“Hey, guys,” I say, and none of them answer. That sets the tone for the rest of the ride, as they don’t speak a single word the entire way. It makes me uncomfortable, but I’d prefer the silence to somebody saying “Sonny says we’re going to the mattresses,” or “Leave the gun and take the cannolis.”
We get on Route 80, which surprises me because I know from previous visits that Petrone lives in the Riverside section of Paterson. Then we get on the lower level of the George Washington Bridge, but the driver does not execute the amazing U-turn that they did in
My keen intuition tells me I’m seeing Petrone in New York.
We head down to lower Manhattan, and park in a lot in the West Village. We get out of the car, and I follow them down the street. They stop at a building on the street, with no sign, though there is a flag flying above the door. It’s not a flag I recognize.
The driver knocks on the door, and within fifteen seconds it opens. The person who opens it looks at us and opens the door wider, so we all go in. Still not a word has been spoken.
It seems to be some kind of restaurant/club that we’re in, but certainly a private one. I follow my escorts to a back room, which is an ornate bar. Petrone is having drinks with four other men.
They all turn to see us as we enter, and the four men start to get up in unison, obviously preparing to leave us alone. Petrone slightly shakes his head, and raises his hand, as if telling them to stay, and they sit back down.
Petrone gets up and walks into an adjacent room, and I am led into it as well. My three escorts, whom I’ve really grown close to, stand with their backs to the wall, while I sit at a table with Petrone.
I’m very nervous, but not quite as much so as in previous meetings with Petrone. I assume that is because in each of those meetings he hasn’t killed me, so therefore my chance of survival this time seems good. Had he killed me one of those other times, I would not be so optimistic now.
“Hello, Andy,” Petrone says. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” Petrone can be quite gracious, a refined gentleman, probably in his mid-fifties, who seems the type that might have some mixed emotions when he orders people executed.
“There is something going on that I thought you might not know about.”
He smiles. “There’s always a first time.”
“Carmine Ricci from Las Vegas; I assume you know him?”
“I prefer you to make statements, rather than asking questions.”
I nod. “Gotcha. Anyway, it seems that Mr. Ricci is involved, at least peripherally, in a case I’m working on. And his involvement consists, among other things, of having a man in his employ do some rather illegal things. Right here in North Jersey.” My assumption and hope is that Petrone will not like a counterpart from across the country operating in his territory.
“Interesting,” Petrone says. “And the name of this man?”
“Loney. If I’m right, he’s already committed a murder, blackmailed a bunch of people, and threatened a woman. And that’s just before lunch.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that Mr. Ricci is an interested party in this, other than providing access to one of his employees?”
“I don’t know that either way,” I say.
“What would you have me do about all this, on the off chance that I believed you?”
“Well, in a perfect world, first you would call Mr. Ricci and get him to withdraw his troops, so to speak.”
“You think he and I are part of one large club?” Petrone asks.
“I think he might respect you enough to see your point.”
“You said ‘first.’ Is there a second?”
I nod. “Yes. I’d like to go talk to Mr. Ricci, perhaps make him a proposition. Under your protection.”
“What might be in this for me?”
“Well, the fact that I’ve alerted you to this situation is something I would hope you’d appreciate. And then there is the help I provided on Quintana.” I’m referencing my providing Petrone with a way to get rid of a former rival, who in terms of viciousness made Petrone look like Mary Poppins. It also benefited me on a case, but there’s no reason to mention that now.
“I’ll call you at noon tomorrow,” Petrone says.
“Great. I’ll look forward to it. How’s the food here?”
“The best in the city; I’m looking forward to dinner right now. Good-bye, Andy.”
I’ve got a hunch I’m not eating here. Maybe my three buddies and I can stop at a Taco Bell on the way home, where we can eat quesadillas and chat the night away.
Hike comes over at eight o’clock in the morning.
He does so for two reasons, probably of equal importance in his mind. The first is that he knows Laurie makes French toast on Sundays, and there is no better French toast on planet Earth. The second is that I pay him by the hour, and if it meant getting paid, Hike would eat asbestos toast.
He’s already there when I come back from my walk with Tara and Bailey, hovering around the kitchen while Laurie cooks. When I enter he looks at his watch, and says, “You’re late. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Sorry. Maybe we should skip breakfast.”
He laughs. “Not in this lifetime.”
During breakfast we talk about our next steps in the investigative, nontrial area of our efforts. More accurately put, Laurie and I talk, while Hike mostly chews. When it comes to eating, Hike is a mini-Marcus.
“No matter what Petrone sets up, I don’t think you should go to Vegas,” Laurie says.
“Why not?”
“It’s not obvious? Ricci is the head of an organized-crime family. If he’s been behind all this, then you have set yourself up as, if not his enemy, then at least a pain in his ass. He could decide to remove the pain.”
“But maybe he’s not, maybe he’s just providing the muscle. That’s what Petrone implied might be happening. In that case, he has no overriding interest, and he might pull the plug.”
“You’re dreaming.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m going with you.”
“You’re not.”
We argue about this for a while, and we finally settle on a compromise, which is mostly in my favor. If I go to Vegas, Marcus comes with me.
“What about the judge in Delaware?” Hike asks.
“What about him?”
“He seems to be a key part of this. Maybe we can pressure him to cave.”
“He won’t even take my call,” I say.
“Maybe we can find out who he’s called. That might lead us to Loney.”
“How would we do that?” Laurie asks. I think I know what Hike is thinking, but I hope I’m wrong.
I’m not.
“We have his cell number from Loney’s original phone, right? So we find out who he has called. If Loney was calling him, the reverse is probably true, and we can get Loney’s new number.”
I put down my fork. “You’re going to try and illegally obtain the private phone records of a prominent judge?”
Hike shakes his head. “Who said anything about me? I’m a law-abiding citizen and, I might add, an officer of the court. Sam can get it.”
“Let’s assume for a second that Sam would be crazy enough to do it…”
“A likely assumption,” Laurie says.
I nod. “True. But what does it really do for us? We already know who Loney is, and that he has been in contact with the judge. Do we really need more confirmation of that? What we need to do is find Loney.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said. “Call Sam; let’s make sure my idea will work.”
I call Sam and put him on the speakerphone. After hearing Hike’s plan, he confirms that it is very feasible, and blames himself for not thinking of it earlier. If we can get Loney’s number off the judge’s records, Sam could hack into the phone company’s computers, something that is for him about as difficult as breathing.
Once in the computer, he could trace the GPS signal that is within every cell phone. In that way we could locate
