Detective

by Hall, Parnell

  I was groggy, and it was a few moments before I realized what she was talking about.

  “What?” I muttered.

  “That!” she said, in the helpful way she has of clarifying what she has just said by repeating it in a louder and more strident tone of voice.

  Then I heard it. From the living room was coming a faint, but annoyingly high-pitched “beep, beep, beep.”

  “Oh, it’s my beeper,” I said. “It does that when the batteries get weak.”

  I stumbled out of bed and groped my way toward the living room, hoping my wife was sleepy enough that she wouldn’t notice the blatant contradiction between that statement and what I’d told her concerning my beeper just the other day. A disgusted “Mmmmmph!” and slamming of the pillow as she turned over assured me that she had not.

  I hurried into the living room, switched on the light, and pulled the unit out of the desk drawer where I’d stashed it. This made the beeping louder, but I quickly turned the volume down. I checked the vector. It was pointing south and slightly west. The object it was tracking was heading north. That made sense. Red would be coming up the New Jersey Turnpike.

  I’d stashed a bag of shoes, socks, pants and shirt in the foyer closet. I took it into the living room and quickly dressed. I shoved the tracking unit into my briefcase. I got my keys from the cabinet in the foyer. I switched off the light, and groped my way to the front door. I squeezed out, trying to let in as little light as possible, even though the bedroom was a few turns of the hallway away. I closed the door quietly behind me and rang for the elevator.

  I had to ring three times. The night man looked groggy when he opened the door. He had been sleeping. Tough luck for him. I’d been sleeping, too.

  I ran to my car and got in, pausing only to shut off the code alarm and lock the door. I opened the briefcase on the seat beside me and checked the tracking device. Red was still southwest of me and heading north. He figured to be around Newark. He was heading slightly northeast now, and somehow the thought flashed: “Holland Tunnel.” That’s what I would do if I were hitting Manhattan at approximately three-thirty in the morning. I pulled out, sped down West End Avenue to 96th Street, and got on the West Side Highway heading south.

  There was virtually no traffic at that time in the morning, no bottleneck at the ramp at 57th Street where the elevated section of the highway now ends. Even stopping for lights, I made Canal Street in record time.

  So did Red. By the time I got there he was right alongside me. The only trouble was the vector indicated he was still heading north. Shit! The Lincoln Tunnel.

  Ordinarily, a U-turn at the Canal Street exit on West Street would have been a problem, but not at three in the morning. I wheeled around and began racing Red to the tunnel.

  It was a dead heat. Unfortunately, the race didn’t end there. Red was still heading north. The George Washington Bridge! You dumb schmuck, I thought. Three in the morning and you’re going all the way up to the goddamn G. W Bridge.

  I sped on uptown, keeping pace with Red as he drove up the other side of the river. After ten minutes or so his vector turned and pointed east and I knew he was coming over the bridge.

  Which presented a terrific problem. Due to the construction taking place on the ramps to the bridge, the only way you could get on the West Side Highway heading south was if you were coming over the bridge from Jersey. So Red could get on the Highway and I couldn’t.

  Under the circumstances, I did the best I could. I positioned myself on Riverside Drive next to the bridge entrance ramp and waited to see what Red would do. If he just kept going straight, taking the Cross Bronx Expressway to either the Harlem River Drive or the Major Deegan, I could zoom up the ramp and come out right on his tail. But if he took the West Side Highway, I was going to have to hustle.

  All I could do was wait, watch the vector, and hope. I tracked Red’s progress as he hit the bridge. I could even tell when he stopped for the toll booth. Then he came over. He was right on top of me. Then the vector started turning in a circle as he hit the exit ramp. That could mean only one thing: the West Side Highway.

