Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Twelve

The rendezvous with Todd Finley was to occur at the Dakota, the famed hotel where John Lennon was assassinated in 1980. Quaid and Mayor Diaz arrived by limo, instructing the driver and trail car to wait at street level. The mayor's head of security objected, but cursorily. He was practiced in looking away during the mayor's dalliances; from his perspective, tonight seemed no different than any other.

"I'll text him we're here," Quaid said in the lobby. "Drink order?"

Sergio said he'd take a caipirinha. The mayor was scarcely recognizable, his jet-black mane free about his shoulders, in a shimmery shirt instead of his workday suit.

Quaid tapped out his message to Finley. The operation had been his brainchild, floating the possibility of the city doing a Forceworthy trial in exchange for introductions to their supposed heavies, who might be connected to the Blind Mice. The mayor loved the idea—how better to resuscitate his approval rating than play a personal roll in nabbing the Mice?—but could not risk exposing himself with direction communication. Quaid had served as go-between instead. Finley had jumped at the chance—"Sure, I'll gitcha in a room with them."

Was it a high-probability op? Not high-high. Finley could've been blowing smoke, saying whatever it took to generate interest in his wares. Still, Quaid believed—and frequently, over the course of Third Chance Enterprises's seven years, his belief had been enough to make a play like this work.

Finley took a while answering the text. Quaid and Sergio decided to head on up, figuring it must be too loud to hear a phone chime. A gold-plated elevator ferried them to the 7th floor. The suite hosting the party featured a three-story balcony overlooking Central Park.

Quaid scored a prairie fire—his signature drink—then joined the mayor on the balcony. The view was sublime, joggers and bikers weaving beneath park foliage, framed by skyscrapers on all sides.

"This'll do, yes?"

"Outlaws are living well," Sergio agreed, checking himself in the balcony door, a sine wave of gently-rippled glass the owners had swapped in for the Victorian original.

Of course they didn't know whether Finley's outlaws lived here. Probably not. Still, the idea that elements propagating unrest would be welcome here was unsettling; Quaid had already spotted two starlets and been told the mixologist had trained in Oslo. In his brief survey of Manhattan nightlife since the job had begun, Quaid had observed surprising support for the Blind Mice among the glitterati. There was righteousness in it but also nihilism, a sense that the society had so deteriorated—not just wealth distribution but culturally, politically—that we all deserved this.

They mingled substantially before bumping into Todd Finley.

"Gentleman!" The salesman broke off speaking into the ear of a petite redhead. "Now it's on, am I right?"

His mighty handshake from their first meeting became a bro-worthy embrace here.

They secured a fresh round, it being necessary to do a bit more conventional socializing before business. Finley's redhead was part of a trio. Her friend Contessa took up with Quaid. As she laughed at his musings on what the park carriage horses did in their downtime, hand light upon his sportcoat sleeve, Quaid felt a twinge of guilt.

Molly hadn't answered his text informing her the Dakota operation was a go. Undoubtedly she and Durwood were sore at him. Things between him and Molly were in a good place. They'd been clicking, and more than once he had considered telling Durwood to take the Vanagon at the end of the night—he would find his own way back to the hotel.

He had resisted. This American Dynamics gig could take months, and an entanglement with Molly, pleasurable as the tangling itself might be, would complicate matters. To say nothing of the dampening effect on that nightlife survey.