Dark City Page 8

Tommy made a face. “What kinda name is that?”

  “The kinda name it came with.”

  “That’s one fucked-up name for a party boat. I mean, Vinny, that’s gotta go. I don’t wanna be out there drivin’ Miss Daisy. I want a muff magnet. We’ll name it Tommy’s Torpedo or something along that nature.”

  Much as Vinny would have loved to let Tommy brag to his buddies about his new boat and then get an ugly surprise when he brought a couple of broads down to the dock to show it off, he figured he’d rather crush his dreams now. So he went over to the corkboard on the wall, unpinned a photo of Daisy II, and tossed it on the desk.

  “That look like a torpedo to you?”

  Tommy snatched it up and grimaced. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “That’s Daisy Two.”

  “No fucking way! That’s some kinda fishing boat!”

  “You got it. A small trawler, to be exact.”

  “Since when do we fucking sell fish?”

  Vinny noted the “we” and it felt like a bitch slap, but he kept his cool.

  “Sometimes we feed the fishes.”

  Tommy gave him a few seconds of blank stare, then the light dawned. He grinned. “Oh, yeah. One of the sidelines. You use the car crusher for that, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Lemme see it in action.”

  Vinny wanted to tell him to fuck off, but knew he was stuck with the prick.

  “Why not?”

  He led Tommy out into the yard and around the small mountain of tires toward the rear lot.

  Tommy pointed to the tires. “Whatta y’do with these?”

  “They’re mostly a pain in the ass. We got a baler. We sell ’em by the ton, but not for much. A lot get ground up and used for padding in playgrounds or put into asphalt.”

  Around the rear, the E-Z Crusher had center stage—two huge twenty-by-eight-foot steel plates like a big open mouth, waiting to be fed. He looked around for Zeke, who usually worked the crusher, but didn’t see him. He noticed the flatbed was missing, which meant he was probably out on a pickup.

  No problem.

  Vinny hopped up on the front-end loader. The engine was still warm, so it started right up. He worked the levers to get her rolling and wheeled her over to one of the stripped junkers. Looked like an old Mitsubishi. He got the forks under it, guided it across the yard, and dropped it into the E-Z Crusher’s twenty-foot bed. Then he started up the crusher and stood back to let it do its thing.

  Vinny never tired of watching the heavy upper steel plate slowly pancake a car. It occurred to him that he wouldn’t mind seeing it do a similar number on Tommy Ten Thumbs.

  Maybe someday.

  3

  “I do believe I should be charging you,” Melinda said as Neil Zalesky seated himself opposite her.

  He raised his eyebrows. He didn’t like the sound of that. “Really? What makes you say so?”

  She smiled. “Did a little research.”

  Neil watched her light a cigarette. Though not a beauty by any stretch, Melinda Costanza wasn’t bad looking. She and Neil had had a little fling while he was married to Rosa but it ended when she found someone else who was unattached. Since she’d been the one to break it off, and since Neil hadn’t been terribly torn up at the news she was leaving him—although he’d pretended otherwise—they’d remained friends. Mostly that was his doing because of where she worked: Chase Manhattan’s main branch in Manhattan.

  Occasionally he’d buy her lunch at this little midtown pub near her office—on him, for old times’ sake—and occasionally at those lunches he’d ask her for information on a certain Chase customer. She’d look up the account and provide details as to how much was on deposit. This morning he’d broken tradition and called her, asking her up front to find out what she could about a certain Michelina Filardo. He needed a score real quick-like and wanted to know if he had a live one in Filardo.

  “What sort of research?” he said.

  “I checked back on the other accounts you’ve asked me about and a fair number of them withdrew princely sums shortly after your inquiry.”

  Neil’s turn to smile. “Pure coincidence.”

  “Really? I’m not so sure.”

  “You said, ‘a number of them.’ I could see you being suspicious if all the accounts had ‘princely’ withdrawals, but that’s not the case.”

  Truth was, some of the marks weren’t the least bit civic-minded and turned out to be dead ends.

  “Still, I found enough of them to be considered a trend.”

  Where was she going with this?

