“No,” D said as he walked away. “I’m taking the subway. Better class of people.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Suckers have been buying the Brooklyn Bridge since the day it was completed, well over a hundred years ago. It’s a beautiful structure with a medley of lean metal rods creating an intricate spiderweb linking several stone dominoes. It’s a sweet balance of complexity and simplicity that makes the other East River bridges look, at best, utilitarian (the Manhattan) or just plain old butt-ugly (the Williamsburg). If you were going to photograph a multimillion-dollar music video on any bridge in New York, only the Brooklyn would really do. Which was why at near the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning scores of disgruntled travelers were being rerouted at Tillary Street in Brooklyn and at Centre Street in Manhattan. For a few hours this beautiful structure belonged to Bridgette Haze.
“Five minutes to sunrise! Everybody in position!” Bee Cole’s first assistant director yelled into a bullhorn as dancers limbered up and the crew made hurried checks of the six cameras stationed to capture nature’s magic. In Bridgette’s trailer, her makeup was being touched up, her hair tweaked, and her legs massaged. Three skilled professionals were tending to Bridgette’s body, tuning her like a concert piano.
Jen sat quietly, watching her sister get ready to perform, just as she’d done hundreds of times before. Aside from the professional image-polishers, the Haze sisters were the only ones in the trailer. No manager. No publicist. No bodyguards. Despite all the fussy activity around her, Bridgette was outwardly calm, yet joyous inside. This was her comfort zone—her sister by her side as she prepared to rock the world. One day she would desire children. One day she’d seek out a husband. Right now, however, her only goal was to make her mark on history, to fulfill the fantasies she’d projected onto her bedroom ceiling.
There was a knock on the trailer door. “Come in,” Jen said.
D entered, looking refreshed by his ride downtown on the A train. “Fifteen minutes to sunrise, Bridgette. They need you in position.”
“Which position is that?” she said back, very flirty. Whatever anguish she’d felt up in Harlem was gone. She was back being the star, the ruler of all she surveyed. For her, D was a wonderful short-term addition to her life. He was tall, dark, handsome, and seemed to exist solely to keep her safe. Unlike most men around her, D’s desires seemed simple. They didn’t involve running her life or getting rich off her talent. He didn’t even seem that enthused by her attentions. Sure, he wanted to fuck her—the man wasn’t crazy. Still, he wouldn’t have made a move if she hadn’t pushed him. In a world of grabbing hands, slippery words, and constant flirtations, D’s reticence was incredibly attractive.
“On the bridge, Bridgette,” he said, smiling, and she rose to join him.
Outside, Bridgette put the crook of her arm in his and walked behind an AD from the trailer past the large percolating generator, up a dark staircase to the walkway that led pedestrians across the Brooklyn Bridge. Along the way they passed key members of D Security—the solid old-timer Clarence, his old buddy Jeff, and the lovely Latina Mercedez. Monday afternoon he’d have to sit down with all three. With Jeff and Mercedez to determine how many side deals they’d been cutting, and with Clarence to figure out what to do with them.
D knew once this shoot was completed and Bridgette was neatly tucked into her bed, there would be a lot to figure out: D Security’s future, his relationship to the woman on his arm, and how to tolerate his mother’s new man.
Bee Cole and the choreographer, a fey black man with a woolly natural, stood awaiting the singer. Bee gave his arm a squeeze and then walked Bridgette to her position in front of a phalanx of dancers. The sun began to edge out of the horizon.
“Roll playback!” Bee commanded, and then yelled, “Action!” Cameras rolled, dancers wiggled, and the sun appeared like a slice of orange peel on the horizon. All eyes were focused on Bridgette on the bridge. Bee sat behind her multiple monitors, savoring this iconographic pop moment that had come to her a week ago on the StairMaster. Ivy sat a few feet away, sipping coffee, no longer thinking about the past but of how he once again owned the future. Jen, both proud and bored, was watching her sister while contemplating her judgment in getting emotionally and professionally involved with a married man.
