The Look

By Philip Lear

I was sitting in my office reading the racing form when I heard a familiar swishing sound of an envelope sliding under my office door. I poured some coffee and want over and picked it up.

Inside the envelope was a note from Mr. X telling me to take care of Mr. Guzman while he was in town. There was also a photograph of the man and a big wad of cash. I stopped counting at $10,000 and stuffed the money in the safe.

Most of my assignments came from Mr. X or from others for whom my knowing less was better than knowing more. It was also better for me because if questioned, I didn’t have to lie about what I knew. As long as the money was there I didn’t care.

In my previous life as a detective in the NYPD every aspect of an investigation had to be documented so it would stand up in court. And for that reason most of my job was paperwork. Though I liked being where the action was, I hated the paperwork and after 20 years retired and went out on my own as a private investigator. I specialized in cases that, for obvious reasons, there could never be any paperwork. In these cases I had to make sure that the people I was protecting were safe.

The cases I took were considered risky by other Private Investigators. I'd get an envelope with money and instructions and off I'd go. Who I was protecting and why were unknowns at least to the untrained eye. It was the unknown that made these cases exciting and sometimes dangerous.

I looked at Guzman's photograph and knew that this one would be dangerous. He was about 5' 11” with sharp features, short dark hair and a small goatee. He might have been 45 but you couldn't really tell because his face had a tanned leathery look to it. His nose was flattened and pushed a little to one side like a boxer's and on his right cheek there was a large L-shaped scar. His face told me that this guy had been through some wars, but his eyes were the real story. They had a palpable sadness about them. It was the look I’d seen on peoples’ faces when they knew they were going to die.

One time back in the early 90s I'd chased a drug dealer up Third Avenue from East 109^th to 126^th. I watched this drug deal go down. The dealer, who was in his mid thirties, was tall and thin and dressed in black. I was hidden in a doorway up the block and when my partner and I went to close in the dealer took off. I chased him for seventeen blocks, barely able to keep up. I was gasping for air when he ran into a brownstone on 126^th Street. I opened the door and followed him in. As I came through the door there was a gunshot, and I felt the bullet as it whizzed past my ear.

In these situations, there was no time to think. It was all instinct. I dropped down and fired catching him in the chest. He fell to the floor with a thud. Blood was pouring from his mouth and he was gasping for breath. I propped him up against the stairwell. He was staring at me with that same look. We didn't have to say a word. We both understood. Somehow, in those last few moments, I felt close to him. Maybe that's how a Priest feels when he gives last rites.

I got out at the International Arrivals Building at JFK and waited for flight 933. When Guzman came walking down I could see that he was taller and maybe a bit heavier than I expected. But his eyes had the same look. I could feel the tragedy approaching.

"Mr. Guzman,” I said, “Jack Croft. I was asked to meet you at the plane and help you while you're in the city."

"I appreciate having someone accompany me,” he said, “I'm not familiar with New York City. I have reservations at the Crandall on 71^st and Madison .We can go there now," he said.

The Crandall was one of those fancy old hotels along Madison Avenue in the 70s that had seen its day. But over the last ten years it had declined from a grand hotel to a seedy old fleabag. There been changes of ownership and bankruptcies and It was now a den for thieves. It was the last place I would want anyone under my protection to stay.

"It’s not a nice place," I said, " I've been hired to protect you for the two days you're in New York. I have to warn you that the Crandall has gone downhill. It’s a hotbed for crime. Lots of people are always getting robbed and mugged there and last month, a Brazilian businessman was shot in his room. Are you sure you want to stay there?”

"Look,” he scoffed, " I've stayed at a lot worse places in Bolivia, Colombia, and Mexico and I'm not afraid of any place in New York. I'm sure, Mr. Croft, that together we can handle any problems. Besides I've already told my associates where I'm staying. To call them now would be awkward."

“Don't say you haven't been warned,” I said.

