“This better be fucking good, March.”
I took a deep breath. “I told you that someone besides me has been looking for Danes- sniffing around at his apartment, out in Jersey, maybe other places too- and I told you that someone has been tailing me. Well, it seems I’m not the only one.” Nina Sachs looked at me over her wineglass and Ines was perfectly still, and neither one said a word as I told them about Irene Pratt. When I finished, Nina blew smoke at me.
“That’s the big deal: Irene the librarian thinks someone’s been peeping at her window and stealing her office supplies, and she calls on you to protect her?” Nina took a gulp of wine and I looked at Ines. Her face was empty and her eyes were far away. I sighed.
“This is an organized thing, and-”
“That’s old news,” Nina said.
“- and if they’ve been watching me and Pratt, there’s a good chance they’re watching other people too- people like you, for instance.”
Ines drew an audible breath. Nina waved her hand dismissively.
“This is bullshit.”
“You may think so, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’re out there. And judging by what’s happened at Pace-Loyette, they may do more than just watch.”
A deep crease appeared on Ines’s forehead, and she touched her long fingers to the side of her neck. Nina pointed across the table with her cigarette. Her mouth was an angry wrinkle.
“This is crap, March; this is about you being pissed off because you got fired. This is about you looking for work.”
A knot of tension formed at the back of my neck. “Believe what you want, Nina. I’m just asking if you’ve noticed anything.”
Nina snorted derisively but Ines leaned forward, worry in her eyes. “Anything like what, detective?”
“Don’t encourage him, Nes,” Nina said.
“Any strange cars parked nearby, any strange people hanging around your block or around your building- that sort of thing.”
Nina’s laugh was nasty and forced. “Strange people? We live in New York City, March- we got nothing but strange people. We are strange people, for chrissakes.” She looked at Ines, who worried her lower lip and looked at the floor.
“What about breakins?” Ines asked.
Nina slapped the tabletop. Smoke exploded from her mouth. “Jesus Christ, Nes, how many times do I have to tell you? That was not a breakin. That was nothing.” Ines ignored her and so did I.
“What breakin?” I said.
“It was two weeks ago- no, longer: the week before you came,” Ines began. Nina rolled her eyes and muttered something; Ines paid no attention. “It was midday. Guillermo was at school and Nina was in Manhattan. I was working in the gallery and I had gone upstairs for my agenda. I had some calls to make and I had left it in the kitchen. I had taken the elevator, and as the doors opened on our floor, someone ran past very quickly- down the hall and into the stairwell.
“I was more startled than scared when it happened, and I did not know what to think of it. I went to our door and put my key in the lock, but it would not go in all the way, and it would not turn. It was as if something was jammed into the lock.”
Nina shook her head. “You are so fucking dramatic sometimes, I swear. The lock was busted-”
“The locksmith said there was something broken off in it. He said it looked as if someone had tampered with it.”
“Which means shit,” Nina said. “It’s not like that’s the safest neighborhood in the city. It’s not like nobody ever gets robbed there.”
“Has it happened before?” I asked. “To you or to anyone in your building?”
Nina gave me a sour look and sucked in more smoke. Ines answered my question.
“No, detective, it has not happened to anyone in our building, before or since.”
“Did you get a look at the guy?”
“He was just a blur,” Ines said.
“Did you report this to the police?”
Ines shook her head and looked down. Nina snorted. “You and the fucking cops again,” she said.
I sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“Why the hell should I?” Nina said. “It was nothing then and it’s nothing now- despite your scare tactics, and Nes’s hysteria. It didn’t have anything to do with what I hired you for.”
“I think you may be wrong about that.”
Nina shook her head and drained her wineglass. Ines took a cigarette from Nina’s pack, pinched the filter off, and lit it. Her movements were very slow and her eyes never left the tabletop.
“Has there been anything else?” I asked.
“Not that I have noticed,” Ines said. She looked up at me. “What shall we do now, detective?”
