In the morning, Agostini made coffee and omelettes for breakfast and sent Calhoun to wake Princess. She shuffled out, bleary-eyed and grumpy, peered at the fluffy omelettes, and then at him.
“No steak?” she said, “No caviar?”
He shook his head slowly as he watched her take some coffee. “You really think you’ve got me pegged.”
“Sure. You’re a thug. A gangster in a penthouse.” She perched at the kitchen counter and took a bite of her omelette. “A gangster who makes a decent omelette and pretty good coffee, though. I’ll give you that.”
As she ate, she asked him, “We taking a trip today, Mr. Captor?”
He studied her puffy, insolent pout. Whenever he looked at her, he seemed to feel the opposite of what he ought to feel. When he first saw her in the club, he should have just seen her as baggage. A thing he would have to take, with the problem of keeping it safe to hold over old man Grace.
He had an uneasy feeling of complications arising. Pierce hated complication.
She was exactly what you’d expect as the daughter of an irresponsible gambler, the single parent father of a daughter just out of her teens. She was pretty in a careless kind of a way and she was spoiled.
But when he looked at her, something surged inside him. Something unfamiliar and disruptive.
“We have some errands to run, Princess, and we can’t leave you behind.” He saw her eyebrow lift. “Unfortunately.”
He sent Calhoun down to the garage to fetch the car around front. “Send the elevator back up after you.”
It took some of his patience to get her to be ready to leave. Callaghan, Princess and Agostini took the elevator and stepped out into the lobby. Agostini stopped at the sweeping reception desk. “How’s it going, Mikey?”
Mikey, filling his uniform white shirt and blue serge pants to capacity, gave him a wide open smile. “Everything’s peachy, thank you, Mr. Agostini. How are you today?”
“I’m great, Mikey. We’ll be out for the day. You know my number if you need to be in touch, right?”
He had nothing to say, but keeping a regular contact with the doormen, Mikey, Cyril and Georgey, was important. They were the building’s security, and if anything happened around the building or the apartment, he wanted them to call him first. Before the police, for sure.
To keep that relationship fresh, as well as finding excuses to give tips that were only a little over-generous, Agostini made a point to visit the reception desk and chat with them at least once every day.
Calhoun pulled up in front of the big glass front of the gleaming steel reception, and Agostini installed himself and Princess in the back of the big black SUV. She scowled and sulked in the corner of the back seat. That was okay with him. Maybe she could stay quiet and not cause trouble for a while.
In the morning light, Calhoun drove through Manhattan traffic to the Lincoln tunnel. Callaghan and Calhoun made what talk there was, and it was mainly about the roads and the drive. “New Jersey still feels like you’re in a tunnel.”
“For Highway Nine, you’ve to take the turn-off for Jersey City.”
“New Jersey is just a wilderness of chain-link, car lots, and pawn shops.”
“This part is, for sure. Here, this is the turn. You get to I-9 from here, and then it’s a straight shot.”
Pierce Agostini was occupied with his laptop, the case full of papers and some calls. He called the Marchmade estate office, said that he was from Springfield Land Assay Bureau.
He wanted to let them know that there was a discrepancy in the papers that had been filed on the farm for the land registry. It wouldn’t be too serious or expensive to solve—this was mainly a courtesy call. Just in case they were thinking of transferring ownership.
No, a notification of variance was incomplete, that was all. Probably an oversight, and it was only a formality. There was just the possibility of a federal criminal liability if they sold or transferred ownership before it was cleared up. No, it was no trouble at all. He was glad to be of help.
When he hung up, Calhoun said, “You’re one devious motherfucker, if you don’t mind me saying so, boss.”
“Yeah, that sounded very gangster,” Princess muttered.
“You want to hate me because I am a gangster, Princess, or because I’m not?” Agostini asked.
She stared out the window. “Either way works.”