Incidentally, the recipient of that phone call wasn't really named Patrick. Since there are laws about smuggling firearms in and out of countries, and we damned well were going to take along the Uzi, it seems only right to give him a pseudonym. His charter outfit, which works out of that hangar off to the side of the majors at Kennedy, keeps a Lear that can make the Caribbean in one hop if it's not too full. He even picks you up in a limo, his come-on for the carriage trade.
About ten minutes later we saw Charlie working the Rolls around all the fire engines double-parked on Third and waving for us.
"Good to see you again, Matt." He glanced back as we settled in. "Christ, you two look terrible. Were you up there?"
"Just left."
"Must have been a hell of a fire from the looks of it." He hit the gas and made a right turn. "Where to? Straight down Fifth to your place?"
"One quick stop first. Over on West Seventy-eighth."
"The West Side? In this traffic? Come on, Matt. I still haven't had lunch."
"Just cut through Central Park. Should be a snap."
While he and Tam waited outside the West Side "Free School, I went in to try and kidnap Amy. It wasn't easy. I finally explained to Ms. Winters that my daughter's Christmas vacation had merely been delayed a little this year, but better late than never. After some haggling, we struck a deal on homework. Then, in a limo piled high with school books, class projects, lunch boxes, and a black Israeli Uzi, we headed downtown.
"Dad, you've gone nuts." My only offspring was in heaven.