The sun was full but low as the song ended. The first AD yelled, “We’re going again!” as makeup and hair staff, gaffers, and electricians scurried to do touch-ups and make adjustments. In this brief space between takes one and two, not longer than forty seconds, D heard motorcycles. Many motorcycles. As everyone else gazed toward Bridgette and the bridge, D looked away from the set.
“I just heard motorcycles,” he said into his headphone. “Anyone have a location?”
“Nothing on the Manhattan side,” Jeff said, “but I’ll alert the police.”
“I heard them too!” It was Mercedez. “But I don’t see any down by the trailers.”
“I’m headed your way,” D said, and moved back toward the steps. The playback kicked in and everyone on the bridge refocused on making MTV history. By the time D arrived down by the trailers, Mercedez, Clarence, and several other staffers had gathered to meet him. “Okay, there are plenty of cops and barricades over here. Maybe they won’t make a direct attack but will try to swarm us as we get ready to move Bridgette . . .”
D was still talking when a large mobile generator exploded into orange and blue flames. His staff members dashed toward the fire, but D held himself in check and moved back to the bridge’s staircase. The sound of frenzied chatter filled his headphones. Sirens wailed. People screamed. And, buried inside those sounds, was another—the roar of motorcycle engines.
“Jeff, bring Haze to the Manhattan side!” he barked, but in the chaos, no one seemed to hear him. Here it was, the moment of truth for his team, and no one was home. “Bring Bridgette Haze to the Manhattan side!” D turned and looked up the stairs where crew members, dancers, and a certain pop star were stampeding down. Jeff had Bridgette and Jen in either hand. How he’d gotten across the bridge so quickly to grab them mystified D, but there they all were.
“Follow me!” D said. Both Haze sisters were bordering on the hysterical, asking questions in high-pitched voices. D grabbed Bridgette from Jeff and led them away from the chaos under the Brooklyn Bridge.
From three directions motorcycles pulled into view. The police had established perimeters, but someone had left barricades askew in several places and the bikes roared into the production area. A policeman had his knee shattered as he tried to intercept one bike. A female PA was run over when, in a panic, she tripped and fell into the path of an oncoming bike.
D didn’t see any of this. Along with Bridgette, Jeff, and Jen, he was in a mad dash through the streets of DUMBO, the neighborhood of converted factories and loft-living between the Manhattan and Brooklyn bridges—the same area that Night and Tandi had been dropped off in by the kidnappers. Jeff pulled out a nine-millimeter from his waistband. D saw it, but this wasn’t the time to discuss the guy’s legal status.
If they could get around the base of the bridge, D figured, they could head up into Brooklyn Heights where it would be easier to hide. That early in the morning in DUMBO there were no cars on the street, nothing to flag down, nothing to escape in. D wasn’t letting that worry him. His adrenaline was pumping hot. He couldn’t believe how good he felt.
The heel of Bridgette’s right platform shoe broke and she fell to the ground. “My ankle!” D didn’t hesitate. He picked her up and cradled her in his arms. Part of him wanted to laugh at this movie-poster moment, but it didn’t last. A Suzuki could be heard roaring in their direction.
D put Bridgette down and turned to Jeff. “Give it to me!”
Jeff reluctantly handed over the piece to his friend. All four crowded low against an old, yet-to-be-renovated loft building. The Suzuki had a hefty male rider in a black ensemble. D aimed the nine-millimeter and fired two shots on the ground a few feet in front of th
e bike. The driver, properly spooked, lost control and skidded into the side of a parked van. Jeff sprinted across to the fallen driver, pulled back his visor, and slammed down his booted heel repeatedly in the driver’s face. D and the Haze sisters ran over and the men lifted the bike, which had some damage to the frame but was still running. D hopped on and motioned for Bridgette to join him.
“I’m not going without my sister,” she declared.
Jeff grabbed the singer by the waist and dumped her on the seat behind D. Before she could protest, her bodyguard had gunned the engine and pulled off.
Jen shouted at Jeff, “Where is he taking her?”
“Somewhere safer than this.”
