Down Here

“Congratulations!” I said to her.

“Oh, this is so embarrassing,” the girl said. “I mean, it isn’t a Nobel Prize, for goodness’ sake!”

“When you win one of those, will you still throw a fit if your father wants to show it off?” I asked her.

“Burke! You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Honey, it’s not like Max is making a window display out of it.”

“Well, he wanted to, I think. And when he showed it to Grandmother, she wanted to build a shrine to it. I’m serious!”

“‘Grandmother,’ huh?” I teased her. “You don’t call her ‘Granny,’ then?”

“She wouldn’t dare,” Immaculata laughed. “This child has always been able to bully her poor father, but Mama . . .”

“Yeah,” I said. “Mama’s like me. She doesn’t put up with any guff from the younger generation.”

“You are so tough,” Flower said, getting up from the table. She bent forward to give me a kiss, slipping her hand into the side pocket of my jacket, as I had taught her to do when she was just a little girl. Back then, she always found candy. Later, it was the kind of junk jewelry preteens love . . . or pretend to, anyway. Now it’s a fifty- dollar bill. “I must get ready for school now,” she announced.

“Hold on a damn minute,” I said. “I want to tell you something. Something important. You’re old enough to hear it now.”

Flower’s eyes were rapt. There was nothing she treasured more than vindication of her status as a mature young woman.

“I’ve known your father for a long time,” I said. “He is my brother. I love him. You know the amazing skills your father has. But I was never jealous of him. Not until now. Do you understand?”

“Oh, Burke,” she said. She gave me another quick kiss, then fled to her room, tears flowing.

Even though we were heading away from Manhattan, the inbound HOV lane cut down our options. That, plus the reverse-commuters and airport traffic, clogged the artery enough to keep us below the speed limit for pretty much the entire trip.

The highways that crisscross the city during rush hour carry a United Nations of passengers. Perfect for the kind of traveling I like to do—nothing stands out. Besides, the average commuter is either talking on a cell phone, eating his breakfast, or staring blankly through the windshield like an overtranq’d mental patient. A zebra-striped stretch limo with a palm tree growing out of its sunroof wouldn’t get more than a passing glance, never mind my purposely anonymous Plymouth.

We took the long right-hand sweeper exiting the BQE for the LIE connector to the Grand Central. Behind us, some congenital defective, in a white Mustang with blue racing stripes, decided we weren’t moving quick enough. He jumped into the service lane, shot past us, then whipped back to his left to cut us off. A gentle tap on the four- piston brakes, concealed behind the dog-dish hubcaps on the Plymouth’s modest sixteen-inch steel wheels, was enough to keep us out of his trunk.

Max gave me a “Should we?” look. I shrugged, not expecting we’d get a chance.

But the Mustang was going the same way we were, so we stayed right with him until the highway forked— left for Long Island, right for JFK.

The Mustang went right. Max looked upward, then nodded in agreement. It was true—I usually don’t like to call attention to myself when I’m driving, but fate had made the decision for us.

The Mustang cut across two rows, looking for the outside lane. As he made his move, I dropped the Plymouth down a gear and nailed it. The Roadrunner exploded past his left quarter panel like a train past a tree. By the time the full-on roar of the Plymouth’s stump-puller motor registered in his ears, the Mustang was behind us, stunned.

I glanced in the mirror, caught the driver looking frantically to his right, trying to figure out what had happened. The ancient bucket of bolts he’d cut off so easily couldn’t have just blasted past him like that, but . . .

Past JFK, traffic lightened up considerably. The Mustang tailgated relentlessly, flashing his brights, making it clear he wanted that left lane for himself. I glanced at the tach—3200 rpm, about 70 miles an hour. Nothing ahead for quite a distance. Even Miss Cleo could figure out what would happen as soon as the lane next to us cleared.

I watched the mirrors. When the Mustang swung out and made his move to pass on my right, I let him get a half-length on me before I gave it the gun, keeping him pinned in the middle lane.

At 105, the Mustang was still coming, but he was a man trying to scale a Teflon wall with greasy hands—the Plymouth had enough left to run away and hide anytime I asked.

A fat SUV in the middle lane finished it. The screech of the Mustang’s brakes was ugly—I guessed the chump hadn’t seen the need for big brakes to go along with his giant chrome rims.

I shot past the SUV, sliced across the highway, and disappeared into the next exit ramp.

We circled back toward the storage facility. Once we had it spotted, I pulled over. We took out a pair of bogus Jersey plates—backed with Velcro bands so they could snap on and off in seconds—and put them in place, just in case there was some sort of surveillance cam working.

The facility was a huge grid formed by lines of connected units, like windowless row houses. I’d been in smaller towns.

There was no fence, just a billboard-sized warning sign at the entrance. All I caught with a quick glance was: NO LIVING OR SLEEPING IN THE UNITS.

We motored through slowly, navigating by the alphanumeric on the piece of paper Sands had given me. A brown Chevy sedan with white doors rolled past us. The quasi–police shield decal on the doors didn’t exactly give me the tremors. All those patrols ever did was watch for people prying open the units that management sealed up when the rent hadn’t been paid.

Some of the units were bigger than apartments people paid a fortune for in Manhattan. Even the smallest ones would hold anything you could stuff in a pickup.

People keep everything in places like this, from toys to treasures. If you were evicted, you could stash your furniture while you slept in your car and tried to put together enough money for a new crib. If your collection of vintage paperback books was too much for your apartment—or your wife—one of these units could be the solution.

For that matter, all you needed was a chainsaw and an ice chest and you could keep a body in one of them for long enough to be in another country by the time it was discovered.

Sands’ unit was near the end of a long row. I backed the Plymouth up to the door, and Max and I got out.

The lock yielded to the three-number sequence that was on the piece of paper Sands had slipped me. I’d brought a flashlight with me, but I didn’t need it: a switch on the wall lit the place nicely.

The inside of the storage unit looked like the loser’s share of a divorce settlement. An old La-Z-Boy recliner, upholstered in seasick-green Naugahyde. A swaybacked couch the husband had probably spent most of his nights on before the breakup. A fold-up workbench. A set of black iron free weights. Two bowling-ball bags that looked full. A pair of metal file cabinets someone had once painted white, with a brush. A decent assortment of power tools— looked in good condition. Stacks of magazines. A nineteen-inch TV. A mid-range stereo receiver, with matching speakers.

And seven large file boxes of heavy cardboard, designed for transport. They were in two stacks, ready to go.

I grabbed the top one. It was full—had to weigh a good thirty, thirty-five pounds. Inside, nothing but paper. Case files; every single page a photocopy. I leafed through them quickly. As soon as I saw the name “Wychek” a dozen times in thirty seconds, I knew we were home.

Even with the fuel cell and the relocated battery hogging part of the space, there was still enough room in the Plymouth’s cavernous trunk for all seven cartons. I kept watch while Max did the loading, the best use of both our skills.

Before I turned off the light to the storage unit, I took a quick glance around. Removing the boxes didn’t create a visually empty space—it looked like everything else had been there for a while. I wondered where Sands