Onion Street mp-8

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  I finally said, “Okay, I guess.”

  “What kinda fuckin’ answer is that? Don’t be a mook, kid. You’re one of the smart kids around here. Don’t be pissin’ on that.”

  “I know.”

  “Bobby was in the other day and told me about your girlfriend. She doin’ okay?”

  “Better.”

  “Good, that’s a good thing.” Tony P looked at his gaudy diamond and gold watch. “You know, Moe, it’s pretty late. Where you been that you’re comin’ in so late?”

  “Long story, Tony.”

  “I got time.” Tony P wasn’t the type of guy who would take no for an answer.

  “I was up visiting in the Poconos.”

  “That’s nice,” he said with little enthusiasm. “That’s the whole story?”

  “On the way home it was snowing like crazy and some asshole tried running me off a road up there.”

  “No shit? Up there? That don’t figure. Why, you cut him off or something? You flip him the bird?”

  “Nah. Maybe it was my New York license plate pissing a yahoo off or because I’m young. I don’t know. Who knows why people do the things they do?”

  Now he was curious. “So what happened?”

  “I got lucky. I was coming up to the crest of a hill and a semi was coming up in the other direction just as the guy who was chasing me tried to overtake me. I didn’t see what happened, but I heard the crash. It didn’t sound as bad as it could have been, I guess. It wasn’t head on. There was — ”

  The phone rang and that got Tony’s attention. I took the opportunity to take another bite.

  Geno called out, “It’s somebody callin’ for you, Tony. He says is important.”

  “Excuse me, kid. I gotta take this. I hope your girl gets better real soon.” He took a step away, then turned back. “And hey, Moe, you think maybe you should stick to your schoolwork? It’s a lot safer than real life, no?”

  Outside, a D train ka-chunged ka-chunged along the el tracks, its brakes squealing as it stopped. I gobbled the rest of my pizza, washing it down with the Coke. When I walked to the front of the pizzeria, Tony Pepperoni was gone and Geno looked relieved. I nodded goodnight. As I drove the few blocks back home, I remembered there had been something bothering me about what had happened with the highway patrol cop, but I was even further away from it now than I was before.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ringing telephones seemed to be how I was measuring out my mornings these days now that my class schedule was no longer a consideration. And since the phone that woke me up was still ringing, I could only assume I was alone in the apartment. By the time I got to the kitchen and picked up, all I got for my trouble was a dial tone. I cradled the receiver and went to do my morning business. I didn’t get two steps away when the phone started up again.

  “Yeah,” I growled. “What?”

  “Moe, is that you? This is Herb Weinstock, Mindy’s dad.”

  “Oh, I’m really sorry about that, Mr. Weinstock. I’m not feeling so well today.”

  “Mindy’s mom and I figured something must’ve been up when you didn’t come by the hospital yesterday.”

  Suddenly, there was a king-sized knot in my gut. “Is something wrong? Did something happen? Is Mindy — ”

  “Calm yourself, Moe. It’s all right. It’s okay. Mindy woke up a little bit more yesterday and her doctor thinks she should be transferred to a place in Westchester County where they have better facilities to handle her condition and rehabilitation. I’m calling because I didn’t want you to get scared if you came here today and found her room empty.”

  “So you’re transferring her today?”

  “In an hour. I don’t like to do it. She should be by her home, near her friends with her family. That’s what her mother and I think, but the doctors say it’s best and we have to do what the doctors say. We will call you later with all the particulars and let you know when you can come visit.”

  “Is Mindy talking yet?”

  “Not yet. She seems to recognize us sometimes, Moe. It’s wonderful to see a light in her eyes again. Sometimes when she’s at her most wakeful, you can swear she moves her lips like she’s trying to say words.”

  “That’s great news, Mr. Weinstock. Please kiss her for me and tell her I love her.”

  “We will do that. Don’t you worry. Like I said, we will call.”

  I hung up the phone and headed for the bathroom. I made it as far as the hallway when the phone started ringing again. Did the world have a conspiracy against my bladder or what?

