Dark City

by F. Paul Wilson

“Vinny.”

  “Jack, this is…” He grinned as he shook his head. “Increíble! How you get all this to work?”

  “Guys like Zalesky make it easy. They think they’re such hotshot, heavy players they can’t imagine anyone playing them. I did some research, found a little old lady nobody should mess with, then dropped the bait in front of Zalesky. He jumped on it. Whatever happens after that is all on him.”

  “Hijo de puta—can’t think of nothin’ too bad.”

  “The real iffy part was Vinny’s mama. If she told Zalesky she wasn’t interested and to buzz off, the whole plan would’ve died aborning. But Zalesky is smooth. Once he got her on board, the only other variable was Vinny. If I couldn’t reach him or he couldn’t get here in time, Zalesky would get away with it—or at least think he had.”

  “What you mean?”

  “You don’t think a guy like Vinny Donuts is gonna let his mama get ripped off, do you? He’d turn the city upside down looking for Zalesky. And if somehow he couldn’t find him, he’d get an anonymous call with a name and an address.”

  “You one sneaky bastard, Jack.”

  “Why, thank you. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “No, really, meng. I love it. I—”

  A black Crown Vic screeched to a halt behind Zalesky’s Dodge and the man himself jumped out.

  Jack said, “Now things should get really interesting.”

  * * *

  Aldo said, “Yo, Vinny!”

  Neil turned in time to see his door swing open. He found himself looking up at a huge guy with a very angry face. Neil’s bladder clenched. Vinny. He had Made Man written all over him.

  He grabbed Neil’s tie and shirtfront and yanked him half out of the car.

  “Who the f—?” He ducked to look at the rear seat. “Hey, Ma. You okay?”

  “I’m a-fine, but—”

  “Great.” Back to Neil. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing with my mother?”

  “Vincent, it’s all right,” the lady said. “He’s a-from the government.”

  “Yeah?” Vinny looked anything but convinced. “Let’s see some ID.”

  Neil fumbled his ID folder from the breast pocket of his coat and handed it over.

  “B-b-banking commission,” he said, cursing his stutter and trembling hands. “Fraud investigation.”

  Vinny glanced at it, then tossed it over Neil’s shoulder onto the front seat.

  “What’s this about fifty G’s of my mother’s dough?”

  “Vincenzo! Let him a-go! You gonna get in trouble. We use it to catch a thief!”

  He yanked Neil closer, till they were nose to nose. “Where is it?”

  This was a nightmare. Neil was speechless, but not the old windbag.

  “It’s a-fine. It’s in a-the trunk.”

  “Let’s go see.”

  “I got the keys,” Aldo said behind him.

  Oh, no! Oh, no-no-no-no-no!

  Vinny pulled him the rest of the way out of the car and hauled him around to the trunk. Aldo met them there and unlocked it. The lid sprang up to reveal the two cases.

  Oh, Christ! I’m dead! I’m dead! I’m dead!

  “See?” he said in a quavering voice. “Just a couple of valises.”

  “‘Valises,’ eh?” Vinny said in a menacing tone. “Aldo, ask my mother how many ‘valises’ she filled with cash.”

  Neil felt his knees turning to rubber. He needed a way out.

  Aldo returned. “She says only one.”

  Neil looked up to find Vinny staring hard at him. “Only one, huh?” He shook Neil like a doll. “Open ’em. Both of ’em.”

  Neil’s hands were trembling so bad he could barely get the little keys out of his pocket. Vinny stripped the tape from the locks, then stepped back to let Neil get to the cases. Instead, Neil spun and made a break for it. He got about two feet away before a hand grabbed the back of his collar and nearly yanked him off the ground.

  “No way, asshole!” Vinny said. He turned him toward Aldo. “Convince him that was a bad idea.”

  Aldo smiled, and before Neil could react, he’d planted two pile-driver punches in his belly. Neil doubled over, struggling to breathe, choking back vomit. He felt the briefcase keys snatched from his fingers. Through tears of pain he saw Aldo unlocking them, flipping the lids …

  “Well, well,” Aldo said. “Looky here. Fifty G’s apiece.” He fanned through a stack from the old lady’s case. “Looks like the real deal.”

