There was a flash of light. A startling blast of sound followed by a long, cracking echo. The Show stood there, microphone to his gaping mouth, as the camera panned over his shoulder onto a plume of smoke. In 1080 HD with Dolby Surround, Berger was psyched.
He changed to Channel Two.
CBS’s Early Show was on. The host, some slutty-looking bimbo, was grilling fish out on the studio’s 59th and Fifth Avenue plaza with none other than celebrity chef Wolfgang Puck.
“Ja, you see? Ja,” Wolfgang said.
“Ja, Volfie, I see, I see,” Berger said as he thumbed another speed-dial button for the second device he’d planted next to the corner garbage can at the chef’s back.
Another explosion, even louder than the first, happened immediately. Someone started screaming.
“That’s what you get,” Berger chided, clicking over to ABC.
Diane Sawyer was interviewing a sportswriter who was shilling his latest vapid tear-jerking bestseller. They were outside on one of ABC’s Times Square Studios’ roof plazas.
“Tell me, where do you get your ideas?” Diane wanted to know.
“On second thought, don’t,” Berger said as he dialed the third bomb that he’d left in the center of Times Square, down on the street beneath her.
The sound was softer, which made sense due to the elevation, Berger thought, looking down at the Oriental carpet. Had there been a little glass-shattering in that one? He nodded with a grin. Indeed, there had been. Exceptional!
Satisfied, he shut off the massive set. Watching the ensuing chaos would prove—What? People were afraid of explosives? He knew that already. Better than most. Now it was time to rest up before lunch.
He was actually pretty proud of the bombs. They were simple, Venti-size sticks of dynamite attached to a Wi-Fi antenna wired to a watch battery with a thin piece of detcord for the boost. Not huge, but just big enough to make everybody scared shitless. Big enough to make everyone start to carefully ponder their next step.
With high explosives, it was all about the real estate. Location, location, location.
He went into his bathroom and opened the tap. He dropped in the bubble soap and bath crystals and lit some candles. On the sound system, he put on a new CD that he’d gotten at Bed Bath & Beyond. He popped a couple of Vitamin P-is-for-Percocets and slid into the warm water as a woman’s voice rang like an angel’s off the glowing white Tyrolean marble walls.
“Who can say where the road flows?” Berger sang along.
He closed his eyes.
“Where the day goes?
Only time.”
Chapter 29
I BURIED MY HEAD DEEPER under my pillow as a little hand shook my big foot. By the brightness of the light trying to crash through my sealed eyelids, I knew I was late for work, and I couldn’t have cared less.
I didn’t even want to start thinking about, let alone dealing with, the mind-blowing letter I’d received last night from the Son of Sam.
Then there was a giggle and more fingers wrapped around my other foot. Two someones were now having some silly fun at Daddy’s expense. Two about-to-be-spanked someones.
“Daddy,” Shawna said, wiggling my ear.
“No es Daddy here-o,” I said in my best Speedy Gonzales voice as I peeled her hand off. “Daddy es mucho nighty-night.”
“But Daddy, you have to come,” Shawna said. “Grandpappy is cooking breakfast. Grandpappy.”
“What?” I said, rolling to my feet in my Manhattan College boxers.
Seamus cooked breakfast on one occasion only. Christmas morning. The funny thing was, it was so good, it was worth the yearly wait.
I couldn’t believe it as I came into the kitchen and the smell hit me. It was true. Seamus, in a chef’s hat, was working all the burners, and the table was already a feast of pecan bacon, links from heaven called Pork King Sausages, eggs, home fries, and pancakes. Seamus had gone to town. All the way downtown, in fact, I thought as I saw a stack of homemade doughnuts covered in powdered sugar.
“What gives, Seamus?” I said as he laid down some sizzling blood pudding. “You leaving us? Is that it? You’re heading back to the ol’ sod, Danny boy. Is this farewell?”