  “Hello,” I answered generically, not wanting to offend Mindy’s dad if it was him calling back to tell me some forgotten detail.

  “Hello? Since when do you answer the damn phone like a receptionist?” It was Bobby. “Where were you like five minutes ago when I called the first time? Then when I called back I got a busy signal.”

  “That was you? I thought it was Mindy’s dad.”

  “What? What happened? Did something — ”

  I couldn’t take it any longer. “Hang on,” I said, letting go of the phone and racing for the bathroom. A minute later and a few pints lighter, I got back on the line. “You still there?”

  “What the hell is going on with you?”

  I explained the missed phone call, about Mr. Weinstock’s call, and about the call of nature.

  “That’s great news about Mindy.”

  “It is. So why are you calling this early?”

  “I found Lids,” he said. “He’s safe. I thought you’d wanna know.”

  “Good, I’ll go over and see — ”

  Bobby interrupted. “You can’t see him.”

  “Is he invisible?”

  “I said he’s safe, Moe, not home.”

  I didn’t like it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What it sounds like it means. He’s okay. He’s safe. Someone’s keeping an eye on him for me.”

  “You don’t even like the guy,” I said. “I practically had to beg you to look for him and now what, you’re watching over him like a mother hen?”

  “Yeah, Moe, something like that.”

  “Something like that? What the fuck am I supposed to tell his parents? They’re gonna want to get the cops involved.”

  “Make up a story. You’re good at that.”

  “What’s going on, Bobby?”

  “Look, I don’t have time to explain. I’ve got an airport run this morning and I’m already running behind because I wanted to let you know Lids was okay. I’m taking Ronnie Ackerman’s grandma to JFK. You wanna come along? Maybe we can talk about things on the way back.”

  I said yes before I thought about it.

  “Okay,” he said. “Fifteen minutes. Be down in front of your building.” He was off the line before I had time to change my mind.

  I stood there for a moment, the moot phone still in my hand. It wasn’t just that I was stunned by Bobby’s inexplicable transformation from reluctant searcher to guardian angel. It wasn’t about Lids at all, really. What happened is that it finally clicked for me. I understood what it was that had been gnawing at me since the cop woke me up on the side of the Belt Parkway. I thought back to the flat tire, to Bobby fussing with stuff in what should have been an empty trunk. I remembered him making me stay in the car and his keeping the trunk lid shut. I remembered the cop futzing around in the trunk too. I was positive Bobby was going to get arrested. I mean, he was already handcuffed and in the back of the cop car. Then, as if by magic, an accident up ahead forced the cop to kick Bobby loose. See, here’s the thing that came to me: there was no accident anywhere up ahead that day. After the cop split, we drove from Pennsylvania Avenue past Rockaway Parkway, Flatbush Avenue, Knapp Street, past Coney Island Avenue until we got off at Ocean Parkway. Not only was there no accident on either side of the road; there wasn’t even a slowdown. I guess I’d been so freaked out by what had happened between Bobby and the cop that it hadn’t fully registered.

  Why ha
d it taken two days to dawn on me? I didn’t have time to worry about it. Usually, I don’t like making excuses, but I had ample cause to be distracted. My girlfriend was comatose. I’d seen two murdered bodies. I’d been tied up, beaten up, nearly run over, and nearly run off the road. A week ago, if you had told me any two of those things would have happened to me over the course of my entire life, I would have called you crazy. So, yeah, I felt comfortable with giving myself a pass. There’d also been a change of plans, only I had no intention of telling Bobby about it.

  • • •

  I was downstairs in ten minutes, not fifteen. After brushing my teeth and throwing on some clothes, I left my building through a rear exit and found Aaron’s car where I’d parked it. Heading quickly away from the neighborhood, I kept a close eye out for Bobby’s car. For things to work out, I couldn’t afford for him to catch me sneaking away. I imagined Bobby’s perpetual smile curdling when he saw I wasn’t waiting for him in front of my building. His mood wouldn’t improve any either when he’d be forced to double-park his car so he could run into my building’s lobby to ring my apartment buzzer. He’d be pretty pissed when he finally realized that I wasn’t home and that I wasn’t coming with him. I didn’t like pulling this kind of shit on anyone, least of all Bobby, but I didn’t see that I had much of a choice. I had to buy enough time to get over to Ronnie Ackerman’s block before Bobby did.

