Dark City

  Drexler smiled. “But long before we and the jihadists are through with them, they will wish they were.”

  3

  “Enough already with the fresh air,” Abe said, holding down his black fedora against the wind. “Put the top up.”

  Jack glanced at him as they drove along one of the Central Park traverses. He’d talked Abe into going for a spin in the Corvair. Naturally he’d put the top down.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  He looked at Jack with a poor excuse for a glare. “Does this punim look to you like it’s kidding? Up-up-up!”

  “But the purpose of a convertible is to give you access to fresh air while you drive.”

  “Not on the first of March. That’s meshuggeneh! What, you think I’ve got polar bear blood in my veins?”

  The traverse didn’t offer much of a shoulder, so Jack waited until they had to stop at a red light at Fifth Avenue. He jumped out and pulled up the top.

  “What? You do this by hand?”

  “On this baby, yeah. The top’s so light, you don’t need power assist.”

  As it dropped onto the top of the windshield frame, Jack hopped back inside and locked down the two latches.

  “There. Comfy now?”

  But Abe was looking past him. “You carrying?”

  Oh, shit. DDP?

  “Yeah. Why?” Jack turned and his heart picked up pace when he saw a grizzled cop walking toward them. Not beating as fast as it might have were he looking at a guy with a machete, but still … “Uh-oh.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Under the seat.” He looked down—no sign of the Ruger—then back to the approaching cop. “What did I do?”

  “I have no idea.”

  But the cop’s weathered face broke into a smile as he reached them. “Sweet ride,” he said, admiring the Corvair. “I had a red one when I was a kid. Can’t believe these things are still on the road.”

  “Want a ride?” Jack said, jerking a thumb toward the narrow backseat. “Bring back old times?”

  The cop’s face took on a wistful look. “Used to call mine Sarah. Got laid for the first time in a backseat just like that. Named the car after her.” He shook his head. “But my back would never forgive me for getting in there. You got a name for this one?”

  That hadn’t occurred to Jack, but a name leaped immediately to mind.

  “Yeah. Ralph.”

  He frowned. “Ralph. You gay or something?”

  “Last time I checked, no. It’s Ralph … you know, as in Nader?”

  The cop’s stare turned blank. A car honked behind them. The light had turned green. He slapped the top.

  “Better get moving. Enjoy it, kid, whatever its name.”

  Jack moved the dashboard lever to “D” and waved as he took off. Kid … He’d turned twenty-two last month. When would people stop calling him “kid”?

  Abe stared at him, his tone dripping scorn. “‘Want a ride?’ he says. ‘Want a ride?’ Are you farblonjet in the head already?”

  “I knew he couldn’t take me up on it.”

  “What if he was off duty and said, ‘Sure, can you drive me home?’ And Mister Schlemiel the chauffeur here with an unregistered Magnum under his seat has no choice but to do so.”

  “But he didn’t, so let’s enjoy the ride.”

  “Under the seat is a bad place for a gun unless you’ve got a holster there. You’ve got a holster?”

  “Not there.”

  “Well, then, it could slip out any second—you accelerate too fast it slides to the back; you stop too hard it’s between your feet.”

  “Well, sitting is too damn uncomfortable with that big bulky thing sticking in my back. I think I need something smaller.”

  Cristin’s discovery of the Ruger Sunday night had got him thinking smaller and less clunky; something he could hide better.

  “Not for nothing is it called a ‘Magnum.’ You want smaller, I can get you smaller. How much smaller?”

  “Something that’s a comfortable fit in back.”

  “We might have to change the caliber. And to go compact, we’ll probably have to go semiautomatic.” Abe shook his head. “Oy.”

  “I know you prefer revolvers, but—”

  “Me? I should prefer? It won’t be me carrying a jam waiting to happen.”

  Jack ignored the comment. According to Bertel, Abe had never evolved from the revolver.

  “Oh, and maybe a backup—something real small, in case I don’t want any bulk but don’t want to go naked.”

