I froze. Is this really happening? Right here in broad day-light?
Hell, yes, it really was.
In case there was any doubt, the guy swiped the hot dog out of my hand. The onions, ketchup, mustard, and sauerkraut landed splat! on the sidewalk.
And just like that there was one more ugly, sticky mess in the middle of Manhattan.
Me.
I was “going for a ride.”
Chapter 33
SO THIS IS IT, I couldn’t help thinking. This is how I die. What a joke.
Not while fleeing an attack by the Janjaweed militia in Darfur, or by catching typhoid fever, as I did a couple of years back in India while doing a piece on the prime minister, Manmohan Singh.
No, I go down in my own backyard, New York City. All because of a recording I had never intended to make.
Christ, how did Eddie Pinero find out about me so fast? Then again, am I really that surprised? He probably has more people on his payroll than the NYPD.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked from the back of the windowless van. I was sitting on the metal floor. There were no seats.
There were also no answers forthcoming from my captors.
My escort in the Knicks sweatshirt was sitting sideways up front, riding shotgun. His dark sunglasses were fixed on me, and his mouth was shut tight. After he had demanded my cell phone – which I had reluctantly handed over – he hadn’t said another word.
Same for the driver, who was big and baby-faced, at least from his profile. He looked barely twenty-one. On his right arm was a large, seemingly new tattoo of a Harley-Davidson logo. The orange color was so bright, it made the ink look as if it were still wet.
Again I asked where we were going, and in their continued silence I realized that there might be something scarier than being told you were going to die.
Not being told.
For twenty minutes, I sat idle with only my thoughts, a panic beginning to feast on me. From the floor of the van I couldn’t see the windshield, but I could tell we were out of the city; we were going too fast. The van was old, the suspension shot. I could feel every bump, every pothole.
We’re going to some out-of-the-way, deserted landfill, aren’t we?
That’s where they were taking me, I was almost sure of it. Out to Brooklyn. Out to the middle of nowhere. I could almost smell it – some godforsaken dump with a stench so thick it hung like fog.
“On your knees!” one of them would order me. I could hear the words in my head, cold and without mercy.
Would they have me turn away, face the opposite direction?
Hell, no, not these sick bastards. Not if they worked for Eddie Pinero. They’d shoot me straight on, a bullet to the brain. Probably stare right into my eyes, too.
Oh, God. My eyes! Were they going to carve my eyes out?
I was sweating now, shaking a little, scared shitless a lot. Most of all, I was convinced I had to do something to try to get away from these two gorillas.
But what? They had my cell phone, and at least one of them was carrying a gun. So what could I do?
That’s what, I realized.
Tuck and roll! The sequel to the desert.
The handle to the sliding door of the van was there in front of me. If I could reach it before Mr. Knicks could stop me, I could jump for it, maybe outrun them and survive to write another day.
Of course, I had to survive the jump first. And this time I wouldn’t be landing on desert sand in Darfur.
Still, those odds had to be better than staying in the van, right? Those odds sucked. But I couldn’t make myself jump out of a speeding van, could I?
Yes – I had to do it.
So this is it.
This is how I don’t die…
I swallowed a deep breath and pushed the air down into my lungs, past my heart, which was beating so loud it was scary in itself.
Slowly, casually, I shifted my right foot so I could launch myself toward the sliding door. There would be no do overs, no second chances. I had to time this just right.
On three, Nick, okay? You can do this. You’ve done it before…
I counted backwards to myself, the adrenaline pumping through every vein in my body.
Three…
Two…
One…
Chapter 34
STOP!
The van suddenly made a sharp hairpin turn, the tires screeching and then skidding on what sounded like a slip-stream of gravel.
Mr. Harley-Davidson at the wheel didn’t just hit the brakes, he pummeled them into submission. Newton ’s third law of motion did the rest. I tumbled face forward in the back of the van, my head smacking the metal floor.
But instead of twinkling stars and Tweety Birds, it was a blast of sunshine I encountered next, as the sliding door of the van opened with a rusty grind.
Then out of the sunshine he stepped, a greeting party of one.
Eddie “The Prince” Pinero.
He motioned for me to exit the van. As I did, he extended a hand to help. A helping hand? That doesn’t mesh. What’s going on here?
The “here,” as I quickly saw, was the driveway of what I presumed to be his home. Check that. Estate was more like it. With its lush gardens and a water view contained behind wrought-iron fencing, monstrous stone walls, and a show of armed guards, the property reminded me of a cross between the Kennedy and Corleone compounds.
“Thanks for making the trip out to see me, Mr. Daniels,” said Pinero. “I appreciate it.”
“You say that like I had a choice,” I said, immediately regretting it.
But Pinero actually seemed amused. He smiled, anyway. “Hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression. I just wanted to speak with you in private,” he said. “Can I get you a drink? A Laphroaig, perhaps? Fifteen year?”
He knew what I drank. What else did he know about me?
“Okay, sure,” I said. “Laphroaig would be good.”