The Crandall was a 1930s relic. The lobby was done in faded red and gold. Despite the rundown look, the place still had a crusty elegance. We checked in and went upstairs. His suite consisted of a large outer room with two worn couches, a TV, a coffee table and a writing desk. The bedroom was sizeable and had a large bed and two large mahogany dressers. On the wall was a faded reproduction of ballet dancers. I checked the suite for possible security problems but there were no adjoining doors or shared fire escapes. The front door was the only way in or out.

It was now about 10:30 and our first appointment wasn't until 2:30.

“Jack, why don't you come back and get me at 1:30 and we can go to my first appointment,” Guzman said. “It was a long flight and I need to rest.”

“I'll hang out here,” I said.

“I'd really prefer that you left,” he continued.

“Sorry, but I have to be here. I'll stay out of your way and if someone comes to visit I'll make myself scarce.”

“Don't say I haven't warned you,” he said.

I parked myself on the couch in the living room and glanced at a week old USA Today while Guzman went into the bedroom to rest.

At about 11:30 Guzman was still in the bedroom when I heard shuffling and metallic clicking sounds in the hallway. I’d heard that sound before when I’d been on SWAT teams. I drew my gun and walked over to the door and looked through the peephole. There were four armed gorillas in ski masks getting ready. They’d be coming at the door any second. At times like this I let my instincts take over. I opened up first and dropped two of them. The others got the message and took off down the hall.

Guzman, who had been in the bedroom heard the shots and rushed out to see what was going on. His face had a troubled look and his eyes hadn't changed.

In the hallway blood was spattered all over the walls and on the floor. Two large crimson pools were spreading in the carpet. The gunmen I'd shot were lying there dead. I pulled off their ski masks.

“Who are they?” I asked.

Guzman turned away.

“What's the matter?” I said.

“They’ll be back.“

“You didn't answer my question.”

“They're assassins from the drug Cartel.”

"How'd they know you were here?”

“I told them. I tried to get you to leave, but you were stubborn. I've been running for four years now. Four years of looking over my shoulder, waiting for bombs to go off or to get shot. I can't go on.”

“Why are they after you?”

“I witnessed a murder and testified and there hasn't been a night or day during that time when they weren't after me.”

“It took guts. Not many guys would testify,” I said.

“It was stupidity. See this scar,” and he pointed to his cheek, “I got that last year in Mexico City when they blew up my car. I still dream about that sound ringing in my ears.” Then he opened his shirt and showed me a large rounded crimson scar just below his heart. “Six months ago they tried again in Bogotá. I almost bled to death.”

“We've got to get out of here right now.” I said.

“Not me Jack. You go. I’m staying. I’ve had enough.”

He walked into the bedroom and I followed. He lay down on the bed on his back. His head sunk into the pillow.

“What are you doing? We've got to get out of here now.” I said.

“No, you go Jack. You’ve done your job. You’ve done more than your job. But I'm not running anymore. I'm staying. Let them come. I don’t care.”

“You can't let them beat you.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Don't you understand? Beat it while you still can.”

“I’ve got a cabin upstate. There may be a way to hide you where they couldn't get to you,” I said.

“I've tried to run and believe me I know how. But they found me everywhere. I don't like staying up every night, being on guard every minute.”

He lay there in the bed looking up at me. His eyes were begging me to leave him.

“Get up,” I said.

“No way Jack. Get lost.”

I knew he was doomed and there are times where your own survival must come first. But then I thought, I was all that there was between him and death and somehow that stopped me.

I went into the living room. The USA Today was on the couch. At first I just looked at it. And then something clicked. I rolled it up tightly and lit the end. When the fire was going pretty good I went back into the bedroom. Guzman was still lying on the bed and I reached over with the torch.

“What are you doing!” he said.

“You stay there. I'm just setting your pillow on fire,” I said nonchalantly.

“What are you, fucking crazy?” He yelled.

“What’s the difference whether you get shot or if I burn you up?”

I had brought the flame to within a few inches of the pillow when he grabbed my hand fiercely. At that moment our eyes met and we both knew that things had changed.