would look like a casting call for
I had killed her son. The thought was both obvious and surreal.
Another stretch limousine pulled up and stopped directly in front of the receiving line. Everyone seemed to freeze for a moment. Two men who looked like New York Jets offensive linemen opened the back door. A tall, skinny man with slicked-down hair stepped out. I saw the crowd start whispering. The man was in his seventies, I’d guess, and looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. The man didn’t wait at the end of the line—the line parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses. The man had one of those thin mustaches that looked as though it’d been sketched on with a pencil. He nodded as he approached the family, accepting handshakes and greetings.
Whoever this guy was, he was important.
The thin man with the thin mustache stopped and greeted each family member. One—a guy I pegged as Otto’s brother-in-law—took a knee. The thin man shook his head, and the man apologetically stood back up. One of the offensive linemen stayed a step in front of the thin man. The other stayed a step behind him. No one followed them down the receiving line.
When the thin man shook hands with Otto’s mother, the final person on the line, he turned and headed back toward his limo. One of the offensive linemen opened the back door. The thin man slid inside. The door closed. One offensive lineman drove. The other sat in the passenger seat. The stretch limousine was put in reverse. Everyone stayed still as the thin man made his exit.
For a full minute after he was gone, no one moved. I saw one woman cross herself. Then the line started up again. The family accepted condolences. I waited, wondering who the thin man was and if it mattered. Otto’s mother started sobbing again.
As I watched, her knees buckled. She fell into the arms of a man, sobbing into his chest. I froze. The man helped her back up and let her cry. I could see him stroke her back and offer her words of condolence. She held on for a long time. The man stood and waited with extreme patience.
It was Bob.
I ducked down in my seat, even though I was probably a solid hundred yards away. My heart started pounding. I took a deep breath and risked another look. Bob was gently pulling Otto’s mom off him. He smiled at her and moved toward a group of men standing maybe ten yards away.
There were five of them. One produced a pack of cigarettes. All the men took a cigarette, except Bob. Good to know my gangster was somewhat health conscious. I took out my phone, found the camera app, and zoomed onto Bob’s face. I snapped four photos.
So now what?
Wait here, I guessed. Wait for the funeral and then follow Bob home.
And then?
I didn’t know. I really didn’t. The key was to find out his real name and identity and hope that led to his motive for asking about Natalie. He had clearly been the boss. He’d have to know the reasons, right? I could also just watch him get in his car and then I could write down his license plate number. Maybe Shanta would help track down his real name from that, except that I no longer fully trusted her and for all I knew, Bob had driven to the funeral with his smoker pals.
Four of the men peeled off the group and headed inside, leaving Bob alone with one guy. The guy was younger and wore a suit so shiny it looked like a disco ball. Bob seemed to be giving Shiny Suit instructions. Shiny Suit nodded a lot. When Bob was done, he headed into the funeral. Shiny Suit did not. Instead he swaggered with almost cartoon exaggeration in the other direction, toward a bright white Cadillac Escalade.
I bit my lower lip, trying to decide what to do. The funeral would take some time—half an hour, hour, something like that. There was no reason to just sit here. I might as well follow Shiny Suit and see where it led.
I started up the car and pulled onto Northern Boulevard behind him. This felt weird—“tailing a perp”—but it seemed a day for the weird. I didn’t know how far to stay behind the Escalade. Would he spot me following him? I doubted it, even though I had a Massachusetts license plate in the state of New York. He made a right onto Francis Lewis Boulevard. I stayed two cars behind him. Crafty. I felt like Starsky and Hutch. One of them anyway.
When I’m nervous, I tell myself a lot of dumb jokes.
Shiny Suit pulled off at a mega-nursery called Global Garden. Great, I thought. He’s picking up flower arrangements for Otto’s funeral. Another weird thing about funerals: Wear black but kill something as colorful as flowers to decorate. The store, however, was closed. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, so I didn’t make anything of it yet. Shiny Suit pulled in to the back. I did likewise, though I stayed to the side, at a pretty good distance. Shiny Suit stepped down from the driver’s seat of the Escalade and swaggered over toward the store’s back door. Shiny Suit was big on the swagger. I didn’t want to prejudge but based on the company he kept, the glistening of his suit, and the poser-like swagger, I somehow suspected that Shiny Suit was what the students today technically refer to as a douchebag. He rapped on the back door with his pinkie ring and waited, bouncing on his feet like a boxer listening to the ring introduction. I thought the bouncing around was for show. It wasn’t.
A kid—he could have been one of my students—wearing a bright green store apron and a backward-facing Brooklyn Nets baseball cap opened the door, stepped out, and Shiny Suit sucker-punched him in the face.
Oh man. What had I stumbled across?
The cap flew to the ground. The kid followed, holding his nose. Shiny Suit grabbed him by the hair. He lowered his face so that I feared he might bite the kid’s probably-broken nose and started yelling at him. Then he stood back up and threw a kick in the kid’s ribs. The kid rocked back and forth in pain.
Okay, enough.
Working on a rather heady albeit dangerous blend of fear and instinct, I opened my car door. The fear could be controlled. I had learned how to do that during my years as a bouncer. Anyone with an iota of humanity experiences fear during physical altercations. That is how we are built. The key is harnessing it, not letting it paralyze or weaken you. Experience helps.
“Stop!” I shouted, and then—here was where the instinct part came in—I added, “Police!”
Shiny Suit’s head spun toward me.
I reached into my pocket and took out my wallet. I flipped it open. No, I don’t have a badge, but he would be too far away to see. My attitude would sell it. I stayed firm, calm.
The kid scrambled back toward the door. He stopped to scoop up his Brooklyn Nets baseball cap, jammed it onto his head with the bill facing back, and disappeared into the building. I didn’t care. I closed my wallet and started walking toward Shiny Suit. He, too, must have had some experience in this. He didn’t run. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t try to explain. He just waited patiently for me to approach.
“I have one question for you,” I said. “If you answer it, we forget all about this.”
“All about what?” Shiny Suit replied. He smiled. His tiny teeth looked like Tic Tacs. “I don’t see anything to forget, do you?”
The iPhone was in my hand, displaying the clearest photo I had of Bob. “Who is this man?”
Shiny Suit looked at it. He smiled at me again. “Let me see your badge.”
Uh-oh. So much for attitude selling it.
“Just tell me—”
“You ain’t no cop.” Shiny Suit found this funny. “You know how I know?”
I didn’t respond. The door to the shop opened a crack. I could see the kid peeking out. He met my eye and nodded his gratitude.
“If you were a cop, you’d know who that is.”
“So just tell me his name and . . .”
Shiny Suit started to reach into his pocket. He could have been reaching for a gun. He could have been reaching for a knife. He could have been reaching for a tissue. I didn’t know which. I didn’t ask. I probably didn’t care.
I had had enough.
Without saying a word or issuing a warning of any sort, I snapped my fist into his nose. I could hear the