  “Any complaints, allegations, or investigations?”

  “No.”

  He shrugged. “Like I said: Pure coincidence.”

  She shook her head. “You can be real smooth, Neil. I’ve seen you in action—I mean, I’ve been on the receiving end.”

  Yeah, he thought. Didn’t take me long to talk you right out of those black lace panties you like so much, did it?

  He feigned shock. “You can’t think—”

  She waved her cigarette. “Don’t worry. I’m not the whistle-blowing type. I think it’s kind of cool, actually.”

  Neil pushed back a grin—had to keep playing this straight—because it was oh so true: The wimmins loves the bad boys.

  “Really, Melinda, I’m just doing background checks for clients to see if these potential investors have the assets to participate in certain financial instruments.”

  He hoped that made sense. He was winging it here.

  Her smile widened. “Uh-huh.” Reaching down, she pulled a manila envelope out of her shoulder bag and slid it across the table. “Michelina Filardo.”

  Neil resisted opening it. “Thank you, Melinda. You’re the best.” He knew the address and phone number would be in there, but he had to ask. “Where’s she live?”

  “Carroll Gardens.”

  He frowned. “Don’t think I’ve ever been there.”

  “It’s on the other side of the BQE from Red Hook. Old Italian neighborhood. She owns a brownstone clear on Clinton Street. No other holdings listed, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

  “And the account?”

  “Checking and savings. Turns out she’s fairly comfortable. Twice widowed. And she’s the only name on the account. She makes regular deposits and no withdrawals. Ain’t computers just ducky?”

  “No withdrawals?”

  She shrugged. “Usually means she’s got an income-producing investment somewhere.”

  That didn’t jibe with what the grandson said about her wanting to keep it under a mattress, but no biggie. She could own a house somewhere she was renting out. The important part was no other name on the account. That meant no one hanging over the old broad’s shoulder to spot a big withdrawal and start asking questions.

  “My client will be glad to know.”

  “Your client. Right.” She pointed her cigarette at him. “I’ll be watching this account, Neil baby. And if I see a big withdrawal, I’ll want a piece.”

  Neil was tempted to tell her to shove her cut but he had no other contact at Chase with Melinda’s access to the bank’s computer system. He’d have to give her something, but only if the Filardo broad came through. In the meantime, he’d avoid admitting anything.

  “You offend me, my dear,” he said with a shocked expression.

  “I’ll be even more offended if I don’t get my cut. Now buy me some lunch. I’m starved.”

  “Yes, Melinda dear.”

  4

  Jack ordered the open-face steak sandwich and a draft pint of Smithwick’s Pale Ale, then he adjusted his little disposable camera where it sat on the table and took a shot of Zalesky and his lady friend. He couldn’t use a flash but the light in here was pretty good. He took a couple more for insurance.

  He’d begun watching Zalesky’s place from the bookstore early this morning. He’d followed him to midtown on the subway and then to this Irish pub where he met the lady in the dark blue bus
iness getup.

  He studied them out of the corner of his eye. To quote the Isley Brothers, “Who’s That Lady?” Had Zalesky taken the bait and did this gal have anything to do with Michelina Filardo? Or was she just an acquaintance? The two seemed comfortable with each other. Jack was no expert in body language but he didn’t look like a guy making a move.

  Still, Jack took the pictures because he might have to get in touch with this lady at some point.

  Jack finished off his meal with a Pepsi rather than another Smithwick’s, good as it was. He had a martial arts class later this afternoon and needed to be sharp.

  When Zalesky and his lady friend finished, he got a couple more shots of her. They walked out to the sidewalk where they parted with a quick hug and an air kiss—two more shots. Jack noticed Zalesky carrying a manila envelope he hadn’t arrived with. Much as he would have loved to learn what was in it, he tailed the woman … all the way to a Chase branch.

  He followed her in and stayed just long enough to establish that she worked there.

  Michelina Filardo banked at Chase.

  He smiled as he exited to the street. Looked like Zalesky had taken the bait.

  5

  With his sweatshirt hood pulled forward and his Ruger stuck in his belt, Jack dropped off his camera at a one-hour photo place, then headed for the Ishii dojo for the two o’clock bo class.

