“Somewhere warm,” Ruben said. “That narrows it down.” They were in Cobb’s Toyota parked on Ericson Place across from the apartment building. It was cold out. You could see your breath, and there was frost on the windshield. “I guess it depends how much money I had. Puerto Rico for sure.” “Yeah, they’d never think to look for you there.” Ruben, all churched up in a black sport jacket and striped shirt, gave him a dirty look. “Hey,” Cobb said, looking out the side window. “There he is, blue overcoat, tan sport cap, briefcase.” He watched Joe Sculley come out of the apartment building and head south along the outer edge of the sidewalk close to the street. Sculley walked to the end of the block, turned right. Ruben said, “Sure it’s him?” “Trust me.” “Let’s go get him then, uh?” “You want to take him now, in broad daylight?” They were creeping in heavy morning traffic on Varick Street. “Why not?” Cobb could think of a few reasons—all of them breaking the laws of New York City.
