Six pairs of dress shoes clap across the marble of Grand Central Station, ping-ponging off the walls like a beginner’s tap class.

“Here.” We have arrived at the bank of lockers. “It’s number 14, the second set.” Get it? Two. Fourteen. Easy to remember. I’d point it out for them but I’ve still got the cuffs on.

Brian takes the card and looks at it dubiously. Hands it to Agent Mike, who gives me a shitty look, walks over, and inserts it in the slot for the correct locker. He then opens it, and steps aside.

Suddenly the FBI folks are looking anywhere but Brian, all nonchalant.

Brian steps forward, withdraws a plastic bag, looks at me. “So. This had better be what I think it is.”

I nod. “Have a look.”

The older man withdraws the wooden box. Examines it, feels the markings like braille. Smells it. Slides open the side and has a good long gander at the hand within. After a time, he nods to himself and smiles.

I realize I haven’t been breathing.

Brian approaches me, putting the box back in the bag. “You must understand. This is not about religion. For us, it is a thing of national pride. We have so little. So, so, God gives us these priceless gifts.” He’s lost in a fog for a second, then snaps back. “Despite the difficulties you present earlier, you’ve just saved me much … inconvenience. And pain. So. And made everyone here some money.”

I nod.

“The buyer is in Paris, I likely go tomorrow then, so, so. But. What about the other matter?”

“Give me a pen and a bit of paper. And uncuff me, if you would.”

Brian looks at his guys. “So, who has a pen? And keys for these things?”

One of the fellows is behind me removing the cuffs, another hands me a pen and a tiny notebook.

I rub my wrists, then write the following:

Chelsea Market, 9th Ave btw W. 15th + W. 16th

Chelsea Wine Vault

Basemen thru trapdoor behind register

Brian looks at this. Raises his eyebrows.

I say, “You didn’t specify as to dead or alive.”

Brian shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. Alive is always better, people get some peace, so, so, closure, like you Americans say so much. But either way. I get paid the same.”

I nod at the notebook. “Go to that location. If things aren’t as I describe, the deal is off and you can do what you need to do. But I think you’ll find some, what, some closure there.”

Brian is quiet, staring at the notebook. Then he moves closer to me. “Speaking of closure. My information. Much of it I got from a man you know. Here, in New York. A man who is your … sometimes employer, hmm?”

“Are we talking about the district attorney?”

He makes an unreadable head gesture. “These titles. Who can say? All I am telling to you is he is making things easier for me, this local government man. Seems to have some … personal motivation, I think. Interested in seeing these two disappear. I don’t know reasons why. Just for you to know. So, so. Do what you want with that.”

“Was he your point person here in the city?”

“Not until recently, but these last days, so, he feeds me information. Yes.”

“I guess what I’m getting at: how extensive is the list of people who can ID Branko and his wife?”

Brian shrugs. “I would think very, very limited. Definitely this man I speak of now. Also some CIA people overseas. And of course, this lovely couple’s victims. So. But they can hardly speak up now, can they?” He gives me an ugly grin.

I’m thinking: uh-huh.

“Anyway,” says Brian, “you won’t see me again, if this all is, hmm, checking out here.” He taps the address I gave him. “So, I am done in this city.”

I extend my hand. “Do we have a deal?”

There’s a pause. “Yes,” says Brian simply.

We shake. I’m given my gear. The agents part. And I am on my way, strapping on my guns as I go.