  He’d heard purists sneeringly refer to the dojo as “the Blackbelt Theater dojo.” That was because the guy who ran it, Ishii Masaru, was more of a marketer and a streetfighter than a devotee of a certain school of martial arts. He taught use of the bo staff, tonfa, yawara sticks, nunchaku, plus various karate techniques. No edged or pointed weapons. He emphasized defense, but aggressive defense—the kind of defense that would leave an attacker unconscious, or at the very least battered into helplessness and wishing very much he had picked on someone else. His approach was informal: A gi was not required, but Ishii-san did insist on everyone removing his shoes.

  His dojo occupied the second-floor of a former slaughterhouse on far West 12th Street in the Meatpacking District. About nine or ten guys were practicing at the moment. Jack liked to come early in the day because the classes tended to be smaller than later on. Ishii-san, a squat little man, maybe fifty years old, was at the door. Jack gave the sensei a half bow upon entering.

  “I think I’ll just watch today.”

  “Because?” Ishii-san had come over as a teenager and spoke with only a hint of an accent.

  Jack pointed to his left shoulder. “Bad cut. Don’t want to mess up the stitches.”

  He nodded. “One can learn through the eyes, but better through the hands and feet.”

  “Absolutely.”

  The old Yogi-ism, You can observe a lot by watching, flashed through his brain but he decided not to share.

  “An accident?”

  Jack figured if he could tell anyone, he could tell his sensei.

  “A machete.” When Ishii-san frowned, Jack added, “A type of sword.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “So? How many?”

  “Three.”

  “Ah. You were alone?”

  “Very.”

  “And how did you defend yourself?”

  Jack shrugged. “I ran like hell.”

  “Yes!” he said with a grin. “Against overwhelming odds, with no one else to defend, that is the wisest course.”

  Jack sat cross-legged on a mat while Ishii-san handed out pool cues to the class. This was what Jack loved about the guy and kept him coming back. His philosophy was, You are not going to find yourself defending your life or your family or your girlfriend with a perfectly balanced bo; you will have to make do with whatever is at hand.

  Jack noticed three guys in the class he hadn’t seen before. They were built like gym rats, with massive pecs and biceps, and seemed to be friends. By the way they handled the cues—like baseball bats—he gathered they were newbies.

  Just as the class started, Preston Loeb rushed in. Maybe glided in would be a better term. He stood six-one with a slim build and long black hair, tied today in some sort of topknot. He was already in his gi—damned if it didn’t look custom tailored—and had a large Gucci bag slung over his shoulder. Normally he had a delicately handsome face, but today it lay hidden under a mass of white makeup accented with colored streaks and crimson lips.

  Ishii-san stared at him in shock. “Kabuki?”

  “Yes!” Preston said in his lilting voice, kicking off his shoes as he dropped his bag against a wall. “We’re rehearsing Yoshitsune Senbon Zakura.”

  “My favorite.”

  “Really? I’ll make sure you get a ticket. Sorry, but we were running through the chūnori scene and I didn’t have time to get out of makeup.”

  Ishii-san was studying Preston’s makeup. “Who do you play?”

  Preston struck a vamp pose and fluttered his eyelashes. “Shizuka, of course—Yoshitsune’s mistress.”

  Preston was a couple of years older than Jack and had been attending the dojo long before him. The regulars were all used to his flamboyant behavior. But the three newbies looked flabbergasted.

  “What the fuck?” said the biggest of the three.

  Preston turned to him. “What? Surprised to find a faggot in a dojo?”

  The guy’s mouth worked. Preston got off on shocking straights, and most people had never heard a gay refer to himself as a faggot.

  “Yeah … no.”

  “Hellooo-ooo! It’s gay S-and-M-ville, bubby—the Meatpacking District, and I’m packin’ meat. If you come here, you must be looking for us, because, just like Visa”—his arms shot out in an all-encompassing gesture—“we’re everywhere you want to be!”

  The guy reddened. “Fuck you.”