“I know some people who could watch your block for a while, to see if anyone is staking out your place.”
“What are you, nuts?” Nina’s laugh was contemptuous.
Ines’s face was still. “Mierda,” she whispered.
“I told you,” Nina said, “this is about him looking for more workand now he’s bringing his friends into it.”
Ines turned to me. “Is there danger… to Guillermo?”
“I don’t think so. Whoever is doing this is interested in Danes. If they’re watching you, it’s because they think he’ll turn up.”
“Which means they’re fucking stupid.” Nina snorted. “Nes, you can’t seriously believe this crap?”
Ines was silent.
“It won’t take long to find out if I’m wrong,” I said.
“It won’t take any time at all,” Nina said quickly, “because it’s not going to happen.”
Ines looked up, and she and Nina stared at each other. “Nina-”
Nina put her hands on Ines’s knees. Her voice fell to a whisper. “Forget it, Nes. I’ve had enough of this guy- enough of this whole thing. I don’t want people snooping on us and scaring Billy. It’s just not going to happen.” She turned to me, and her tone sharpened.
“Are you clear on that, March? It’s not going to happen. Now take your conspiracies and your friends and clear the fuck out of here. I’m sorry I ever hired you, and if you don’t leave us alone my lawyer will make you sorry too.” Nina stubbed out her cigarette. Red patches of anger flared on her cheeks. “Clear out, I said. What’s the matter- you have nothing else to do? You have nothing else to fill your time?”
Ines sat still and very straight and stared hard at nothing. I stood and rolled my shoulders to work out the stiffness, but it didn’t help. I walked away.
My building was quiet when I got home, and I was wet and angry. I toweled off my hair and changed my clothes, and then I was just angry. I brewed a fresh pot of coffee and sat in the dark and watched the night come on, and the rain turn into thunderstorms, and the storms engulf the city. After a while I switched on a light and picked up my phone and called Tom Neary.
Peter Spiegelman
JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home
20
By Sunday morning, the storms were east of Cape Cod, the sky was empty and blue, and I was downtown, following Tom Neary through the darkened halls of Brill Associates. He led me through the high-rent client district, past mahogany-clad conference rooms, and down corridors lined with gilt-framed paintings, to a pair of metal doors. We went through and came out on the other side of the tracks: fluorescent lighting, dingy walls, threadbare carpeting, shabby cubicles, and- as a general rule- no clients allowed. Neary’s office was in a corner.
It was a good-sized room but spartan in its fittings, which consisted mainly of metal furniture and unsteady piles of paper. His office artwork was a whiteboard, covered by the faded arrows and boxes of an unintelligible diagram. I sat in a straight-backed chair in a big square of sunlight. Neary sat at his metal desk and put his sneakered feet up. He took the lid from a cup of coffee and blew the steam away.
“Getting fired twice in three days and by the same client- that’s impressive, even for you.” He sipped his coffee. “You may have
hosed my weekend, but at least you’re entertaining.”
“Happy to oblige,” I said. “But I’m not sure the second time really constitutes a firing. It was more like a validation of her original decision.”
“I won’t split hairs,” he said. “Did Irene Pratt ever call you back?”
“Last night, to say she’d spent a couple of hours telling her story to the Pace security people and again to Turpin- who jumped to the same conclusions about the breakin that she had.”
“She see anything at her apartment?”
“Nope. No sign of the Grand Prix or the guy with the mustache.”
“Which doesn’t mean there wasn’t someone there.” Neary looked into his cup and then at me. “You hear from Turpin?”
“No.”
“You will.”
“You don’t think they’ll just call the cops?”
“Not over this,” Neary said. “They call the cops and they have to tell the whole Danes story. No way his management wants that attention- from the cops or the press.” He upended his coffee cup to get the last few drops, and looked at me. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
“I’m sure.”
