Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

He stared hard at himself—and saw a rather convincing-looking black man, especially if the light wasn’t too strong. Not bad, not bad at all. It was a good disguise for a night on the town, especially if the town was Washington.

So let the games begin. The Four Horsemen.

At ten twenty-five, he went down to the garage again. He carefully circled around the Jaguar and walked to the purple and blue taxicab. He had already begun to lose himself in delicious fantasy.

Shafer reached into his pants pocket and pulled out three unusual-looking dice. They were twenty-sided, the kind used in most fantasy games, or RPGs. They had numerals on them rather than dots.

He held the dice in his left hand, rolling them over and over.

There were explicit rules to the Four Horsemen; everything was supposed to depend on the dice roll. The idea was to come up with an outrageous fantasy, a mindblower. The four players around the world were competing. There had never been a game like this—nothing even came close.

Shafer had already prepared an adventure for himself, but there were alternatives for every event. Much depended on the dice.

That was the main point—anything could happen.

He got into the taxi, started it up. Good Lord, was he ready for this!

Chapter 6

HE HAD A GORGEOUS PLAN mapped out. He would pick up only those few passengers—“fares”—who caught his eye, fired up his imagination to the limit. He wasn’t in a hurry. He had all night; he had all weekend. He was on a busman’s holiday.

His route had been laid out beforehand. First, he drove to the fashionable Adams-Morgan neighborhood. He watch

ed the busy sidewalks, which seemed one long syncopated rhythm of movement. Bar-grazers slouching toward hipness. It seemed that every other restaurant in Adams-Morgan called itself a café. Driving slowly and checking the glittery sights, he passed Café Picasso, Café Lautrec, La Fourchette Café, Bukom Café, Café Dalbol, Montego Café, Sheba Café.

Around eleven-thirty, on Columbia Road, he slowed the taxicab. His heart began to thump. Something very good was shaping up ahead.

A handsome-looking couple was leaving the popular Chief Ike’s Mambo Room. A man and a woman, Hispanic, probably in their late twenties. Sensual beyond belief.

He rolled the dice across the front seat: six, five, four—a total of fifteen. A high count.

Danger! That made sense. A couple was always tricky and risky.

Shafer waited for them to cross the pavement, moving away from the restaurant canopy. They came right toward him. How accommodating. He touched the handle of the magnum that he kept under the front seat. He was ready for anything.

As they started to climb into the taxi, he changed his mind. He could do that!

Shafer saw that neither of them was as attractive as he’d thought. The man’s cheeks and forehead were slightly mottled; the pomade in his black hair was too thick and greasy. The woman was a few pounds heavier than he liked, plumper than she’d looked from a distance in the flattering streetlights.

“Off duty,” he said, and sped away. Both of them gave him the finger.

Shafer laughed out loud. “You’re in luck tonight! Fools! Luckiest night of your lives, and you don’t even know it.”

The incomparable thrill of the fantasy had completely taken hold of him. He’d had total power over the couple. He had control of life and death.

“Death be proud,” he whispered.

He stopped for more coffee at a Starbucks on Rhode Island Avenue. Nothing like it. He purchased three black coffees and heaped six sugars in each.

An hour later, he was in Southeast. He hadn’t stopped for another fare. The streets were crowded to the max with pedestrians. There weren’t enough taxis, not even gypsies in this part of Washington.

He regretted having let the Hispanic couple get away. He’d begun to romanticize them in his mind, to visualize them as they’d looked in the streetlight. Remembrance of things past, right? He thought of Proust’s monumental opening line: “For a long time I used to go to bed early.” And so had Shafer—until he discovered the game of games.

Then he saw her—a perfect brown goddess standing right there before him, as if someone had just given him a wonderful present. She was walking by herself, about a block from E Street, moving fast, purposefully. He was instantly high again.

He loved the way she moved, the swivel of her long legs, the exactness of her carriage.

As he came up behind her, she began looking around, checking the street. Looking for a taxi? Could it be? Did she want him?