  Preston threw his hands up in mock praise. “Hallelujah! That can be arranged, sweetie.” He fluttered his lashes again. “Pitcher or catcher?”

  The guy had at least fifty pounds of solid muscle on Preston and looked like he was ready to charge.

  “Everybody quiet,” Ishii-san said. “Everybody quiet. We begin lesson.”

  As the class took up their cues and faced their sensei, Preston sauntered past Jack on his way to grab a cue.

  He smiled and winked. “That’ll give him something to think about. Not joining us, sweetie?”

  “Hey, Pres. No, looks like I’m on the DL this week.”

  “What? Sprain your back again trying to blow yourself?”

  “Yeah, just can’t seem to get it right. I think I need lessons.”

  This was an ongoing thing between them.

  Pres winked. “Any time, sweet cheeks.”

  Jack shook his head as Preston moved on. That guy’s mouth was going to get him in trouble someday. But Jack could understand his attitude. Pres considered Chelsea and the Meatpacking District his home turf and he wasn’t going to back down from any gay-bashing attitude. If you came here, you didn’t challenge his being gay, you had to represent why you weren’t.

  Jack liked living in Chelsea, but Rico and his DDP buddies knew he was here, so he had to move on.

  6

  After leaving the dojo, Jack spent the rest of the afternoon canvassing the car agencies for a Dodge Dynasty to rent. Nobody had one. He finally tracked down a used car lot in Queens that also did rentals. It didn’t have a Dynasty available but had a Chrysler New Yorker. The owner/salesman he spoke to swore that the New Yorker was pretty much the exact same car as the Dynasty except for some extra trim and a higher price tag. So Jack rented it for a day.

  As he was driving away from the lot he couldn’t help swinging onto Queens Boulevard and down to the last lot he and Cristin had visited. He stopped outside the showroom for another quick look at the ’63 Corvair and it looked even better. He didn’t go in because he wasn’t sure he could risk buying and registering it under his phony “Jeff Cusic” identity. He’d have to think on that.

  He drove the New Yorker to the nearest supermarket and parked in an empty, out-of-t
he-way corner of the lot. He popped the locks and got to work.

  That time back in November when he and Julio had followed Zalesky, the hijo de puta had put his old lady mark in the backseat. So Jack figured that was the place he wanted his mic.

  He made a close inspection of the Chrysler’s rear cushions and found a spot in the folds, down near one of the seat-belt receptacles, where the tiny mic could pick up conversation but be damn near invisible unless you were looking for it. He then crawled into the trunk and discovered a place where he could tape the transmitter out of sight. Through trial and error, he found a spot that would allow him to push the mic between the rear cushions.

  Yeah, he could bug Zalesky’s car—if the auto dealer hadn’t been exaggerating too much about the similarities between Dodge Dynasties and Chrysler New Yorkers. Otherwise he’d just wasted a perfectly good afternoon.

  TUESDAY

  1

  “Watch for it,” Jack said as he crouched in Zalesky’s cramped trunk. “I’m pushing it through.”

  The backseat’s padding muffled Julio’s reply from within the car. “Go-go-go! Let’s get this done, meng.”

  Zalesky lived over an Italian bakery in a mixed commercial-residential neighborhood along Crosby Street in the Pelham Bay section of the Bronx. But he tended to park his car around the corner on Roberts Avenue. Jack and Julio had trained up from Manhattan and spotted him in The Main Event. They located his car, then waited until shortly after midnight when he left the bar and strolled back to his apartment.

  Figuring he was in for the night, they made a beeline for the car where Jack picked the lock on the passenger door. Once inside, all he had to do was pull the trunk release lever and they were in business.

  Turned out the used-car guy had been right on the money: the Dynasty and the New Yorker were like two peas from the same pod. Jack found the chosen spot for the mic in the rear cushions down near a seat-belt receptacle, and used an awl to poke a hole through the fabric and the padding behind it. He left the tool in the hole while Julio took his place and Jack went around to the trunk. They left the courtesy lights on—not only did they provide illumination in the interior and the trunk, but made Julio and him appear to have nothing to hide. Just two guys trying to fix something in their car.