him. But he wasn't going to try any such thing yet. Another, better moment would present itself.
"They work for us," said the older man. "They've been following us since we left your place. And they'll follow us now out of town and into the country. So just relax. We're very well protected, I assure you."
And that's how Toby became a hit man. That's how Toby became Lucky the Fox. But there is just a little more to the transition.
That night as he lay in bed, in a large country house, miles from the city, he thought about the girl who had crouched down and put up her hands. He thought about how she had begged in words that needed no translation. Her face had been stained with tears. He thought about how she had doubled over and shaken her head and put out her two hands against him.