Ed McBain, author of the best-selling 87th Precinct novels, now takes you Downtown in a bold, new departure of a novel that will make you laugh, cry, and tingle with the special brand of electrifying suspense that only McBain knows how to generate.Downtown you’ll meet Michael Barnes, a lone out-of-town businessman in New York City on Christmas Eve with a couple of hours to kill before his plane leaves. It promises to be a sweet interlude when he meets a lovely blonde in a bar. But first his identification and all his money are stolen, and next his rental car—only to resurface on the other side of town with an unexpected passenger: a corpse.Here are every reader’s brightest, glittering fantasies and blackest nightmares about the Big Apple: big-shot movie producers, muggers with the instincts of Vietnamese guerillas, cops who arrest the victims, mobsters who embrace you, thugs who tie you up, beautiful women who take you into their limousines, beautiful women who try to drive their stiletto heels through your skull, warehouses full of furs, jewels, and other valuables, smoky gambling dens in Chinatown, ritzy penthouse apartments, miserable dives …Michael Barnes has only twenty-four hours to survive the wildest ride in his life. It’s going to take every last ounce of his cunning and guts, and it’s going to be the fastest, funniest twenty-four hours ever packed into one novel. Just published in England to an ovation from the critics, Downtown has “a plot to match Hitchcock in its bizarre twists and sneaky deceptions” (The Daily Telegraph).
Michael was telling the blonde he’d never been in this part of the city. In fact, he’d been to New York only twice before in his entire life. Hadn’t strayed out of the midtown area either time.
“But here you are now,” the blonde said, and smiled. “All the way downtown.”
She was wearing a smart tailored suit, gray, a white silk blouse with a stock tie. Briefcase sitting on the empty stool to her right. He figured her for someone who worked on Wall Street. Late business meeting—it was now seven o’clock—she’d stopped off at the bar here before heading home. That’s what he figured. She was drinking Corona and lime. He was drinking scotch with a splash.
The place looked like an old saloon, but it probably wasn’t. Etched mirrors, polished mahogany and burnished brass, large green-shaded lamps over the bar, smaller versions on all the tables. There was a warm, cozy feel to the place. Nice buzz of conversation, too. Through the big plate-glass window facing the street, he could see gently falling snowflakes. This was Christmas Eve, a Tuesday night. It would be a white Christmas.
“What brings you to New York this time?” the blonde asked.
“Same thing that brought me here the last two times,” he said.
“And what’s that?”
“My ad agency’s here.”
“You’re in advertising, is that it?”
“No, I’m in oranges.”
The blonde nodded.
“Golden Oranges?” Michael said, and looked at her expectantly.
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“You’ve heard of them?”
“No,” she said.
“That’s my brand name. Golden Oranges.”
“Sorry, I don’t know them.”
“But you know Sunkist, right?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I’m just a small independent trying to get big. Which is why I’ve got a New York agency handling my advertising.”
The blonde nodded again.
“So what do you do?” she asked. “Grow the oranges and everything?”
“Yep. Grow them and everything.”
“Where?”
“In Florida.”
“Ask a stupid question,” she said, and smiled, and extended her hand. “I’m Helen Parrish,” she said.
“Michael Barnes,” he said, and took her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“So when do you go back to Florida?” she asked.
“Well, not till the fourth of January, actually. I’m flying up to Boston tonight. Spend the holidays with my mother.”
“Your mother’s up there in Boston, huh?”
“Yeah. Be good seeing her again.”
“Business all finished here?”
“Finished it this afternoon.”
He realized that her hand was still in his. To the casual passerby, they must have looked like a man and a woman holding hands. Good-looking blonde woman with flashing blue eyes, suntanned man wearing rimless eyeglasses. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. Average height, he guessed. Well, five-ten, he guessed that was average these days. In the army, he’d felt short. The army had a way of making you feel short. Come to think of it, he felt short nowadays, too. Jenny had done that to him. Made him feel short all over again.
“Do you work down here in this area?” he asked.
“I do,” she said.
Still holding his hand.
“I figured you were with one of the brokerage firms,” he said.
“No, I’m a lawyer.”
“Really? What kind of law?”
“Criminal.”
“No kidding?”
“Everybody says that. No kidding, or wow, or gee, or how about that, or words to that effect.”
“Because it’s so unusual. A woman, I mean. Being a criminal lawyer.”
“Actually, there are three in our office.”
“That many.”
“Yes.”
“Criminal lawyers. Women.”
“Yes. Trial lawyers, in fact.”
“Then you’re a trial lawyer.”
“Yes.”
“Do you like the work?”
“Oh, sure.”
She retrieved her hand gently, drained her glass, looked at the clock over the bar, smiled, and said, “Well, I think I’ll …”
“No, don’t go yet,” he said.
She looked at him.
“Have another drink,” he said. “Then maybe we can go someplace for dinner together,” he said. “I’ve got a rented car outside, we can go anyplace in the city you like. I don’t have to start for the airport till nine-thirty or so. Unless you’ve got other plans.”
“I don’t have any plans as such, but …”
“Then what’s the hurry?”
“Well, I’ll have another drink, but …”
“Good,” he said, and signaled to the bartender for another round. The bartender nodded.
“This doesn’t mean we’re having dinner together,” she said. “I hardly know you.”
“Ask me anything,” he said.
“Well … are you married?”
“Divorced.”
“How long?”
“Nine months. More or less.”
“And on the loose in the big, bad city, huh?”
“Well, my plane leaves at eleven-oh-five. It’s the last one out tonight. I was lucky to get anything at all. It’s Christmas Eve, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. She was looking at him steadily now. Penetrating blue eyes.
“How long were you married?” she asked.
“Thirteen years.”
“Unlucky number.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any children?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-one,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-two,” she said at once.
He liked that. No coy nonsense like Gee, a woman’s not supposed to tell her age. Just straight out thirty-two.
“Are you married?” he asked.