  “Guy on the phone said only fifty,” Vinny said.

  Guy on the phone? What guy?

  Aldo picked up a stack from Neil’s case, started to fan, but stopped halfway through. “Uh-oh.”

  He showed Vinny the singles between the top and bottom C-notes.

  Neil felt something warm and wet running down his left leg.

  Aldo guffawed. “Aw, man! Vinny, he’s pissin’ himself!”

  “L-look, guys. I can explain.”

  “No need,” Vinny said in a low voice. “It’s all clear as can be. Clear as crystal.”

  “I’m just helping out her grandson.”

  Vinny’s face twisted. “Grandson? She ain’t got no grandkids, son or otherwise.”

  No-no. That couldn’t be.

  “Sure! Name’s Lonnie. Yeah, Lonnie. He wanted money to invest in some new high-tech—”

  “That bullshit ain’t gonna work!” Vinny said. “Ain’t you listening? She ain’t got no grandson named Lonnie or anything else.”

  Aldo was shaking his head, a disgusted look on his face. “Rippin’ off a nice old lady like that? You lousy son of a bitch.”

  “I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know!”

  “Didn’t know what? Didn’t know she was an old lady? Or didn’t know she had someone who’d find out?” Vinny shook his head. “Shit! If that guy hadn’t called me, you’da got away with it!”

  That guy again. Who was he talking about?

  Before he could ask, Aldo delivered another hard shot to his gut.

  As Neil doubled over in agony again, Vinny said, “Close up the cases and take ’em out.”

  As soon as Aldo had set them on the pavement, Vinny shoved Neil into the trunk.

  “No!” he shouted. “No, you can’t do this! You can’t! Help! Somebody hel—!”

  He heard a loud crunch! and an explosion of pain as Aldo’s fist smashed into his nose. His vision blurred, lights danced, then the trunk slammed shut.

  He kicked and screamed in the dark but knew it was no use.

  * * *

  Julio was bouncing around in his seat like a little kid.

  “They got him! They got the hijo de puta! What you think they do to him?”

  “Don’t know,” Jack said. “But it won’t be nice.”

  Jack’s buzz at seeing all the pieces he’d arranged fall into place was tempered by the realization that most likely no one would ever see Neil Zalesky again. Vinny Donuts probably subscribed to a philosophy similar to the Mikulskis’: Don’t leave loose ends. Then add to that, Don’t let anyone walk away from messing with your family, especially your mother.

  Zalesky played dirty tricks on his ex-wife—dirty enough to turn Julio homicidal. He made his living ripping off little old ladies, sucking off as much as he could, then disappearing. Pretty heinous. But did he deserve what Jack was pretty sure was coming?

  He sighed. Not up to him. This being New York City, the good ’ol Big Apple, sooner or later Zalesky was destined to pick on the wrong little old lady. Jack had simply arranged for it to happen sooner.

  * * *

  Vinny couldn’t decide who he was more pissed at—Mom or this two-bit asshole grifter.

  He opened the Dodge’s rear passenger door and helped his mother out.

  “What’s a-that noise?”

  The grifter’s screams were muffled but his kicks against the trunk top made a real racket. Good thing she didn’t hear too good.

  “Something you wouldn’t be hearing if
you’d’a told me about this.”

  “How could I a-tell you? It was a-secret.”

  He turned to Aldo. “Do me a favor: Drive this piece of junk back to Canarsie?”

  “Sure,” Aldo said. “We gonna have some fun?”

  “Yeah.”

  Fun for you, at least.

  Vinny was too pissed at the moment to think of fun.

  “I’ll drop her off and meet you there.”

  As Aldo got behind the wheel of the Dodge, Vinny led Mom to his car and opened the rear door.

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “But where’s a-the bank man?”

  “He’s done for the day.”

  He slammed the door, carried the briefcases around to the other side, and put them on the backseat next to her.

  “How come you got a-two?”

  “I’ll explain in a minute.”

