binoculars, I saw the big guy stiffen. His wide grin vanished and his whole face tightened, and he seemed suddenly very interested in his countertop. A second later, Trautmann strolled up to the register. He handed the big guy a check and a bill, and the big guy rang it up and gave him change. The whole time, Trautmann was Mr. Friendly- smiling, talking, laughing-but the big guy said not a word. Trautmann pocketed the change and clapped the big guy on the shoulder with one of his huge hands. The big guy flinched, and he watched Trautmann all the way out the door.
Trautmann walked across the diner lot. He was wearing a black leather field jacket over a gray shirt, well- tailored gray pants, and black cowboy boots. I took some more photos. He got into his car and pulled out, still headed east. I did the same. More businesses had opened and traffic had picked up considerably, and there were plenty of cars between us now. He stayed on Hillside through New Hyde Park and Williston Park. When he got to East Williston he turned off, onto Roslyn Road, and headed north. After two miles he turned off Roslyn Road and pulled into the parking lot of a crappy-looking mall that called itself Roslyn Meadows.
It was a meadow of cracked asphalt, surrounding a corrugated metal heap that looked like the bad marriage of two airplane hangars. There was a discount electronics store at one end of the place and a down-market department store at the other, and lots of space for rent in between. It was still early, just after eight, and the lot was mostly empty. The few cars that were there were clustered around the ends.
I kept on going when Trautmann turned in. I saw his car cross the lot and disappear behind the building. I went down Roslyn Road another quarter mile, turned around at a Burger King, and drove back to the mall. I parked near the electronics store, next to a rusting pickup, and walked around back. Trautmann’s Audi was parked about halfway down, near some dumpsters and a loading dock. There weren’t many other cars there. There wasn’t much at all besides chewed-up asphalt, a sagging metal fence, and a field of weeds beyond it. I went around to the front and went inside.
The holiday crowds hadn’t turned up at Roslyn Meadows yet, and if they did, I suspected it would be to visit the OTB parlor. Still, the mall was ready for them, and decked out in its cheesy holiday best. Styrofoam candy canes and paper garland and mangy plastic trees abounded, and even the windows of the vacant stores-and there were quite a few of these-had been hung with paper reindeer. A fountain had been drained and transformed into something that was supposed to be Santa’s workshop, though it looked more like Santa’s grimy basement. Its centerpiece was a big wooden chair where Junior could be photographed while he wailed and thrashed on Santa’s lap. Neither Santa nor the elves were in yet. Probably still sleeping it off, or maybe down at the OTB. They did have the Christmas music cranking, though-“Santa Baby,” one of my favorites. I was wearing a black sweatshirt and jeans and paddock boots, and a field jacket to cover my gun. I was overdressed for Roslyn Meadows.
A few food stalls were opened, including one that sold pretzels slathered in butter and cinnamon. A security guard leaned at the counter, eating one and dripping melted butter on his radio. He was maybe twenty-one, about five foot seven and a hundred and thirty pounds. His hair was already thinning, and he had bad skin and a ratty moustache. He wore a blue and gray uniform with Trident Metro Security patches on the shoulders and over the breast pocket. I saw a couple of his comrades as I strolled farther down the mall, but I didn’t see Trautmann.
At the midpoint of the mall, a wide corridor branched off to the left, leading to more vacant storefronts, the mall offices, the loading dock, and the rear parking lot. Trautmann was at the far end, with a tall, stocky guy in a Trident uniform. Trautmann had his big hand on the guy’s shoulder, and they were walking away from me, toward the doors to the loading dock. They went through, and the corridor was empty. I walked down. There was no one in the mall offices; the corridor was still empty. I walked farther down. The doors to the loading dock were ajar.
“I know how it is, Brian,” I heard a voice say. It was a deep, friendly voice, with a heavy New York accent and wry, amused undertones. It was a voice you could have a couple of beers with, and a laugh about the general ridiculousness of things. “You need a little extra cash, a little more than I’m paying you, so you move a little weed, maybe some crank. I know how it goes, Brian, believe me-”
Brian cut him off. “I swear, Bernie, it was just the once. No shit, just one time.” Brian was young and scared. “I got jammed up with this guy in Hempstead, and I had almost all the cash, and I went down to AC to get the rest, and nothing worked for me. I mean nothing. Not the craps, not the slots, not blackjack-I couldn’t do nothing.” Brian was practically wetting his pants. “And then the guy was really squeezing me, I mean bad, and I was scared and… I fucked up, Bernie, I know it. It was my bad, but it was just the once, I swear.”