Neary shook his head and smiled. “People who work for a living don’t do this shit, no matter how curious they are.” I nodded. “This is how people get the idea you’re a dilettante, you know? Not me, mind you. I don’t make a habit of turning away business, and I’d never bad-mouth a client- at least not to his face.”
“That’s where you and I differ,” I said. “That, and the fact that my professional discount is better.” I looked at my watch. “Think they’ll be here soon?” As I spoke, two men appeared at the office door. I recognized them both.
Juan Pritchard was about my height and half again as wide, with coffee-colored skin and black hair cut short. He had a broad friendly face, a square chin, and a mouth always set in a half smile. The impression of affability was tempered by his large calloused knuckles and by the scar that ran from his left temple to below his collar line and was dissipated completely by the look in his stony black eyes. He wore khaki gabardines, a black linen shirt, and sleek rimless glasses, and he nodded at me as he came through the door.
Eddie Sikes came in behind him, wearing wilted pants and a long-sleeved brown shirt. He was five-nine and wiry, and his black hair was long and unkempt. There was a gold hoop in his right ear and a day’s gray growth on his lean face. His pale eyes gave away nothing.
“Hey,” he said to Neary. His voice was a scratchy whisper. Sikes carried a white paper bag, and from it he produced two cups of coffee. He handed one to Pritchard and the two of them sat on Neary’s sofa.
“Got a couple more of those?” It was a woman’s voice and it was full of the Bronx. Lorna DiLillo was tall and dark and limber-looking. Her full lips were glossy, and there was a skeptical light in her brown eyes. She swept a wave of shiny black hair from her shoulder and took off her denim jacket. There was a black automatic holstered butt forward at her hip.
Victor Colonna was with her. He was small, fine-featured, and grave, and his smooth hair was precisely cut and combed. His white shirt was immaculate and bright against his skin. His eyes moved quickly around the room.
“Always got your back,” Sikes rasped, and he drew two more coffees from his paper bag. DiLillo and Colonna crossed the room to collect them. Pritchard held out a massive fist and DiLillo bumped it lightly with her own as she passed. Colonna sat next to Sikes and DiLillo leaned on Neary’s cluttered windowsill. She sipped her coffee and looked at me and then at Neary.
“Thanks for coming in,” Neary said, and he folded his hands on his desk. “You all remember March?” They nodded. “Well, he’s Mister March now, because now he’s a client, and actually paying for the privilege of fucking up your Sunday.” DiLillo snorted.
“For now, the job is surveillance, at four different sites. I’ve got fact sheets for you here.” Neary tapped a thin stack of paper on his desk. “But the short story is, John wants to know if anybody’s got these sites- these people- staked out. And if so, he wants to know who. So we want photos, names, plates, and affiliations if you can get them.”
“That’s for now,” Sikes whispered. “What comes after?”
“Can’t say at this point,” Neary answered. “We just have to wait and see. Read and react.”
DiLillo pushed herself off the sill and took the sheets from Neary’s desk. She handed copies to Colonna, Sikes, and Pritchard and started reading her own.
DiLillo looked at me. “You’ve got vehicle descriptions here, and something sketchy on one guy. Does this mean you’ve seen them?”
“I’ve seen some cars and a van, and one of their subjects- Irene Pratt- has seen the mustache guy.”
DiLillo scowled. “Which answers my question about how good they are.”
“Some of them clearly suck; maybe all of them do. And maybe there are some I haven’t seen that don’t.”
DiLillo nodded.
“This could take more feet on the street than just ours,” Pritchard said.
“I’ll give you more if you need them,” Neary said, “but get out there first and tell me.”
Sikes folded the sheet and tucked it in his breast pocket. “I’ll take Brooklyn.”
“I’ll take Mr. March’s place,” Colonna said.
DiLillo looked at Pritchard. “I’ll take the chick on the West Side. You take- what’s-his-name- Danes’s place, Juan. You got those Upper East Side rags for camo.”