  He moved his Vic far enough ahead so Aldo could back out the Dodge, then turned to face his mother.

  “Okay, Mom. I want you to open that first briefcase, the one nearest you.”

  He watched her pop the locks and lift the lid.

  “’At’s a-my money.”

  “Yeah? Check one of those stacks.”

  She did, and her jaw dropped. “Ones! Where’s a-my money?”

  “In the other case. The one you got there is the one he was going to give you back.” He shook his head. Was she getting senile? “How could you fall for something like this?”

  She got all teary as she rattled on how they’d done the same thing last week with twenty grand and he’d returned all the money to her, then convinced her to go for bigger stakes to catch the thief.

  The oldest trick in the grifter book: Let the marks win—or at least not lose—in an early round to get them off guard, then hammer them. It worked at all levels, from three-card monte all the way up to the Big Store.

  “It’s okay, Mom. But just call me whenever someone you don’t know wants money.”

  “What’s a-going to happen to him?”

  She wouldn’t want to know, so …

  “Aldo’s gonna turn him in to the cops.”

  “Will I have to—?”

  “We’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry, he won’t bother you again.”

  That, at least, she could take to the bank.

  * * *

  “Ain’t we gonna follow?” Julio said as Aldo drove off in Zalesky’s Dodge.

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t think we should get any closer to Vinny and Aldo than we already have.”

  “Yeah.” Julio leaned back. “You probably right.”

  He watched Julio. “Satisfied?”

  He grinned. “Muy satisfecho. He won’t be bothering Rosa no more.”

  And that meant that Julio would stay out of jail—no more itching to hunt down Zalesky and flatten his skull with a baseball bat. That had been Jack’s whole reason for doing this.

  Well, that and the pure satisfaction of working behind the scenes and playing the players. More than mere satisfaction—it left him totally buzzed.

  “And he won’t be buying The Spot either.”

  Julio’s grin faded. “Yeah. But sooner or later somebody will.”

  “Why not you?”

  “Yeah, right. We been through that.”

  “Let’s take a drive.”

  “Where?”

  “The Bronx, Jeeves.”

  “Jeeves?”

  “Just drive.”

  5

  Despite the unseasonal warm spell, Kadir’s thoughts were cold and troubled as he walked along Kennedy Boulevard toward the Ramallah Bakery.

  Despite his awareness that Allah had spared him for a reason, Kadir had been avoiding the Al-Farooq Mosque and the refugee center since his trip to the morgue, preferring to stay in Jersey City. He and Hadya had barely spoken since their argument on Thursday. The tension in the apartment was almost unbearable. Even yesterday, though they had attended prayers at the Al-Salaam Mosque together, they might as well have been strangers on the walk to and from.

  This had to stop. As the younger sister, her place was to come to him with apologies and make peace. Yet it was frustratingly obvious that Hadya thought she was in the right. He could almost appreciate why she would think that way. She simply had been learning another language. That was not so terrible in and of itself, but the fact that Hadya had chosen English signified a danger. He sensed an urge to assimilate. Assimilation risked being tainted by American ways, American beliefs. Americans allowed their women to dress as they pleased—nearly naked in the warm weather! American women went to college, drove cars, had careers.

  He saw a group of a half dozen teenage boys and girls across the street, laughing, mingling, touching, all without supervision. Was that the way Hadya would raise her daughters?

  Though both sexes were equal before the eyes of Allah, the Qur’an was very clear on a woman’s place in the world: Men have authority over women because Allah has made the one superior to the other, and because they spend their wealth to maintain them. Good women are obedient. As for those from whom you fear disobedience, admonish them and send them to their beds apart, and beat them.”

  He had intended to intercept Hadya on her way home from work and talk some sense into her, but he’d seen no sign of her by the time he arrived at the Ramallah Bakery. He stopped before the window and admired the displays of kanafeh, baklawa, and blocks of halawa. Before he had come to America, his mouth would water at the sight of such delicacies. But after making them and sampling them day after day while working here, they no longer tempted him.

  He stepped inside and approached the young woman behind the counter. He could have asked for Uncle Ferran but didn’t want a harangue about coming back to work for him.