  Ronnie was a Burgundy House brother who lived on East 14th Street off Gravesend Neck Road. He lived there with his parents, his sister — pretty sexy in a gloomy, Sylvia Plath kind of way — and his bubbeh. I knew all of this because Ronnie’d had all of us over for a barbecue last spring. Good thing too. Otherwise, the mechanics of following Bobby around would have been that much more difficult. As it was, I had no faith I would be any good at playing at The Man from U.N.C.L.E. I’d never followed anyone in my life, certainly not in a car, and I understood it wasn’t going to be as easy as it looked on TV. I was already behind the eight ball because there was a chance Bobby might recognize Aaron’s car in his rearview if I got too close. My one advantage was that I knew where the trip was beginning and where it would end, so I could afford to hang far back. All I had to do was keep Bobby’s 88 in sight.

  I parked down the other end of East 14th Street, away from Ronnie’s house, and waited for Bobby’s car to pass. It took quite a while, or maybe it just seemed that way. If I didn’t believe that Bobby was lying to me or, at the very least, hiding stuff from me, I probably would’ve felt guilty about what I was doing. Guilt came as standard equipment in most Jews, and I was no exception. My uncle used to joke that Jews felt so guilty about everything that when the doctors slapped us at birth we felt like we deserved it. In a paper I wrote about Jewish guilt for a psych class, I claimed it was a perverse expression of cultural narcissism. If it turned out that I was misjudging Bobby, I’d eat my heart out with guilt at some later date. Guilt is good that way — it doesn’t have a shelf life.

  I saw Bobby’s 88 coming my way in the side view mirror, and lay down before he passed. Thirty seconds later, I took off behind him. Although following him went pretty smoothly, it wasn’t without its problems. Traffic happened to be so sparse that no matter how far I hung back, it was nearly impossible to keep a lot of cars between Bobby and me. Figures I’d pick the lightest traffic day in the history of the free world to start my career as a junior G-Man. It didn’t help much that the skies were perfectly clear, and that visibility was basically unlimited. Even so, there was nothing about Bobby’s driving that indicated he had any idea I was behind him.

  Just as he had done the two times I’d accompanied him, he pulled off onto the Conduit by the Van Wyck Expressway and then onto the road that circled the terminals at JFK. As expected, Bobby drove into the short-term parking closest to the Eastern Airlines terminal. He parked in the same aisle, in the same spot as he had on our two previous trips. I guess I never thought of Bobby as someone who was hung up on consistency. There was very little that was consistent about him other than his friendship. With his happy-go-lucky demeanor, radical dogma, and hustler’s heart, he was already a breathing contradiction. It was pretty funny to think of him as the anal retentive revolutionary: A place for everything and everything in its place. I pulled into a spot that afforded me a good view of Bobby’s car and watched as Bobby ushered Bubbeh Ackerman to the terminal.

  A few minutes after they vanished from my view, a white, boxy Dodge van pulled up right behind Bobby’s car, obscuring my view. Shit! If I wanted to know what was going on, I didn’t have much choice but to move myself or my car. I got out of the car, and when I did I felt suddenly very naked. I don’t know why exactly. It was silly. There was plenty of activity swirling around me: cars parking, cars pulling in and out of the lot, people heading toward or coming from the terminal. There was no reason that I should be any more or less conspicuous than anyone else. I told myself to just act naturally, and laughed at the inherent contradiction in my own advice. Act naturally; how did that work? I was good at being me, not at acting like being me. At the moment, though, the more pressing issue was finding a way to see what was going on with the white van and Bobby’s car.