  I slammed my car into a U-turn and sped down Riverside Drive. I had a start on him, ’cause he had to get out of the exit loop, but I had some looping of my own to do. I gave it the gas and took a left fork off Riverside Drive onto a side street that, oddly enough, was also called Riverside Drive. I zoomed down it like a bat out of hell and ran the light at 158th Street, where a zillion roads merged, two others of which, so help me god, were also Riverside Drive. I hung the hard right, and shot down the hill. I swerved under the real Riverside Drive and under the Highway, hung a hard left, and hit the highway entrance just in time to see a lone car whiz by. I was going so fast I nearly veered out and hit him. I hit the brakes hard, wrenched the wheel back the other way, screeched onto the highway, and fishtailed. I let off the brake, and the car straightened out. I risked a glance at the tracking unit. It was him all right. He was right ahead of me, heading south. Great work, I thought. Talk about inconspicuous.

  I dropped back and let him have a good lead, so he could have a chance to stop thinking about the guy at whom he’d undoubtedly shouted, “Asshole!” We passed 125th Street, 96th Street, and 79th Street, which meant he couldn’t be getting off until at least 57th Street. I had a chance to say, “Asshole!” back at him. Not only had he gone all the way north to go south again, but if, as I suspected, he was headed for Tony Arroyo’s place, he had also chosen to take the West Side Highway down and then drive all the way across town, instead of taking the Harlem River Drive and the FDR like a normal person.

  My assumption proved to be correct. Red got off at 57th Street and drove straight to Tony’s building. He pulled into the circular driveway, took out the by now familiar suitcase, and went in. From my vantage point in the street, I could see him through the lobby window talking to the doorman. The doorman called upstairs on the house phone, and, after a brief conversation, waved Red up.

  I would have loved to have gone over and checked out the bottom of Red’s car to see if the kilo of coke was still among the present, but the driveway was brightly lit, and with the doorman standing right there it was out of the question. I had to content myself with staying put and seeing what happened next.

  Red was down in five minutes, without the suitcase. He got into his car and drove off. I let him go. I had his license number and I had his car bugged. I could get him any time I liked. Even with the kilo of coke aboard, he had ceased to be a main concern.

  I sat in the car and waited. Twenty minutes later a familiar looking limo pulled into the driveway. Tony Arroyo came out of the building, carrying the suitcase. He got in the limo and drove off. I pulled out and followed.

  I don’t mind admitting I was scared to death. It was one thing to follow Tony’s limo when he was driving home from a nice night at the casino. It was something else to follow him when he was carrying a king’s ransom in contraband. One might suspect he might be slightly more curious as to whether or not anyone was taking an interest in him.

  I hoped like hell he was heading for a particular address on East 64th Street. First, because it was close. Second, because it would have tied everything up. I would have traced the two separate drug operations from both ends back to where they crossed, to where it had all gone wrong, to where Albrect’s future had suddenly become such an iffy proposition.

  It would have been nice, but it didn’t happen. The limo didn’t turn up toward 64th Street; it headed for the East River. So Rosa’s connection wasn’t Pluto. Well, win some, lose some. If I didn’t get killed, I’d probably find out who was Pluto.

  The limo took the ramp onto the Queensboro Bridge. I followed at what I hoped was a safe distance. Far below me lay the East River, where Guillermo Gutierrez presumably still resided. Better him than me.

  On the other side of the bridge the limo took Queens Boulevard to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, took the B.Q.E. south to the Long Island Expressway, and headed east on th
e L.I.E. It was a hell of a route to take. I’d have gone through the Midtown Tunnel and been on the L.I.E. in the first place. But it occurred to me that Tony’s driver probably didn’t get paid for his knowledge of the city; he probably had other talents that helped him earn his keep. The thought did not sit well, and I dropped back another hundred yards.

  The limo turned south onto the Grand Central Parkway, took the Grand Central to the Van Wyck. It was heading for JFK Airport, which didn’t make any sense at all. You drive the stuff all the way up from Miami, and when it gets here you get on a plane?

  Tony wasn’t going to the airport. The limo got on the Belt Parkway heading east and got off at Sunrise Highway. It stayed on Sunrise Highway for a while, and I realized we had left Queens and were now in Nassau County.

  We drove a little further, then turned south and started following some smaller back roads. This made things a lot trickier. I had to stay closer to see which way they turned, and if they made too many turns they were going to realize I was on their tail.