Pinero nodded at Mr. Knicks, who disappeared inside the enormous Tudor home that boasted a magnificent wraparound porch. A few minutes later, I was sipping a generous pour of Laphroaig from an etched crystal tumbler initialed EP.
For the first time since I got into the van, I allowed myself to think that I might actually live to see tomorrow. Still, I was far from comfortable. I wasn’t here with Pinero to discuss the weather or the series finale of The Sopranos. Did Tony get whacked or not? What do you think?
“Come, Nick, let’s walk. Bring your drink,” said Pinero. “I need to talk with you. Don’t worry, you’re not going to get hurt. You’re with me. You’re perfectly safe now.”
Chapter 35
I TOOK ANOTHER sip of Scotch only to notice that Pinero hadn’t joined me in a drink. I also noticed he wasn’t wearing one of his natty suits with the trademark black handkerchief. As for what he was wearing, it was impossible not to notice that. I followed Pinero, in his royal blue Fila tracksuit, to the water’s edge, the choppy waves of the Rockaway Inlet lapping against the breakwater of his property. He lit a cigarette and pulled a deep drag. Slowly, he exhaled into the breeze.
“So, Nick, that must have been some frightening scene that day at Lombardo’s,” he began with a slight nod. “It’s not every man who witnesses murder that close. Unnerving, isn’t it?”
“That’s definitely a good word for it,” I said.
“A good word? I’ll take that as a compliment, you being a big-time writer. So you were there to interview Dwayne Robinson?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Sad story. All that talent, wasted. What a shame.”
I didn’t say anything to that. I was too consumed with trying to figure out where this conversation was heading. Pinero was obviously aware of the recording and how it implicated him. Instead of serving a little time for loansharking, he was looking at a murder conviction. So what did he want to talk to me about?
That’s when I decided to try to cut through the bullshit and just ask him. “Mr. Piner
o, exactly why am I here?”
The man they called “The Prince” took another long drag off his cigarette, his eyes never leaving mine. I don’t even think he blinked. Then he calmly explained.
He didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to help me.
Or at least warn me.
“Nick, I’ve been set up,” he said. “And that means you’ve been set up, too. I would like you to help me figure out who screwed us both. Let’s help each other, Nick.”
Chapter 36
MY FIRST LOGICAL assumption was that slick Eddie Pinero was full of good old-fashioned Grade A bullshit. He was, after all, the high-profile head of an organized crime family, not exactly a poster boy for the straight and narrow. Clearly he was appealing to my journalistic instincts, hoping that he might pique my interest so I’d dig a whole lot deeper into what had happened at Lombardo’s. If he couldn’t prove his own innocence, maybe I could.
All in all it was incredibly transparent. The problem was, it worked on me. Or, at the very least, it got me thinking. The guy had his goons basically kidnap me, but I wasn’t heading straight to the police. What was I going to do, press charges?
Instead, like metal to a magnet, I found myself right back at Lombardo’s Steakhouse later that same day.
I still hadn’t eaten, but a nice porterhouse was the last thing on my mind.
No, the rumbling in my gut was the feeling that something wasn’t quite right about my originally being there to interview Dwayne Robinson. Or, I should say, everything was too right.
Too convenient.
That’s why I’d come back to see my new good friend – Tiffany.
As it happened, I caught her with one foot out the door. It was half past three; lunch was over. The dining room was all but empty.
“You got a second?” I asked. “I’m really sorry to bother you again. I’m relentless, I know.
“Sure, what is it?”
Only there was nothing “sure” about her response. She seemed anxious at the sight of me, even glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was looking at us.
“Hey, are you okay?” I asked her.
“Huh?” she said, turning back to me. “Oh… um, yeah, I’m fine.”
I wasn’t exactly sold on that. But I pressed on.
“I was hoping you could check something for me,” I said. “You mentioned that the day before Vincent Marcozza was murdered, Dwayne Robinson came in but never sat down. I was wondering – did Marcozza eat lunch here that day?”
“Probably,” she answered quickly. “He practically ate lunch here every day. Sometimes dinner, too. Mr. Marcozza was a big customer.”
“Is there a way you can check for sure? About the day before the shootings? Maybe in your reservation book?”
Again, she seemed distracted. It was as if the question had caught her off guard. What gives, Tiffany? After another glance over her shoulder, she motioned for me to follow her.
We walked over to the reservation book. “That was Thursday, right?” she asked.
I nodded and watched as she flipped back a few pages, the ruby-red nail polish on her index finger scrolling down the list of reservations for that day. Putting my upside-down reading skills to use, I kept looking for Marcozza’s name.
But I didn’t see it. Neither did Tiffany.
“Hmmm. I guess he wasn’t here that day,” she said. “That’s unusual for him.”
“Who wasn’t here what day?” came a sharp voice over Tiffany’s shoulder.
Chapter 37
IT WAS THE manager of Lombardo’s. Jack, was it? No, Jason, I thought. Given his tone, though, his name might as well have been Mr. Royally Pissed Off. Tiffany froze at the reservation stand, like a deer in xenon headlights.