  “Naked?”

  “You know—unarmed.”

  “A concealed backup, you mean.”

  “Yeah. Teeny-weeny. Like for an ankle holster.”

  “Next time you come by I’ll take you shopping downstairs.”

  Jack could hardly wait.

  SATURDAY

  1

  Jack had been settled in his usual spot by the window of the Pelham bookstore/coffee shop since noon. He’d already followed Zalesky to Mrs. Filardo’s home twice this week. Neither time had he left with the old woman. When Jack and Julio had followed him last fall, he’d picked up his mark and driven her to a bank on a Saturday. Jack had a feeling today would be one of those Saturdays.

  Of course, Zalesky could have struck out with Mrs. Filardo, and that would be a major bummer. Jack would have invested a lot of time and research, all for nothing. He couldn’t see how he’d ever be able to work a setup like this again. If Zalesky had indeed struck out, the only solution left would be to let Julio work him over with his baseball bat, like he’d wanted to from the very start.

  Time dragged. And then, a little before two, the man appeared in his suit and hat, looking like a card-carrying member of officialdom.

  Jack closed the book he’d been pretending to read and headed outside to his own ride. He’d decided against using the Corvair to tail Zalesky. He’d held on to the rental Chrysler and brought that along instead.

  He followed Zalesky along the same old route down to Carroll Gardens and watched him stroll into the Filardo house. Moments later he emerged with an old lady on his arm. Jack had never seen Michelina Filardo, but this had to be her: widow’s black dress with bunned hair, the whole old-country Italian package.

  * * *

  Neil shook his head as he helped the yammering crone into the backseat of his sedan. Such a sweet-looking old lady on the outside. But inside … her grandson hadn’t been kidding: Michelina Filardo was a bitch on wheels.

  He hid a smile as he slammed her door and walked around the rear to the driver’s side. Bitch though she be, she hadn’t stood a chance against the Zalesky charm and silver tongue. He’d fired her up and she was all gung-ho to trap this bank creep who was stealing honest working folks’ money.

  “You drive a-careful now,” she said in her thick accent as he slipped behind the wheel. “No quick starts and a-stops, jerking my head back and a-forth. I got artheritis, you know.”

  Arthur-itis?

  “The valise for the money is there on the seat beside you,” he said.

  “’At’s a briefcase, not a valise.”

  There’s a difference? Whatever.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Neil eased into traffic and headed for the old lady’s Chase branch. A ride short on distance but long on Watch-out-for-that-truck and Don’t-hit-that-old-man warnings and orders to “Stop” long before he reached a red light or a stop sign. It seemed like ages before he pulled to a halt before the bank.

  “All right,” he said, hiding his relief as he turned in his seat. “We’re here. We made it.”

  “Just barely. Who a-you think you are—Parnelli Jones?”

  Parnelli Jones? Who the fuck was Parnelli Jones? Anyone else, he might have asked, but this broad? He let it ride.

  “As we discussed, all you have to do is go in, identify yourself, and let them pack the money in the valise.”

  “I’m a-tell you it’s a briefcase, not a valise,” she said, pulling it onto
her lap. “And I’m a-still don’t see why we have to do this on a Saturday.”

  “Because,” he said, trying not to scream that he’d explained this a dozen times al-fucking-ready, “our crook only does this on Saturdays when the bank’s computer centers are understaffed.”

  “And they’ll have the money for me? I’m a-no have to wait while they count it out?”

  “That was why we made the call on Wednesday, remember? So they’d have it all ready to go when you arrived.”

  Before she could say anything else, he hopped out and hurried around to her door. He helped her out and started her toward the bank.

  She stopped and turned to him. “Any teller?”

  “Yes.” How many times had he told her that? “The crook isn’t a teller. It’s someone in the back.”

  The withdrawal had been arranged in advance. Unless somebody inside had screwed up, the money should be waiting.

  “And remember,” he reminded her for what was also at least the dozenth time as she turned away, “it’s nobody’s business why you’re making the withdrawal. Somebody asks, you say nothing.”