D guided the Suzuki around the base of the Brooklyn Bridge and onto Old Fulton Street. They zoomed past the Eagle Warehouse building and then made a hard right onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway entry ramp. D could feel Bridgette crying, her body jerking involuntarily against his back. He concentrated on handling the bike (which he barely felt in control of) and figuring out his next move. Where would this woman be safe? Where could he take her that he wouldn’t be answering lots of police questions? An idea came to his head. A wacky idea but a damn good one. By the time the Wonder Wheel was in view, D had a plan.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Going east on New Montauk Highway (a.k.a. Highway 27 on your New York State map), there’s a point where the road crests and you can see the Atlantic Ocean on your car’s right and Montauk Cove on your left. It’s a beautiful sight, one D would’ve loved to have pointed out to Bridgette Haze, but the Long Island Rail Road took a low approach into the town that afforded only glimpses of the Cove and the backs of several low-rent beach houses. Besides, she was curled up asleep in a seat across the aisle from him.
It had taken about ninety minutes to get out to Kennedy Airport, where D ditched the bike in a parking structure. Bridgette hid in an airport hotel restroom while D purchased new clothes for her at the international departures terminal, including a cheap leather jacket, wool cap, jeans, and ugly beige boots. Dressed down and relatively inconspicuous, Bridgette and D hopped a taxi to the Long Island Rail Road station in Jamaica, Queens. There they caught the 11:17 a.m. train to Montauk, which, out of season, was a local. Lots of stops in Nassau and Suffolk County towns. A conductor thought he recognized her, but Bridgette sang off key and told the man she was Bridgette Haze’s untalented cousin. Other than that, they’d attracted more glances by being an unusual-looking couple than for Bridgette herself. It was a sleepy off-season Sunday morning and most celebrity-watchers were apparently asleep.
D had made only one phone call, and that was to Night. “My phone’s been burning up with people trying to find you and Bridgette. Everybody seems to think you’d call me.”
“How stupid are they, huh? Anyway, where’s the key to the Montauk place?”
“Where it always is. Ain’t a damn thing changed, except you have gotten three or four degrees more out of control.”
“What’s the word?”
“The news is blasting that she’s missing, perhaps kidnapped at her video shoot, though her PR man, Rodney Hampton, is denying it. Says she’s just in seclusion.”
“Rodney, huh?” D chuckled and then said, “She’s with me, Night. She’s safe.”
“I got that. When are you gonna let other people know?”
“Soon. I just wanna get situated out here. These kidnappers got real serious today, so I wanna to keep her well out of harm’s way. Any arrests made?”
“A couple, but they didn’t release any names.”
“Don’t say anything to anyone yet. I’ll shout at you soon.”
“Stay up,” Night said, and hung up.
As the train pulled into Montauk, D awakened Bridgette with a soft shake. “Where are we?” she asked.
“The end of America.”
Passengers departing at Montauk exit onto a long concrete platform that leads to a rampway and a wide, gravel-covered parking lot. Toward the road into town is a small, white ticket station. But most incoming travelers are picked up either by an awaiting car or by one of the rival taxi companies operated by the many Irish expatriates who’ve settled in town. In summer Montauk is thick with the Irish brogues of foreign-exchange students who toil in a medley of service gigs (cab driver, bartender, cashier). Some, like D and Bridgette’s chatty driver, Eamon, make a full-time home in this beach town/fishing village. Eamon was in his thirties, chubby, and slightly weathered, but seemingly happy to be driving his fuchsia Pink Tuna taxi for a living.
“I don’t mind the winters out here,” the man said over the din emanating from the car’s radio. “The Wolf,” a rock station whose signal traveled from Rhode Island, was blasting Aerosmith’s “Dream On” as he continued, “It’s raw at times, like the coastland towns in Ireland. But it’s a fine excuse to spend more time in the pubs.”
D was enjoying Eamon’s good cheer, while Bridgette sat quietly with her wool cap pulled low, gazing at the village of Montauk. Summer days were lush and green with sweet sea breezes coming off the Atlantic. At night a cooler wind made windbreakers and pullovers mandatory during beach bonfires. Off-season, Montauk could be stark and bitter, weather well suited to the fishermen who made it their home, but a serious adjustment to those who knew it only in summer.
