by E. J. Simon
Michael realized that, as stupid as they looked and sounded, their logic was pretty good. There had to be thousands of black Town Cars—the staple of the limo and livery services throughout the city.
“What’s this tape about?” Michael asked. “And where are we going?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Where we goin’? Where the fuck do you think we’re goin’? Out to fuckin’ dinner?” Michael realized the driver was another schizoid personality. One moment he spoke like a nearly normal human being, the next second he was a thug.
Finally, one of the others spoke up. The one sitting next to Michael in the backseat said, “Morty, play him the fuckin’ tape before we get there.”
Michael had read that it was advisable for kidnap victims to try to converse with their captors or do anything to at least humanize whatever interaction they could. Reading the New York Times over a blueberry muffin in the morning, the strategy made perfect sense. Sitting in the back of the car, while imprisoned in duct tape and surrounded by three demented animals, it all seemed ridiculous.
“So, Morty, you guys work for Mr. Sharkey?” Michael figured he still had nothing to lose; maybe he could find an angle.
“I work part-time for Mr. Sharkey, you know, stuff like this at night. In the daytime, I work for a funeral home in Brooklyn. That’s why they call me Morty, you know? Morty the Mortician. I drive the hearse. The jobs are alike, except on Mr. Sharkey’s jobs, the bodies are still breathing—in the beginning anyway. You know what I mean?”
Michael was beginning to feel his legs and feet. If the conversation wasn’t bad enough, when he leaned forward to look at his feet, what he saw made him shudder. When he looked down, he couldn’t see his feet. They were embedded in a large metal pan of concrete that took up nearly the entire floor below his seat area. The concrete had set. Michael could not get his feet to even wiggle.
Michael looked out his car window. He could see out but imagined it would be hard for others to see in due to the dark tinted windows. Michael recognized the Triborough Bridge. They were leaving Manhattan and heading toward Queens. Not good in the scheme of things generally, let alone in this situation.
He looked out at the people in passing cars and those walking in the streets, all of them going about their daily, routine activities, unaware that Michael was on his way to a planned extinction. He thought about how bizarre it was to the victims—whether in a carriage on their way to the guillotine, a cattle train to Nazi death camps, gazing at approaching clotheslines from a crashing airliner window, or in the backseat of a Mafia hit man’s car—to see the rest of the world going about the routine business of daily life.
Michael’s mind had wandered. He was jerked back to reality by the clicking of a microcassette recorder. Morty was about to play Sharkey’s message. “We call Mr. Sharkey ‘KK.’” With that everyone in the car, except Michael, began laughing and grunting.
“Why is that?” Michael asked.
“Because he’s the ‘cassette killer.’ Get it? KK?” They all broke up again, Morty almost swerving off the Grand Central Parkway.
Despite the fact that these three had total control over his remaining breathing moments, Michael felt the need to correct their spelling. “Cassette is spelled with a c, you assholes.”
Suddenly the goon in the backseat with him violently pushed Michael’s head into the passenger window. Morty became the momentary voice of reason. “Leave him.” Then, however, he turned on Michael. “Maybe we didn’t go to college, you little asshole, but killer has a fuckin’ k in it. You know what else, you fuck? In fifteen minutes you’ll be fuckin’ dead, and we’ll be having a big juicy steak. Now shut your fuckin’ mouth and listen to Mr. Sharkey.” Morty pushed the “Play” button on the recorder.
Michael recognized Sharkey’s chilling voice, and although the language was familiar, the sound matched his appearance—corpse-like:
“Michael, my friend. I’m sorry things had to end this way, at least for you. You tried to fuck with me. That was a mistake. If you’d have lived as long as I have, you’d know all things end this way. It’s just a matter of how and timing. You thought you won at Peter Luger’s. Churchill or Hitler once said, ‘All victories are fleeting.’ You understand that now. You see, you always lose the final game. Good-bye, Michael.”
Morty quickly turned off the cassette player. “Hey, Lump, I told you Mr. Sharkey was good. He’s like a poet.”
Michael looked at his newly identified captor in the front passenger seat, who still had not spoken. “Your name is Lump?”
Lump turned around, looked at Michael, and said simply, “Shut the fuck up.”
Michael decided to push his already very bad luck. “You guys have to be kidding me. What’s his name?” Michael nodded toward the thug who just moments before nearly pushed his head through the window.
“I’m Nicky Bats. What’s it to you?”
Michael couldn’t resist. “Are you guys in some fucking gangster movie or what?” The car broke up with laughter. He had always been good at lightening up a situation and finding humor where there really was none. Michael knew, however, that it wouldn’t change what looked to be a voyage to the bottom of the sea, or at least the bottom of some pier in Queens.
The car had turned off the Grand Central Parkway and was now exiting the Whitestone Expressway, somewhere around Willets Point in Queens, a blue-collar neighborhood of old wooden houses, and boating and plumbing supply shops.
Michael knew his ride was coming to an end. He needed to try anything he could. “Listen, guys, I’ve got money. I can take care of you. Just let me out of this.”
Morty made eye contact with Michael as they both looked into the rearview mirror. “Hey, I’d like to help you, but if we turned on Mr. Sharkey, we’d all wind up in cement. Besides, Mr. Sharkey’s already got your money.”