  Too late. By the time I was done being Prufrock, the ship had sailed. The van was pulling away and heading for the exit. If anything had been loaded into Bobby’s trunk from the van or from the trunk into the van, I’d missed it. Worse, I had no way of knowing if the van had any actual significance. For all I knew, it had stopped at the rear of Bobby’s car because it was having engine trouble. When I got back in the car, I had a tough choice to make and not much time in which to make it. I could wait for Bobby to return and follow him wherever he went, or I could go off after the van. The longer I waited to choose, the less likely the latter option became. I wasn’t going to get caught napping a second time. I twisted the ignition key, backed up, and raced for the exit.

  I caught up to the white van pretty quickly. It was easier to tail the van at a close distance than it had been to follow Bobby. To the van driver, Aaron’s Tempest was just one of a thousand cars just like it on the local roads. My face behind the wheel would be just another humanoid blur, no more significant than the other shadowy faces the van driver passed or would pass during the course of his day. Still, once I fell in behind the van, I didn’t tailgate. I tried to keep plenty of cars between the nose of the Tempest and the van’s windowless back doors. The van turned off the main terminal road and onto a road that wound its way through unfamiliar ground, areas of the airport I had never seen before. This was the nuts and bolts part of the airfield, where the jets were hangared and their bellies were stuffed with boxes and crates and aluminum containers. The air was alive with the whining of jet engines and the acrid stink of spent kerosene on burning hot metal. I could almost taste the exhaust on my tongue. Crazy as it may sound, the sun that lit the cargo area seemed dimmer somehow, its light more diffuse. Driving through this part of the airport reminded me of the first time I’d walked into the back of a restaurant and seen the ugly bones behind the pretty face shown to the diners.

  The van driver didn’t seem in any rush, keeping at a steady thirty miles per hour. In fact, he was making it so easy for me to keep pace I worried that I’d been spotted, that he was trying to lure me into a trap. But no, those were my nerves talking. I was just freaked because I knew that once we left the airport I would be on my own. When we had worked our way completely through the cargo area, the van finally turned left out of the airport onto Rockaway Boulevard. We stayed on Rockaway Boulevard past the Belt Parkway and into a neighborhood I was utterly unfamiliar with. I saw some store signs that indicated we were driving through South Ozone Park. I may not have known the neighborhood, but I breathed a little easier when we turned onto Linden Boulevard — an avenue that ran through much of Brooklyn and all of Queens — and I saw the grandstands of Aqueduct Racetrack looming ahead. I was a little too relieved, and got so distracted I wound up directly behind the white van.

  He
turned right. I kept on straight ahead. I circled back as soon as I could, racing to the corner where he’d turned. No more than thirty seconds had passed, but the Dodge van was nowhere in sight. I drove down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of a bumper or taillight. Good thing I looked to my left when I did because there it was, the van, parking on a side street. I turned down the side street, keeping my distance. The van door opened, and out stepped a big man dressed in blue coveralls and work boots, a wool cap on his head. He wasn’t big as in long, but as in thick. Just the way he walked, circling the van, checking its doors to make sure they were locked, intimidated the hell out of me. There was something else about him too, a vague familiarity. I imagined him with a ski mask over his face and his hands twisted around the collar of my coat. I couldn’t be sure, not from as far away as I was, but he certainly reminded me of the guy who’d whacked me across my ribs the night of the fire at 1055 Coney Island Avenue. If I heard him speak, I’d be sure.

  When he was done checking that the van was locked, he crossed over to my side of the street, but never got close to me. Instead, he walked into a hole-in-the-wall neighborhood bar. Part of me was very tempted to walk in there after him, but I wasn’t in the mood to get my ass kicked. Besides, strangers tend to stick out in neighborhood bars like Hasids at a hoedown. There’s no way to just slip in undetected. The minute the door opens in a local joint, everyone in the place turns to see who’s coming in. Instead, I took the opportunity to check out the van more closely. I already had its plate number memorized, but I wanted to take a look inside. I pressed my face to the windshield, cupping my hands around my eyes to block out the sun. There wasn’t much to see. But for the two front seats, it was as bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, and not nearly as cozy. Then, when I moved around to the passenger side window to get a different view, I realized it wasn’t quite as empty as it seemed. It had one thing in it I was sure Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard had never had: a sawed-off shotgun.