passed. Colonna sat next to Sikes and DiLillo leaned on Neary’s cluttered windowsill. She sipped her coffee and looked at me and then at Neary.
“Thanks for coming in,” Neary said, and he folded his hands on his desk. “You all remember March?” They nodded. “Well, he’s Mister March now, because now he’s a client, and actually paying for the privilege of fucking up your Sunday.” DiLillo snorted.
“For now, the job is surveillance, at four different sites. I’ve got fact sheets for you here.” Neary tapped a thin stack of paper on his desk. “But the short story is, John wants to know if anybody’s got these sites- these people- staked out. And if so, he wants to know who. So we want photos, names, plates, and affiliations if you can get them.”
“That’s for now,” Sikes whispered. “What comes after?”
“Can’t say at this point,” Neary answered. “We just have to wait and see. Read and react.”
DiLillo pushed herself off the sill and took the sheets from Neary’s desk. She handed copies to Colonna, Sikes, and Pritchard and started reading her own.
DiLillo looked at me. “You’ve got vehicle descriptions here, and something sketchy on one guy. Does this mean you’ve seen them?”
“I’ve seen some cars and a van, and one of their subjects- Irene Pratt- has seen the mustache guy.”
DiLillo scowled. “Which answers my question about how good they are.”
“Some of them clearly suck; maybe all of them do. And maybe there are some I haven’t seen that don’t.”
DiLillo nodded.
“This could take more feet on the street than just ours,” Pritchard said.
“I’ll give you more if you need them,” Neary said, “but get out there first and tell me.”
Sikes folded the sheet and tucked it in his breast pocket. “I’ll take Brooklyn.”
“I’ll take Mr. March’s place,” Colonna said.
DiLillo looked at Pritchard. “I’ll take the chick on the West Side. You take- what’s-his-name- Danes’s place, Juan. You got those Upper East Side rags for camo.”
Pritchard smiled at her and looked at Neary. “We on the clock now?” he asked. Neary nodded.
“You called the motor pool?” Colonna said.
Neary nodded again. “They’re expecting you. Call my cell when you’re on station.”
Sikes and Pritchard followed Colonna and DiLillo out.
Neary turned to me. “You know how this shit goes; it could take a few hours or a few days. I’ll call when I have something.”
It was still early when I left the Brill offices. The air was bright and clean, and a morning calm still lay on the city streets. Across Broadway, a shopkeeper hoisted a metal gate that made a noise like raucous birds. Up the block, at Duane Street, a single drunk moved carefully across an intersection and around a steaming manhole. A flight of taxis cruised by, headed south. They were off duty, and they moved slowly and with an odd dignity. Some Wallace Stevens lines ran through my head: Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. Then the drunk stopped, opened his pants, and pissed on an office building. The poetry changed from Stevens to Bukowski and vanished altogether. I kept walking north and thought about what Tom Neary had said. p›
People who work for a living don’t do this shit, no matter how curious they are. He was right, of course, this was an indulgencethough not just of my curiosity. Certainly, I wanted to know who else was interested in Danes and what the hell was going on; you don’t get into this business without an itch to solve puzzles. I also realized that whoever had me under surveillance had no way of knowing that I’d been canned- and hence no cause to call off the dogs. I hated the feeling of being watched, and I wouldn’t rest easy until I’d had a little chat with whoever was holding the leash. But there was, I knew, more to it than that.
I crossed Broome Street and looked west and saw the still-shuttered front of Siren. I thought about seeing Nina Sachs there yesterday, and about her parting shot. What’s the matter- you have nothing else to do? You have nothing else to fill your time? The words had been steeped in scorn, but I couldn’t say they were wrong. The prospect of empty time- of restless, dangerous hours filled with nothing but myself- was making me more nervous than usual lately. I wasn’t ready for it just then; in fact, I was afraid of it.
The city was wide awake by the time I reached 16th Street, and the sidewalks were full. I didn’t look for Victor Colonna in the crowd, and I caught no glimpse of him. I went upstairs and let some air into my apartment while it was still fresh. Then I changed into shorts and a T-shirt and went out for a run.
I was gone for over an hour, and there were messages when I returned. The first was from Lauren.
Hey, Johnny, it’s me. Liz told me about your little dustup with David. She said Ned was pissed as hell at him because of it. I know he really appreciates your help on this interview thing. Give me a buzz, will you? I shook my head and skipped to the next message. It was from Jane, and there was no hint of yesterday’s cool sarcasm in it.
I knocked on your door this morning but you’d already left. Can you believe I’m stuck here on a day like this? I’ll be back and forth between the office and the lawyers, but I’ll try you later. Maybe we can do something. There were muffled voices in the background and then Jane again. Okay, got to go. Then Irene Pratt’s voice came on the line.
March? Are you there? Pick up if you’re there. There was a long pause, full of nothing but Pratt’s breathing. All right, I guess you’re not in. Well, call me back- I want to know what’s going on. So
… call me, okay? I showered and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and punched her number.
“Finally!” she said.
“Everything all right? Have you seen that car again, or that guy?”
“I haven’t seen a thing. Of course, I haven’t been outside today.” She sounded tired.
“You don’t have to hide, Irene.”
“Easy for you to say- nobody broke into your office. Did Tampon call you yet?”
“No.”
“He’s going to.”
“So I figured.”
“You’ll be… discreet when you talk to him, right?” Her voice was tinged with embarrassment.
“I won’t even say your name.”
“Thanks,” she said. “You find out any more about who’s been watching me- about who’s doing all this?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it, and now I’m not the only one. I’ve asked some people I know to give me a hand.” Irene Pratt made an affirmative noise and went quiet. She’d run out of things to say, but she was reluctant to get off the line. Nerves.
“It’s a nice day, Irene, you should go out and enjoy it.”
“Yeah, okay,” she said, without conviction. “But you’ll call me if you find something out, or if your friends do?”
“I’ll call even if I don’t, just to check in.”
Pratt’s voice brightened fractionally. “Talk to you later, then,” she said, and hung up.
I rummaged in my fridge and came out with a bottle of water and a container of yogurt. I took them to the table and switched on my laptop, and while I ate and drank I went over my final report to Nina Sachs. I read through it several times, and each time I did, the CONCLUSIONS section was stubbornly blank.
Peter Spiegelman
JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home
21
“You really thought you could get away with it?” It was six-fifteen on Monday morning, and Dennis Turpin’s New England accent was grating even through the telephone. “You didn’t think we’d know it was you?”
I woke up enough to play along. “Who is this?”
“Turpin, from Pace-Loyette, and you haven’t answered my questions, March. What did you think you were doing?”