Chapter 46
New York City
7:00 p.m.
“Samantha, where exactly are you now?” Fletcher said as soon as she had told him what had happened.
Holding her cell phone tightly to her ear, Samantha looked up at the street signs, “I’m at the corner of Broadway and Spring Street. It’s just crazy here now, Fletcher. The cops have closed off both streets, and they’re diverting traffic away from the area.” She pressed her finger to her free ear to block out the clatter from the police radios and stared ahead at Deacon Dan’s car, its doors wide open and surrounded by marked and unmarked police cars. Uniformed officers and detectives swarmed the area, appearing to be questioning passersby.
“It had happened so fast. The whole thing took less than a minute from the time we stepped outside the building until their car took off—with Michael.”
“What have the police said about finding them?”
“They said that without a license plate number, it’s going to be tough—it was one of those black Lincoln Town Cars that all the livery drivers use. The detective told me that they’re going to look at area surveillance tapes, but it would take hours before they could hope to find anything of value on them. By then, Fletcher, it’ll be too late.”
“Samantha, listen to me, do you know anyone who knows Michael’s situation and would possibly have at least an educated guess on who might have kidnapped him? Anyone at all?”
“No, I don’t even know most of the people he’s been hanging out with now.” Her mind raced through the people she met at Alex’s funeral. “Fletcher, let me make a call. I’ll call you right back.” She dialed her sister-in-law.
Samantha imagined Donna lounging around her bedroom, trying to decide whether to eat dinner in or go out. She was relieved when Donna picked up on the first ring.
“Samantha, is that you?”
“Oh my God, Donna. Michael’s been kidnapped. We’re in the city. We were just leaving a gallery to go to dinner and these guys rushed out of a car; they covered his mouth with something and then, in a second, had him in their car. The police are here, but there are a million bl
ack Lincolns in the city. They’ll never find him. I’ve already called our police chief friend, Fletcher, but I don’t know what he can do; he’s in Connecticut. I can’t believe this is happening. They looked mean. They’re going to do something awful to Michael.”
“Okay, Samantha, try to stay calm. Do you want me to come to you?” Samantha was never close to Donna, but they had always gotten along.
“I don’t know. But listen, is there anyone you can think of who might have done this—or who might at least know where they’re headed?”
There was an unusually long silence. Samantha took the phone away from her ear to check in case the connection had been lost, but she could see the seconds still ticking off on the screen, indicating the call was still in progress. Then she heard Donna’s voice.
“Samantha, I borrowed Michael’s cell phone while we were at Alex’s wake. I planted a GPS tracker in it. Let me get on my computer and see if it’s working.”
“Donna, oh my God, that’s … crazy … but that might be the best news I could have. Whatever you do, hurry. I don’t think there’s much time from the look of those guys.”
“Okay, just hold on while I go to my computer.”
“Please, Donna, hurry.”
“I’ve got it open, and I’m putting in my password to the GPS site.” After a short pause, she continued. “We’re in!”
Samantha’s mind was racing between her astonishment at Donna’s nerve in placing the GPS tracker on Michael and her fear that it either wasn’t working or that his phone had been thrown away.
“Now let me get to the right screens … Samantha, we’re in luck! Holy shit, I’m looking at a street map of Queens—actually, Flushing and Willets Point.”
Samantha wanted to scream. “Donna, keep going, hurry.”
“I see the red symbol for the ‘subject,’ which I pray is Michael’s location. They’re clearly in Flushing and heading to Willets Point.”
“That’s a start; can you zero in closer? Will it give you a street or anything?”
“I’m trying. Hold on, Samantha, I may have an even more exact location. I don’t know for sure, but there’s a good chance this is where he is.”
“Oh my God, Donna, where?”
“It looks like they just got off the Whitestone Expressway at the Thirty-First Street exit, and they’re now on Willets Point Boulevard.”
“That’s terrific, Donna—”
“Maybe not,” Donna quickly interrupted.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Samantha’s heart dropped.
“They’re only two blocks now from the water.”
Samantha rushed to the NYPD detective who was standing several feet away. “Officer, I think I know where they may be!” Samantha repeated the location she had just received from Donna. She watched as the detective called the information into his police radio. She could hear the positive response from what sounded like a dispatcher.
The detective’s voice was reassuring as he said, “We’ll have units and a helicopter there in just a few minutes, maybe less, Mrs. Nicholas.” But then he came closer. She noticed his expression change to one of confusion or, she thought, skepticism. “But, I have to ask you, how did you get this?”
“It’s a long story, but I’d like to introduce you to my sister-in-law,” she said as she handed the phone over to the detective. “She’s tracking my husband from his phone.”
* * *
After several minutes, Samantha approached the detective, who appeared to have finally put down his radio receiver. He handed back Samantha’s cell phone.
“Is there any news? Have they found him?” she asked, trying not to be hysterical.
“We’re close, ma’am. We’ve got several units now flooding the entire area, including the specific location we got from your sister-in-law.”
Her cell phone rang. It was Fletcher again.