As the Pink Tuna taxi wound its way into the town square and made a left onto Old Montauk Highway, past Herb’s grocery store and the old-fashioned Mobile station, D felt he’d made a terrible mistake bringing Bridgette out here. He could just as easily have gone up Tillary Street and hopped the Manhattan Bridge, and taken Bridgette to her apartment in Tribeca or even to his house for safekeeping. Plus, he didn’t have his meds—how long could he safely function without them? How long would it take before the virus regained its strength?
“How far?” Bridgette asked suddenly. These were her first words since the train, and they startled both D and Eamon.
“He’ll be making a turn in a minute,” D replied.
“You know,” Eamon said, “if you stay on this road it’ll take you right out to the lighthouse. It doesn’t work anymore but it’s a beautiful thing to see, I’d say.”
The taxi made a right onto Ditch Plains Road, which led to the most popular stretch of public beach in Montauk.
“Excuse me, miss,” the driver said, “but you look familiar. Did you stay out in Hither Hills last summer?”
“No,” Bridgette answered, and then added mischievously, “but I have a lot of sisters and one of them might have come out. I think she might have dated an Irish cab driver. I’ll have to ask her.”
“Well, well,” Eamon said, overjoyed at the attention, his eyes twinkling, “whichever sister it was, compliment her on her fine taste in blokes.”
D interrupted by noting that their destination was coming up on the right. The taxi pulled up in front of a gray two-story house with a triangular roof. A big round window sat in the middle of it.
Eamon said, “You must be a friend of that fellow Shade.”
“Night,” D corrected, pressing twenty dollars into the driver’s hand. “You mean Night.”
“Yes, a fine fellow, Mr. Night. Gives quite a party, I’m told.”
“Have a nice day, Eamon,” Bridgette said. “You think about it and I’ll bet you’ll remember my sister’s name.”
“Oh, I will indeed try.” He handed D a bright pink business card. “If you folks need any transportation during your stay, feel free to ask for me.”
D was relieved that Bridgette was flirting with the driver. It was the first time since the morning that she’d smiled, and he knew her cheeks needed the exercise.
It was chilly inside Night’s summer house but it was otherwise impressive. There was a spacious living/dining room, a stainless-steel kitchen, and two staircases, one leading to a master bedroom and the other to two smaller bedrooms. There was a long, L-shaped white leather sofa that faced a wide-screen TV, a stereo system, and a fireplace.
“Night comes this far out to party?”
“No,” D replied as he went into a closet to dig out a Duraflame log. “He comes this far out to fish. The parties are a by-product of that.”
As D placed the Duraflame in the fireplace and surrounded it with logs from the pile lying nearby, Bridgette plucked the remote off the TV, clicked it on, and began channel surfing. MTV was playing one of her old videos, which made her frown.
“Am I dead?” she said. “They must think I’m dead to be playing this. God, do I look ’Bama.”
As the video ended, MTV News appeared with a goofy, gangly-looking VJ playing reporter. “There was an explosion at the New York City video shoot of Bridgette Haze that left several people injured. Police have termed the explosion ‘suspicious.’ Complicating the investigation was the arrival of a team of stunt drivers who were to appear in the video, at the time of the explosion. Bridgette Haze’s spokesperson, Rodney Hampton, told MTV News that the singer, who’s been recording in New York, is fine and will definitely host the Source Awards this week.”
“Wow,” Bridgette said.
“Yeah,” D agreed, “that Rodney Hampton is one slick, lying motherfucker.”
“Yeah, he may have messed over my sister but he’s damn good at what he does. Have to talk to Jen and figure out a way to keep him around.”
“Hey, did you ever think that, just maybe, your sister shouldn’t be sleeping with married men?”
Bridgette shook her head and said softly, “Yeah. What can I say to that?” She turned down the sound of Nelly on MTV and asked, “So when can I go back to the city?”
“It’s Sunday. I’d say we get you back Tuesday in time for rehearsal. I’ll have Ivy fly a copter over to the airport in East Hampton and you’ll be back in Manhattan in twenty minutes.”
The Accidental Hunter Page 18