  “So you a-tell me,” she said with an annoyed look. “Many times. I’m a-no boccalone, you know.”

  Neil smiled through gritted teeth and returned to the driver’s seat where he sat there with the motor running, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

  * * *

  Jack watched the old lady disappear inside the bank. What a difference it made to be able to listen in on what was being said. When he and Julio had followed Zalesky, they could do little more than guess at what was going down in the car.

  Now he understood the reason for Zalesky’s return trip to the Filardo home on Wednesday. Pretty slick having her call up the bank and give them a heads-up that she was coming in. The guy was either pretty smart or he’d learned the hard way.

  Jack had to hand it to him, though: He had a great talent for patter. Still, he had his hands full with that tough old lady. Dealing with her was no walk in the park—well, maybe Central Park at two A.M.

  * * *

  Neil sat and waited, and sweated a little. Just a little. This hustle had two points where it could go south. Here was the first: getting the money out of the bank and into the car. The second was getting the mark out of the car and back into her home without tipping the scam.

  He watched the dashboard clock second hand do its tick-tick-tick thing. Though it seemed much longer, it took her only twelve minutes to make the round trip. As he saw her step through the bank entrance, he hopped out and opened the passenger door for her.

  “No problems, I assume?”

  “Well,” she said as she eased herself onto the backseat, “the manager or whoever she was, she ask a-me many questions but I tell her to a-mind her business.”

  Neil hid a grin. You may be a bitch, but you’re my bitch.

  Once he was back behind the wheel, he swerved into traffic and got rolling.

  “Madrone!” she called from the backseat. “You try to a-kill me?”

  Don’t tempt me …

  “Sorry. I just wanted to get away from the bank as fast as possible, just in case the wrong person saw me and recognized me as an investigator.”

  He drove a couple of blocks and parked in a lot adjoining Coffey Park. They could idle and wait here. He turned in the seat to face her.

  “Now, as we discussed, I want you to make sure all the money’s there.”

  She’d placed the briefcase on the seat beside her. Her arthritic fingers popped the latches and she pushed up the lid. Neil craned his neck and saw two banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

  She ran her hands over the stacks. “All here.”

  “Twenty thousand. You’re sure?”

  “I’m a-sure. I can count.”

  “Okay,” he said, digging the key out of his jacket pocket. “As we discussed, I want you to close it and lock it and hold on to the key.”

  She took the key and did just that. Then he placed a typed sheet of legal-size paper on the briefcase and handed her a pen.

  “Now, sign this, stating you’ve checked the money and personally locked the briefcase.”

  “Why you put me to all this a-trouble?”

  “It’s not my doing, believe me. I know it’s a pain, and I’m sorry. But as I told you, this all comes from the legal department. We have to establish a chain of custody to build a case against this perpetrator.”

  Lawyers were always a good excuse for muddied waters and useless paperwork. Give the mark a legal-looking document to sign and suddenly everything was legit. The chain-of-custody was more legal bullshit that allowed a sweet opportunity to make the switch.

  After she signed, he folded the sheet, then grabbed a roll of yellow tape from where it sat on the front seat. He tore off two pieces and stuck one over each lock on the case.

  “What for is that?”

  “Just another precaution. Those damn lawyers. Oops.” He gave her a contrite look. “Sorry about the bad language.”

  “I’m a-hear worse in my day, lemme tell you.”

  He took the opportunity to lift the briefcase from the seat. She grabbed for it but he was too quick for her.

  “Ay, where you think you go with my money?”

  “We’ve been over this before, Mrs. Filardo. As part of the chain of custody, the money’s got to be locked up and out of reach of both of us.”

  “All well and good for you,” she said, “but ’at’s a-my money.”

  “It’s not going far. Just the trunk.”

  He got out, popped the lid, and placed the briefcase within. Below the floorboard, hidden in the empty spare tire well, sat an identical case, tape and all, waiting for the switch.

