When no one at the rental counter was looking Jack picked up the object and slipped it into the box. He then crumpled up multiple sheets of a New York Post that he found in the waiting area. He hefted the box and gave it a shake. Satisfied, he taped it shut.

After the wrapping paper and the string were applied, Jack plastered the outside with “rush” and “biohazard” labels.

The final touch was the Federal Express label, which Jack carefully filled out, addressing it to Frazer Labs. For the return address Jack used National Biologicals’s. After throwing away the top copy, Jack inserted one of the carbons into the plastic envelope and secured it to the front of the box. He was pleased. The package appeared official indeed, and with all the “rush” labels, he hoped it would have the desired effect.

When the van arrived, Jack went out and put the package, the remains of the wrapping material, and the parcel containing his clothes in the back. Climbing behind the wheel, he drove off.

Before going back to the pawnshop Jack made two stops. He returned to the drugstore where he’d used the phone book and bought some throat lozenges for his irritated throat, which seemed to be getting worse. He also stopped at a deli for some takeout. He wasn’t hungry, but it was already afternoon, and he’d eaten nothing that day. Besides, after he delivered the package he had no idea how long he’d have to wait.

While driving back to Broome Street Jack opened one of the orange-juice containers he’d bought and used the juice to take a second dose of rimantadine. In view of his progressive symptoms he wanted to keep the drug’s concentration high in his blood.

Jack pulled up directly in front of the pawnshop, leaving the engine running and the emergency blinkers blinking. Clutching his clipboard, he got out and went around to the rear to get the package. Then he entered the store.

The door had bells secured to the top edge, and Jack’s entrance was heralded by a raucous ringing. As had been the case earlier, there were no customers in the shop. The mustached man in the camouflage fatigues looked up from a magazine. With his hair standing on end he had the look of perpetual surprise.

“I’ve got a rush delivery for Frazer Labs,” Jack said. He plopped the parcel down on the glass counter and shoved the clipboard under the man’s nose. “Sign there at the bottom,” he added while proffering his pen to the man.

The man took the pen but hesitated and eyed the box.

“This is the right address, isn’t it?” Jack asked.

“I reckon,” the man said. He stroked his mustache and looked up at Jack. “What’s the rush?”

“I was told there was dry ice in there,” Jack said. Then he leaned forward as if to tell a secret. “My supervisor thinks it’s a shipment of live bacteria. You know, for research and all.”

The man nodded.

“I was surprised I wasn’t delivering this directly to the lab,” Jack said. “It can’t sit around. I mean, I don’t think it will leak out or anything; at least I don’t think so. But it might die and then it will be useless. I assume you have a way of getting in touch with your customers?”

“I reckon,” the man repeated.

“I’d advise you to do that,” Jack said. “Now sign and I’ll be on my way.”

The man signed his name. Reading upside down, Jack made out “Tex Hartmann.” Tex pushed the clipboard back toward Jack, and Jack slipped it under his arm. “I’m sure glad to get that thing off my truck,” Jack said. “I’ve never been much of a fan of bacteria and viruses. Did you hear about those cases of plague that were here in New York last week? They scared me to death.”

The man nodded again.

“Take care,” Jack said with a wave. He walked out of the store and climbed into his truck. He wished that Tex had been a bit more talkative. Jack wasn’t sure if he would be calling Frazer Labs or not. But just as Jack was releasing the emergency brake he could see Tex through the window dialing his phone.

Pleased with himself, Jack drove several blocks down Broome Street, then circled the block. He parked about a half block from the pawn shop and turned off the motor. After locking the doors, he broke out the deli food. Whether he was hungry or not, he was going to make himself eat something.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” BJ questioned.

“Yeah, man, I’m sure,” Twin said. He was maneuvering his Cadillac around Washington Square Park looking for someplace to park. It wasn’t looking good. The park was crammed full of people entertaining themselves in a bewildering variety of ways. There was skateboarding, in-line skating, Frisbee throwing, break dancing, chess playing, and drug dealing. Baby carriages dotted the park. It was a carnival-like atmosphere, which was exactly why Twin had suggested the park for the upcoming meeting.

“Shit, man, I feel naked without some kind of ordnance. It’s not right.”

“Shut your mouth, BJ, and look for a spot for this ride of mine,” Twin said. “This is going to be a meeting of the brothers. There’s no need for any firepower.”

“What if they bring some?” BJ asked.

“Hey, man, don’t you trust nobody?” Twin asked. At that moment he saw a delivery van pulling away from the curb. “What do you know, we’re in luck.”

Twin expertly guided his car into the spot and pushed on the emergency brake.

“It says for commercial vehicles only,” BJ said. He had his face pressed up against the window to see the parking sign.

“With all the crack we’ve moved this year I think we qualify,” Twin said with a laugh. “Come on, get your black ass in gear.”

They got out of the car and crossed the street to enter the park. Twin checked his watch. They were a little early despite the trouble parking. That was how Twin liked it for this kind of meeting. He wanted a chance to scope the place out. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the other brothers, it was just that he liked to be careful.

But Twin was in for a surprise. When his eyes swept the area for the agreed-upon meeting he found himself transfixed by the stare of one of the more physically imposing men he’d seen in some time.

“Uh-oh,” Twin said under his breath.

“What’s the matter?” BJ demanded, instantly alert.

“The brothers have gotten here before us,” Twin said.

“What do you want me to do?” BJ asked. His own eyes raced around the park until they, too, settled on the same man Twin had spotted.

“Nothing,” Twin said. “Just keep walking.”

“He looks so goddamn relaxed,” BJ said. “It makes me worried.”

“Shut up!” Twin commanded.

Twin walked right up to the man whose piercing eyes had never left his. Twin formed his right hand into the form of a gun, pointed at the man, and said: “Warren!”

“You got it,” Warren said. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad,” Twin said. He then ritualistically raised his right hand to head height. Warren did the same and they high-fived. It was a perfunctory gesture, akin to a couple of rival investment bankers shaking hands.

“This here’s David,” Warren said, motioning toward his companion.

“And this here’s BJ,” Twin said, mimicking Warren.

David and BJ eyed each other but didn’t move or speak.

“Listen, man,” Twin said. “Let me say one thing right off. We didn’t know the doc was living in your hood. I mean, maybe we should have known, but we didn’t think about it with him being white.”

“What kind of a relationship did you have with the doc?” Warren asked.

“Relationship?” Twin questioned. “We didn’t have no relationship.”

“How come you’ve been trying to ice him?” Warren asked.

“Just for some small change,” Twin said. “A white dude who lives down our way came to us and offered us some cash to warn the doc about something he was doing. Then, when the doc didn’t take our advice, the dude offered us more to take him out.”