Trautmann was laughing. “AC? Jesus, Brian, how fucking stupid was that? And playing the slots? What were you thinking? Shit, you might as well take your money and burn it-save yourself the trip.” He laughed some more, very relaxed. Mr. Friendly. “So, did it work-the dealing? Did you pay the guy off? He leaving you alone?” Mr. Friendly-Concerned now.
“Yeah, yeah he is.” Brian was relaxing. “Jesus, what a fucking prick that guy is, too. A big fucking hard-on.” Laughing now.
“Don’t you hate that?” Trautmann asked, chuckling. “Don’t you just fucking hate that?” And then there was a loud, wet, cracking soundlike a watermelon hitting pavement, and a startled cry and the sound of a body falling down.
“Gee, did that hurt, Bri? I guess that was my bad, huh?” Trautmann said, laughing. “Now don’t go crying like some kind of pussy, Bri. Be a man, for chrissakes. Here… stuff this in your mouth if you can’t fucking control yourself.” And then there was another cracking sound and muffled sobbing.
“So, this Hempstead guy’s a real hard-on, huh Bri, a real prick? Jeez, what does that make me? Fucking Mickey Mouse? Is that what I am, Brian?” Another crack, and then a bunch of dull thuds, like a sack of potatoes falling down stairs. More stifled sobs. “You think I give a shit what you do? You can fucking sell skag to babies for all I care. Just don’t do it on my time, or at one of my places.” A flurry of smacking sounds, like somebody pounding cutlets, and then some pleading words I couldn’t make out.
“Shh… shh… take it easy, now, take it easy.” Some shuffling and dragging sounds. “There you go, there you go… jeez, Brian, you fucking pissed yourself. Yuck.” Trautmann was laughing harder. “Okay, okay. Give me your wallet. Fuck, I’m not going to touch it. Just take the money out.” Trautmann chuckled. I heard bills folding. “You still driving that Camry? Yeah? Give me the keys. You’re going to send me the title when you get home today, right?” I heard jingling, then a quick shuffling of feet and a loud smack and another desperate moan. “Just so you don’t forget to send my title, yeah?” Then, the sounds of someone brushing off his hands and his clothes.
“Got to boogie, Bri, it’s been a blast. You go clean yourself up and then you get the fuck out of here, ’cause if I see you again, you’re going to think this was a walk in the park. Capice, buddy?” The outer door opened and closed, and then all I heard was Brian’s exhausted sobbing, my own heart pounding, and “Rockin’ Rudolf” playing through the loudspeakers.
The corridor was still empty. A ribbon of sweat slid down my spine. I headed back the way I’d come, at a jog. The mall was still pretty empty. I pushed through the doors to the parking lot and spotted my Taurus. The rusting pickup was gone, and in its place was a black Audi A8. I walked toward it. Trautmann got out and rested his forearms on the roof of the car and looked across at me.
“Do I know you?” he asked, smiling. “I mean, we’ve spent so much time together today, I feel like I should fucking know you.” His smile was broad and a little ironic, and there was an amused look in his narrow blue eyes. His leather jacket hung open, and I saw an automatic holstered under his left arm. I looked at him a while. His smile never wavered.
“We don’t know each other, Bernie, not yet. But I think maybe we should,” I said.
“Ohhh… you know my name,” he said in mock terror. “I got goose bumps all over.” He was still smiling. “You have some business with me-need to hire on some security, maybe? Or maybe you got a crush on me, looking for a pair of my shorts to sniff?”
“I’m sure your underwear’s really cool, but I just want to talk.”
“Talk is great, I love it. Can’t get enough talk. We can sit down and have some cocktails and talk our fucking heads off, just as soon as you tell me who you are and what you want and why you’re following me all over the fucking place.” He was still smiling, and his eyes hadn’t left me.
“My name’s March, and I want to talk to you about MWB and Gerard Nassouli,” I said. I didn’t expect he’d go pale and break out in a sweat and get weak in the knees and confess all-though it would’ve been nice. I didn’t think he’d go for his gun and shout, “You’ll never take me alive” and start blazing away, either. I wasn’t expecting anything dramatic, and Trautmann didn’t disappoint me. The smile stayed fixed, and so did the gaze. He didn’t bat an eyelash. He just was quiet for a couple of beats.
“You’re not a fed.” It wasn’t a question. He looked at me some more. “Not a cop. You private?” I nodded. His