“Samantha, I’ve been trying to reach you. I pulled some strings with my old friends, and I’m in a NYPD helicopter. I understand you’ve got some GPS lead that he’s in Willets Point near the water.”
“Yes, my sister-in-law Donna—I know this is odd—has a GPS attached to Michael’s cell phone.”
“Why would she have that?” Fletcher asked.
“Fletcher, I don’t have a clue. She said she’d explain it all later. You know, with all this stuff that Michael has gotten involved with, the world has become just terrifying. Fletcher, should I try calling Michael’s cell?”
“No, whatever you do, don’t do it now. If this GPS thing is real, we don’t want them to throw the phone out the window or something.”
* * *
Although Michael was from Queens, he wasn’t familiar with the exact area he and his captors were speeding through. He knew he wasn’t in a great area of Flushing as he saw the small, old, deteriorating factories and buildings, many of them abandoned. Morty, Lump, and Nicky Bats had also turned strangely silent.
Michael wondered whether they were beginning the detachment process, making it easier for even hard-core psychopaths to kill their prey. He knew his only hope was that their car would somehow be pulled over by an unsuspecting cop for speeding. It seemed highly unlikely, especially since he hadn’t even seen a single police car since leaving the Triborough Bridge. His mind raced through all the possible escape strategies, none of which seemed to hold the slightest chance of success. Only sheer luck or complete stupidity would save him.
Morty, Lump, and Nicky Bats each seemed capable of the stupidity, except this was a task they likely performed without even having to think, like a plumber fixing a drain. They had done it so many times before, it was a routine, mindless, mechanical process.
Michael thought that he should at least try to keep them talking. “So, what do you guys think about the Yankees this year?” he asked no one in particular.
“Shut the fuck up,” Morty said.
Michael could see that his ride was nearing an end. Willets Point was dark and deserted at this hour of the night. There was no reason for anyone to be here unless they were up to something sinister. He was torn between trying to mentally prepare for the end of his life and still trying to look for any chance of escape. The latter seemed more hopeless with each passing block and with each step closer to the approaching pier or boat or whatever was to be the method of dumping him in the water. He wondered how long it would take to drown.
The car began to slow down. Michael could hardly see anything through his window. Still, no one spoke. As the car came to a stop, Michael could see a simple iron lamppost, curved downward at the very top, an ordinary lightbulb appearing to be the only illumination in the area. It cast an ominous glow over what looked like an old-fashioned wooden pier. It reminded him of an Edward Hopper painting. There were no boats, just the pier, which seemed to go out to nowhere. Without any light other than the one at the foot of the pier, the water was invisible. But Michael knew it was there, and he knew he would feel it soon enough.
Morty, Lump, and Nicky Bats opened their car doors almost simultaneously. Morty left the car engine running, an indication, Michael thought, that this wasn’t going to take long, at least for them. He came around and opened Michael’s door from the outside. As Michael was helped out of his seat, Lump and Nicky Bats grabbed the cement block holding Michael’s feet. Michael looked out toward the pier and could now see that the length of the pier was no more than ninety feet. The distance from home to first in baseball, he thought. This would be his last at-bat.
Chapter 47
Willets Point, Queens, New York
7:15 p.m.
The view from the helicopter was breathtaking. Fletcher could see the New York Mets Citi Field and the Triborough, Whitestone, and Throgs Neck bridges, all close by around him. In the near horizon was the majestic skyline of Manhattan. The night was dark, but the city’s lights glittered everywhere on this cold evening. Directly below, however, there was little light. These Queens streets were not part of the great, powerful metropolis. They hid more
than they revealed.
The NYPD Harbor Scuba Team was an elite corps of police divers trained to deploy into any New York City waterway within six minutes. Detective Eddie Nardelli headed the team of two divers riding in the NYPD Aviation Unit helicopter for tonight’s rescue mission. Nardelli and his partner, fellow detective Kenny Rivera, were both in their black wetsuits, their scuba tanks already strapped on their backs. They were each armed with Smith & Wesson semiautomatic 9mm handguns with fluted firing pins capable of firing even after being submerged in the water, and they were ready to jump from the helicopter into the black murky waters around Flushing.
“Fletcher,” Nardelli asked, “who is this guy?”
“He’s a good friend from Westport. He’s helped us out in the past. His brother was murdered by some hit guy a few weeks ago in Whitestone. I think the same people have got him now.”
“Is he clean?” It was hard to hear over the whirring of the helicopter.
“I think so. He’s a good guy. His brother may have been into some gambling stuff, but nothing serious.”
Fletcher stared down at the local streets, which fanned out from the major arteries toward the surrounding body of water. “What is all this, just commercial stuff? What about the docks?”
Detective Nardelli waved his arm, motioning out to the streets directly below them. “This area is dead at night. It’s almost dead even during the day. Just old abandoned factories and piers. The water’s cold, dirty, and deep. If someone gets dumped down in these waters, unless he floats back up or you know the exact spot, you’ll never find him. Divers with searchlights can only see a foot in front of them, even during the day. The water’s probably close to freezing. Even if this guy’s not tied up or anything and able to swim, once he hits the water, he’ll be dead in two minutes.”