I took that as my cue to help out. “My fault. I was just checking to see if Vincent Marcozza had eaten here the day before he was murdered. That’s all. Nothing sinister.”
I was expecting the guy to ask me why I wanted to know that. He didn’t. Instead, he said, “Reservations made by our guests are considered private. It’s restaurant policy, Mr. Daniels.”
Jason knew my name. That was a little strange. We hadn’t officially met. Or exchanged business cards.
“Then my apologies,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
“Yes, but Tiffany did,” he said, turning to her.
She raised her palms apologetically. “Jason, I know you told me -”
He cut her off. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“But -”
“Shut up!” he barked at the poor girl. “You’re fired.” Fired? You’ve got to be kidding.
“What are you doing? She was only trying to help me,” I said, dumbfounded. “I was a customer here, too. Actually, I am a customer. I was about to have a steak.”
My new best friend, Jason, gave me a drop-dead stare. “Was I talking to you?”
“You are now,” I said.
He took two steps forward, getting right smack in my face. He was so close I could tell what flavor gum he was chewing. Wintergreen.
“In that case,” he said, pushing the words through his clenched teeth, “I want you to listen to me real closely, okay? Get the fuck out of my restaurant. Don’t come back.”
So much for the customer always being right… or even tolerated.
“What are you going to do?” I asked. “Call the cops?”
“I won’t if you won’t,” he fired back at me.
I wasn’t exactly the technical adviser on the movie Fight Club, but I’d been in enough scuffles to more than catch his drift. This prick was challenging me.
Keep your cool, Nick. Diplomacy first.
“Listen, there’s no reason this thing needs to get out of hand,” I said.
No sooner had I said it, though, than he suddenly grabbed the lapels of my jacket, pushing me backwards. “I don’t think you heard me,” he said.
Oh, I heard you all right…
Screw diplomacy!
I dug my heels hard into the floor and gave Jason the shove back he so richly deserved. Then he raised his fists. Suddenly, this might as well have been a Rangers hockey game down at Madison Square Garden.
The gloves were coming off, whether I wanted this to happen or not.
Smack!
He threw a right-handed jab, tagging my cheek. It was a sucker punch, completely uncalled for. So I let fly with one of my own – only to catch nothing but air. Jason wasn’t big but he was quick. Too quick to go toe-to-toe.
Time to improvise.
“Nick, be careful,” Tiffany called from the sidelines. Well, that was my plan for sure.
Dropping my head, I charged him straight on and wrapped my arms around his waist. We went hurtling into the dining room, his feet barely skimming the floor as I kept pushing and pushing him like a football tackling sled.
Then, crash!
Table for two, please!
Make that two tables. We upended the first and kept right on going, landing squarely on the table behind it. Plates and silverware went flying above our heads as we hit the floor, barrel-rolling back and forth while trading punches.
I gave a whole lot better than I got now, too. A good right to Jason’s jaw. Another right on the cleft of his chin. “You asked for this,” I yelled in his face. “You wouldn’t let it go.”
Hey, this was even better than a hockey fight. If we were on the ice, the refs would’ve broken it up by now.
But no.
Jason and I were just getting warmed up.
Chapter 38
“BOY, YOU’RE HAVING some kind of week,” said Courtney, gently dabbing at the dried blood below my nose with a damp paper towel. “Keep this up and they’ll have to name an action figure after you.”
We were sitting together on the couch in my office at CitiZen magazine. Me, the patient. Courtney, the concerned, and quite beautiful, nurse. With a surprisingly soft touch, too. And she was wearing Chanel.
As it turned out, some referees did break up the fight. The s
ous-chef and a dishwasher heard all the commotion and came running out of the kitchen. Otherwise, I’m fairly sure I would’ve won big-time on points.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!
At least for the guys at Jimmy D’s Pub. Courtney was another deal. There was no way I’d jeopardize this sudden warm and affectionate outpouring of sympathy. I’m not that stupid. Besides, I’m in love with her. Deeply and hopelessly, I suppose.
“I guess I’ve always been more of a lover than a fighter,” I said with an eye roll.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she cooed, playing the same game on me. “Why would the manager pick a fight with you like that?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “It’s very strange – everything is, Courtney. Mystery on top of mystery.”
I couldn’t help but suspect that Jason was under some kind of orders. Someone didn’t want me snooping around. But who?
That was just one question I had. There were so many others in the aftermath of my recording from Lombardo’s.
But as I laid my head back and closed my eyes, all I could really focus on was how amazing Courtney was. She was sitting so close to me, her hair grazing my shoulder. Finally I couldn’t help myself.
“I love you,” I blurted out.
I just said it – boom! – like that. I didn’t know what I was thinking. Actually, that was it. I wasn’t thinking.
For a second, there was some hope that she would answer, “I love you, too.” But in the next second, that hope was beaten down – worse than Jason at the restaurant.
It was as if I had suddenly become contagious with Ebola or the swine flu.
Courtney sprang up from the couch, practically darting to the other side of my office. She was shaking her head. “No, no, no,” she said. “Don’t say that, Nick. I wish you hadn’t said that. I really wish you hadn’t.”
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