  “I am Hadya’s brother,” he said in Arabic. “Is she around?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Her shift ended. She is gone.”

  “I came from our apartment and did not pass her on the way.”

  “She mentioned she was going to the park to enjoy the weather.”

  “Lincoln Park?”

  She shrugged. “She didn’t say.”

  Kadir stepped back onto the sidewalk. She must have meant Lincoln Park—it was only a few blocks away. A few minutes later, as he crossed West Side Avenue into the park, he passed a familiar-looking young woman on the second bench. She had her head back and her eyes closed, soaking in the sun. And though she was wearing an abaya, her head was uncovered, allowing the breeze to ruffle her dark hair.

  He froze. That was his sister! Hadya had her hijab loose around her neck, exposing her hair—in a public park!

  As Kadir stood there, he saw a couple of young men pass and look at her with what he could describe only as lust.

  He wanted to attack them, wanted to attack her. Instead, he forced himself to turn and walk away. He could do nothing to her now, not in public, but she would be punished for the shame she had brought upon him and the rest of her family.

  He would see to it that she suffered for this transgression. And soon.

  6

  The first place Jack checked was the bedroom closet.

  “He had a briefcase full of cash in here last time.”

  They’d parked near Zalesky’s apartment and, with Julio acting as a shield, Jack was quickly able to pick his way through the front door lock and into the building.

  But no case in the closet this time.

  “He no dummy,” Julio said. “Last time all his money wound up in your pocket.”

  Though Jack doubted he’d find anything, he checked behind the bathroom molding anyway. He’d found about sixteen grand there last time, but came up empty this trip.

  They moved to Zalesky’s front room where Jack did a slow turn.

  “Okay. You told me he used to brag to Rosa that he was pulling down six figures a year with his scams. Let’s just say he inflated that real figure. Even if he doubled down on his brag, that’s still fifty grand or so. Where is it?�
��

  “Sure didn’t spend it on this dump, meng.”

  Right. Zalesky’s apartment was the opposite of lavish—like he thought of it as a place to sleep and little else.

  “So he’s got to keep his money somewhere. It’s not legal, so he can’t be banking it—banks have to report big deposits. He’ll want it in a place where he won’t have to explain how he got it.”

  Jack was in the same boat. He hid his cash in his apartment with his guns. But he’d scared Zalesky out of his previous hidey-hole. Where was the new one?

  “Let’s take this place apart,” he said. “But softly. We don’t want a neighbor to come a-knockin’.”

  Took them close to an hour to find no cash. But they did find a Chemical Bank checkbook and a safe deposit key.

  Julio was flipping through the checkbook.

  “Look like he pay his bills from here, but the hijo de puta got no balance.”

  “Well, if I had a checkbook I probably wouldn’t keep one up to date either.”

  Moot point. Unlike Jack, Zalesky was a real, tax-paying citizen—one of the stubs was for the IRS—though he probably paid only a small fraction of what he’d owe if his income was legit.

  The little safe deposit key, though … Jack assumed it belonged to a box in the same bank.

  He held it up. “This has to be where he hides his stash.”

  “But how we get into it?”

  “I could pretend to be Zalesky.”

  “What if they know him?”

  Good question. But there had to be a way. He couldn’t let whatever money Zalesky had hidden go to waste in that box.

  “Well, we can’t do anything before Monday anyway. Let’s see what I can come up with.”

  7

  Neil had lost all track of time. It seemed like days since he’d been hauled out of the trunk of his car. He had no idea where he was. A garage of some kind, with car parts and tires and oil drums scattered about.

  He’d feared the worst—some awful form of torture, like wiring his balls to an electric outlet or ripping off his fingernails. But none of that. The skinny guy, Aldo, he’d just stood him on his feet and faced him with raised fists.

  “Come on, asshole,” he’d said. “Take your best shot.”

  Turned out he’d really meant it. Neil tried to back off—he wasn’t a fighter—but Aldo kept pushing him to take a swing. So Neil gave in. Who knew? He might land a lucky punch and be able to drive the fuck out of here.