Pritchard smiled at her and looked at Neary. “We on the clock now?” he asked. Neary nodded.
“You called the motor pool?” Colonna said.
Neary nodded again. “They’re expecting you. Call my cell when you’re on station.”
Sikes and Pritchard followed Colonna and DiLillo out.
Neary turned to me. “You know how this shit goes; it could take a few hours or a few days. I’ll call when I have something.”
It was still early when I left the Brill offices. The air was bright and clean, and a morning calm still lay on the city streets. Across Broadway, a shopkeeper hoisted a metal gate that made a noise like raucous birds. Up the block, at Duane Street, a single drunk moved carefully across an intersection and around a steaming manhole. A flight of taxis cruised by, headed south. They were off duty, and they moved slowly and with an odd dignity. Some Wallace Stevens lines ran through my head: Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. Then the drunk stopped, opened his pants, and pissed on an office building. The poetry changed from Stevens to Bukowski and vanished altogether. I kept walking north and thought about what Tom Neary had said. p›
People who work for a living don’t do this shit, no matter how curious they are. He was right, of course, this was an indulgencethough not just of my curiosity. Certainly, I wanted to know who else was interested in Danes and what the hell was going on; you don’t get into this business without an itch to solve puzzles. I also realized that whoever had me under surveillance had no way of knowing that I’d been canned- and hence no cause to call off the dogs. I hated the feeling of being watched, and I wouldn’t rest easy until I’d had a little chat with whoever was holding the leash. But there was, I knew, more to it than that.
I crossed Broome Street and looked west and saw the still-shuttered front of Siren. I thought about seeing Nina Sachs there yesterday, and about her parting shot. What’s the matter- you have nothing else to do? You have nothing else to fill your time? The words had been steeped in scorn, but I couldn’t say they were wrong. The prospect of empty time- of restless, dangerous hours filled with nothing but myself- was making me more nervous than usual lately. I wasn’t ready for it just then; in fact, I was afraid of it.
The city was wide awake by the time I reached 16th Street, and the sidewalks were full. I didn’t look for Victor Colonna in the crowd, and I caught no glimpse of him. I went upstairs and let some air into my apartment while it was still fresh. Then I changed in
to shorts and a T-shirt and went out for a run.
I was gone for over an hour, and there were messages when I returned. The first was from Lauren.
Hey, Johnny, it’s me. Liz told me about your little dustup with David. She said Ned was pissed as hell at him because of it. I know he really appreciates your help on this interview thing. Give me a buzz, will you? I shook my head and skipped to the next message. It was from Jane, and there was no hint of yesterday’s cool sarcasm in it.
I knocked on your door this morning but you’d already left. Can you believe I’m stuck here on a day like this? I’ll be back and forth between the office and the lawyers, but I’ll try you later. Maybe we can do something. There were muffled voices in the background and then Jane again. Okay, got to go. Then Irene Pratt’s voice came on the line.
March? Are you there? Pick up if you’re there. There was a long pause, full of nothing but Pratt’s breathing. All right, I guess you’re not in. Well, call me back- I want to know what’s going on. So
… call me, okay? I showered and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and punched her number.
“Finally!” she said.
“Everything all right? Have you seen that car again, or that guy?”
“I haven’t seen a thing. Of course, I haven’t been outside today.” She sounded tired.
“You don’t have to hide, Irene.”
“Easy for you to say- nobody broke into your office. Did Tampon call you yet?”
“No.”
“He’s going to.”
“So I figured.”
“You’ll be… discreet when you talk to him, right?” Her voice was tinged with embarrassment.
“I won’t even say your name.”
“Thanks,” she said. “You find out any more about who’s been watching me- about who’s doing all this?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it, and now I’m not the only one. I’ve asked some people I know to give me a hand.” Irene Pratt made an affirmative noise and went quiet. She’d run out of things to say, but she was reluctant to get off the line. Nerves.
“It’s a nice day, Irene, you should go out and enjoy it.”
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