CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Karen Lloyd put out blankets and pillows and towels for Pike and me in a little spare room that she used as a home office. There was a couch and a desk in the little room, and just enough floor space for one of us on the couch and one of us on the floor. Pike said he'd take the floor.
We drove back to the Ho Jo, got our things, and checked out. The waitress who had always wanted to visit California was in the lobby when we paid. She said that she hoped she would see us again soon. I said anything was possible. By the time we got back to Karen Lloyd's, Peter and Dani were gone, Toby was in his room, and Karen had gone to bed. Twenty minutes after seven. Guess it had been a rough day all the way around.
At nine-forty-two the next morning Pike and I cruised past Clyde's Bar on 136th Street, Pike's head moving slightly to check out the fire escape, the alley, the street, the people. Luther and his buddy weren't around, and neither was their Pontiac, but maybe sixty or seventy thousand black people were on their way to work or school or doctor's appointments or the market. Pike said, 'Be tough to maintain a low profile around here.'
'Maybe we could do the stakeout in blackface.'
Pike's mouth twitched.
I felt as obvious now as I had before, but neither was the first time I had felt that way. The first time had been in 1976, not long after I had left the Army, walking with a man named Cleon Tyner in Watts. It was a feeling that everyone was staring at me, even though I could see that they were not. When I told Cleon, he said, now you know what it's like to be black. Cleon Tyner had died in Beverly Hills ten years later, shot to death by an Eskimo.
I said, 'Gloria Uribe is on the third floor, 304, up two flights of stairs, on the east side of the building.'
'What time is Santiago coming?'
'Four.'
'Let me out.'
I pulled to the curb, let him out, and drove around the block. My third time around, Pike came out from the alley and slipped into the car. He said, 'Maintenance entrance in the back next to an old coal chute, but no way up to the third unless you come through the lobby. You can get up the fire escape in the alley, but a guy coming here for business wouldn't use it Thirty-foot drop to the roof from the next building.'
'So anyone who comes or goes is going to come or go through the lobby.'
Pike nodded. 'We try to hang around here all day, everyone on this street is going to know it. So will the woman.'
I turned south on Fifth and dropped down Central Park toward the Village. 'We can pick up Charlie. If Charlie doesn't come, it doesn't matter if Santiago shows up or not.'
Pike grunted and settled back in the seat. 'Let's do it'
I pulled to the curb by a pay phone, called information, and got the numbers for the Figaro Social Club and the Lucerno Meat Company. I called the social club first and asked if Charlie DeLuca was there. A guy with a voice like a rusty gate said no. I called the meat plant and said, 'Charlie's office, please.' A woman came on and I told her that my name was Mike Waldrone and that Charlie's dad Sal had said that I should call and could I speak to him. She told me that he was on the other line and asked if I wanted to hold. I said no thanks, hung up, and went back to the car. 'Meat plant,' I said. 'Piece of cake.'
Twenty-eight minutes later we parked the Taurus just off Grand around the corner from the meat plant, walked back to a fruit shop with a little juice bar in the window, ordered a couple of papaya smoothies, and sat down to watch for Charlie DeLuca. Elvis and Joe go hunting in the city.
Econoline vans and eight-wheel delivery trucks came and went and guys in stained smocks loaded and unloaded packages of meat. At nineteen minutes after ten Ric the Vampire came down the sidewalk carrying a little white bag and took it into the meat plant. Danish, no doubt. At eleven-fifty-one Charlie and Ric came out and got into the black Town Car. Charlie was wearing a three-thousand-dollar Johnson amp; Ivers topcoat and climbed into the front seat. Pike and I hustled back to the Taurus and followed them northwest up across the Village to a little cafe two doors down from Foul Play Bookstore on Abingdon Square. Charlie went into the restaurant and Ric stayed in the car. In the cafe, Charlie met three other men, also in Johnson amp; Ivers topcoats, and sat in the window where they laughed and talked and read racing forms. Power lunch, no doubt Who will we rob today? Who will we kill?
An hour and ten minutes later Charlie came out and got into the Town Car, and he and Ric drove to the Figaro Social Club,
Neither Charlie nor Ric came or went for the next two hours and twenty-five minutes. A couple of old men hobbled in and another old man hobbled away, and strong younger men with broad backs and sturdy necks drifted in and out, but Charlie never moved. Probably weren't a lot of command decisions to be made at a meat plant, anyway.
At ten of four Pike said, 'Maybe it's a pass.'
At four Pike said, 'We can forget the Jamaican connection.'
At six minutes after four Pike said, 'You wanna check on this Santiago guy, anyway?'
At eleven minutes after four Charlie DeLuca came out and got into the black Town Car, and Pike said, 'He's alone.'
I looked at Pike and gave him Groucho Marx eyebrows.
Charlie pulled away from the curb and went up Bowery to Fourteenth, then across to Eighth and uptown past the theater district and the porno parlors and the street hustlers and a guy carrying a placard that said TRAVIS BICKLE WAS RIGHTEOUS. Heading north. Maybe north to Morningside Heights and Gloria Uribe and a guy named Santiago, but maybe not. He could always turn off to New Jersey.
This time of day the streets were crowded with cars and yellow cabs, and the cars and the cabs accelerated and swerved and stopped without regard to lanes or reason. Yellow cabs roared past the pedestrians who lined the street corners, some speeding up the closer they came to the warm bodies, others veering sharply across traffic, passing within inches of other cabs and cars, and nobody bothered to slow down. Everyone drove as if they were in Beirut, but that made it easy to follow him. In the chaos that was the approaching rush hour, we were just another random particle.
Pike loosened his.357 in its holster.
We stayed north on Eighth for a long time and then Charlie turned off Broadway onto Eighty-eighth and then over to Amsterdam, and suddenly we weren't going toward Morningside Heights and Gloria Uribe anymore. Pike said, 'Change of plans.'
'Uh-huh.'
Charlie DeLuca pulled to the curb in a No Parking zone on Amsterdam Avenue. A young guy maybe thirty with a rat face and pimples and two sweatshirts came out of a doorway carrying a white, legal-sized envelope and got into the Lincoln. The Lincoln pulled away and we followed. Less than two blocks up Amsterdam the Lincoln again pulled to the curb and the pizza-faced guy got out. He closed the door as soon as he was out and walked away without looking back. He didn't have the envelope. The Lincoln started up Amsterdam again.
Pike said, 'Let me have the kid.'
I jerked the Taurus to the curb and Pike was out of the door before the Taurus stopped moving. I gunned it back into traffic and stayed with Charlie up Amsterdam into Morningside Heights and finally to Clyde's Bar. Well, well.
Luther and his friend had shown up and were leaning against their Pontiac. Luther didn't look happy. I drove around the block four times before I found a place to park and then I went back to see Luther. Luther smiled nastily when he saw me and said, 'Figure I be seeing you again. The Godfather roll up around five minutes ago. He upstairs now.'
'I know. How about Santiago?'
Luther nodded, slow, maybe remembering the ice pick. 'Yeah. He up there, too. So's the woman.'
'What's Santiago wearing?'
'Camel hair coat. Hat with a little pink feather in the band. Boots with these real skinny heels.'