  When he slipped behind the steering wheel again, he said, “Now the hard part: waiting.” He held up his car phone. “After three I’ll call in and we’ll see if our plan worked.”

  “I’m a-no see how those phones work without a wire,” she said.

  “Think of it as a type of walkie-talkie.”

  She leaned forward. “And another thing I’m a-no see is how me taking my money out helps this thief a-steal from a-the bank.”

  Time to repeat his computer bullshit. Computers were like magic to most people. They could do things the average person couldn’t begin to understand—Neil counted himself among those—but he at least knew they had their limits. People from this old broad’s generation, however, thought they were capable of anything.

  “It’s all done with computers, Mrs. Filardo. I had to take a course in computer science to understand it myself. But his scam only works with large withdrawals, and he only targets long-established accounts. We started new accounts to lure him in but he didn’t bite. That’s why we needed the help of a good citizen like you.”

  “But I’m a-still don’t see…”

  Would she never ever shut up? Trapped in the car with a complaining motor mouth. He’d make that call ASAP.

  * * *

  … we needed the help of a good citizen like you …

  Jack shook his head. Talk about laying it on with a trowel … but it seemed to be working.

  Twenty large … nice score.

  He’d found a spot on Franklin Street in front of a row of stores where he had a view of Zalesky’s Dodge. He turned off the car and removed the earpiece as Mrs. Filardo prattled on. Man, that lady could talk. She never shut up.

  Jack had watched Zalesky put the briefcase—taped locks and all—in the trunk, same as last fall. But he knew a lot more now than he had then. That night in November when he’d put Zalesky in the hospital, he’d used the opportunity to raid the guy’s apartment. In a closet he’d found another briefcase with what looked like banded stacks of twenties. But instead of a hundred twenties, each stack contained only two—one on top and one on the bottom. The rest were singles. What should have been two thousand dollars was actually only $138.

  So, Zalesky had to have a duplicate of that briefcase hidden in the trunk,
with phonied-up stacks of cash—hundreds instead of twenties top and bottom this time. All he had to do was make the switch. Simple.

  And yet …

  Jack had been listening to Mrs. Filardo and she didn’t strike him as a dummy. Was she really going to fall for this? He didn’t see how.

  He reinserted the earplug and her voice came through loud and clear. If Zalesky followed the same schedule as last time, he’d only have to wait until a little after three. That was going to seem like forever.

  “Patience, patience,” he muttered. “It’s gonna be worth it.”

  The big question was, when to make his move? That would depend on what happened next.

  * * *

  The old broad was still yakking about computers and how she didn’t understand this and didn’t understand that when 3:05 finally—finally!—rolled around. Her constant chatter had him debating whether to end it here. She was so damn suspicious, he figured he might well have to walk away empty-handed. But he couldn’t do that. He had no other prospects ready. He had to make this work.

  He held up a hand to shush her.

  “Time to call in.”

  He punched in his own number and began talking to his answering machine.

  Hopeful expression: “It’s me—Nate. Did he make his move?” Change to the puzzled face: “What? Why not?” Now to disappointment. “Really. That’s too bad. Well, we tried. Yeah, I’ll tell her.”

  He ended the call and heaved a deep sigh.

  “No go,” he said. “He didn’t make his move.”

  “Why not?” the old lady said.

  “They don’t think it was enough money. Twenty thousand … I’m sure you think that’s a lot, and I know I sure think that’s a lot, but apparently our crook feels more comfortable with a larger amount.”

  She clucked. “Oh, ’at’s a-too bad. And I’m a-wasted all this time.”

  It’s all about you, ain’t it, lady.

  “The team at the fraud division asked me to thank you for your cooperation.”

  “Well, ’at’s all a-fine and good, but where’s a-my money?”

  Oh, you bitch …

  “The money?” He hesitated, staring at her, watching the distrust grow in her eyes … just the way it was supposed to. “Oh, right. Sure. I’ll get it for you right now.”