  We were going through a very poor section, which suddenly turned into a very rich section, as if someone had just pushed the “wealth” button, and suddenly I knew where we were. Woodmere!

  I’d served a summons in Woodmere once, and I had reason to remember it because it had been a thorn in my side. I hadn’t signed up the case myself, so I didn’t know anything about it other than the information in the summons I was supposed to serve: a 12-year-old boy had fallen down on the front steps of a building in Yonkers, owned by G. & D. Realty, and broken his arm, and his mother wanted a million dollars cash. Could you write me a check now, Mr. Real Estate Man?

  The address of the real estate company was on the summons, so I drove up to Yonkers to serve it. When I got there, though, the address turned out to be a wooden door with a diamond-shaped glass window on the street level between two stores. There was nothing on the door other than the street number, nothing to indicate what, if any, businesses resided within.

  I looked through the window. There was a narrow hallway with a flight of stairs leading to the presumed businesses above. On the wall just inside the door were a half-dozen mailboxes, but the angle wasn’t good enough for me to read the names on them. There were no bells outside the door, no way of attracting the attention of anyone within. And the door, of course, was locked. Considering my expertise with locked doors, I was somewhat at a loss as to what to do next.

  I was pondering my next move when a woman came down the street, pulled out a set of keys, and unlocked the door.

  I stepped right up as if she were just the person I’d been waiting for, said, “Thank you,” and held the door open as she went in. She gave me a look, but I was wearing my suit and tie, and didn’t appear to be that dangerous rapist the whole county was looking for, so she continued on in and up the stairs.

  I followed, stopping at the mailboxes, There were several small businesses listed, none of them G. & D. Realty; none, in fact, realty companies at all. Nor was there a listing for either a Mr. Golden or a Mr. Dursky, the two partners of G. & D. Realty named in the summons.

  I went upstairs and pounded on every door. Nobody had ever heard of G. & D. Realty, or any Mr. Golden or Mr. Dursky.

  Things were not looking good. I went outside, found a pay phone down the street, and called Richard’s office.

  I had the bad luck to get Kathy, who reluctantly looked up the information: yes, they had pulled the tax record for the building where the boy was injured; yes, the owner was listed as G. & D. Realty; yes, the address was the one on the summons; yes, the partners were Golden and Dursky; no, the tax record didn’t list home addresses; no, she didn’t have any other information, why didn’t I stop bugging her and go serve the damn summons?

  Why indeed?

  I was so angry when I got off the phone that it didn’t even register when a mailman walked right by me on his appointed rounds. He was halfway down the block before I came to my senses and caught up with him.

  He was a black man of about 55 and, contrary to the postal employee stereotype, intelligent, friendly, courteous, and helpful: yes, he delivered mail to the building in question; yes, G. & D. Realty received mail at that address—the mail was put in the box marked Craft Associates; no, the mail did not necessarily come care of Craft Associates, but anything addressed to G. & D. Realty went in that box.

  He had nothing for G. & D. Realty or Craft Associates that day, but he had mail for the building and, of course, a key to get to the mailboxes, so I followed him in.

  Craft Associates was one of the doors on the third floor where I had found no one in. I pounded on the door again, not expecting anything, and sure enough, no one was in again. I hung around about fifteen more minutes and called it a day.

  I went back three more times on three separate days, at different times of the day, which is the legal requirement, and then did a nail-and-mail. What that consists of is taping a copy of the summons to the door, and then mailing a copy of the summons to that address. I got a two-inch roll of masking tape and plastered the summons to the door of Craft Associates, and then drove down to Richard’s office to turn in my bill.

  Which Richard refused to pay. “Are you crazy?” he screamed in his high-pitched, nasal you’re-ruining-my-life tone of voice. “Are you nuts? I have a million-dollar case here, and you’re kicking it out the window. If these guys are so slick they don’t even put the name of their company on their office, which is nothing more than a mail-drop, do you think they’re gonna fall for a nail-and-mail?” Richard put his fingers and thumbs together, held his hands to the sides of his face, and said, as if addressing a child, “They never got it. They’ll claim they never got it. I’ll have to prove they did. I can’t do it. I lose a million-dollar suit.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You gotta understand, you’re dealing with sleazebags here. They’re tricky, and they know all the angles. You send it regular mail, they never got it. You send it registered mail, it’s a red flag to them, they never pick it up.” Richard shook his head. “How did you send it?”

  “I didn’t send it yet. See—”

  “What?!”

  “I was going to send it out from here. See, I need to Xerox another copy to—”

  Richard couldn’t wait for me to finish. “Get it back! Get it back!” he said, practically jumping up and down. “They read that, it does nothing but let them know we’re on to them. We’ll never serve them, then. Get the hell up to Yonkers and get it off the goddamn door!”

  I broke all speed laws back to Yonkers but, of course, it was gone. I could see tape marks and traces of adhesive left on the door, but that was it.

  I had a copy of the summons in my pocket, so I pounded on the door again, but with little hope. Of course, there was no one there.

  I hated like hell to go back and report to Richard, but there was nothing else to do. On the way back I kept trying to think of some way I could make up for the fact that I’d really blown it. The best I could come up with was staking out the front door and waiting to see who showed up to pick up the mail.

  “Great!” was the way Richard, dripping sarcasm, responded to the suggestion. “Wonderful idea! You think I wanna pay you ten bucks an hour to sit and stare at a mailbox? You wanna do something useful, get up to the County Clerk’s office and see if you can dig up the corporate papers and get these jokers’ home addresses.”

  So I drove up to White Plains and spent six hours at the County Clerk’s office going through volume after volume of listings. Talk about wasting time, I thought. Wait’ll Richard sees this fucking bill. And then I found it. There was no listing for G. & D. Realty, or G. & D. anything for that matter, nor was there any listing for Craft Associates, but there was a listing for a limited partnership, Craft Partners, with the same address as G. & D. Realty and Craft Associates. The partners were listed as Marvin Golden and Jonathan Dursky.

  I copied down the numbers from the log, filled out a form, gave it to the clerk at the de
sk, and five minutes later I was looking at a partnership agreement called Craft Partners between Golden and Dursky. Home addresses were listed.

  I Xeroxed the document, and set out on my Golden and Dursky hunt. Golden’s address was in Englewood Cliffs. Dursky’s was in Woodmere.

  Now the thing about summonses is, people don’t want ’em. You can’t call up a guy and say, “Hey, I got a summons for you, you want me to bring it on out?” You have to drop in on them, hope they’re home, and hand them the thing when they come to the door. That’s why, with Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, right over the George Washington Bridge, and Woodmere way the hell on the South Shore of Long Island, I tried the New Jersey address first. If I hit pay dirt there my job was over, since I could serve both summonses on either partner.

  In all, I went four times to the Englewood Cliffs address, which turned out to be a luxury high-rise so posh you practically had to show your membership in the local country club to get in. I never got past the front desk. Three times I was told Mr. Golden wasn’t there. The fourth and last time, the doorman called upstairs and someone answered the phone. The doorman wouldn’t let me talk to this person, but instead relayed messages back and forth. I said I had a delivery for Mr. Golden. I was asked who I was and what I was. I said I was an officer of the Supreme Court of New York, and I had papers for Mr. Golden. I was asked what kind of papers. I said it was a summons. I was asked from whom. I told them—they would know anyway, from the copy I’d taped to their door. The doorman then hung up the phone and informed me that Mr. Golden was not at home.

  I just stared at him. I knew he was lying, and he knew I knew he was lying, but what the hell could I do about it? I didn’t even know what Golden looked like. He could walk right by me in the lobby, and I wouldn’t even know it. And the doorman sure wasn’t going to tell me. Jesus Christ, I thought. What sleazebags. These guys are so slick and crafty and rich that they know all the angles. They’re smart enough to hide behind their phony corporate names and addresses and mail drops and doormen. They’ve consulted their lawyers and know the statute of limitations is running out on the case, and all they have to do is keep ducking me for a few more weeks and it will be too late to file suit, and they’ll have won. The fucking sleazebags.