Buy Back (7 page)

“Tommy, I’d tell you if I remembered. All I know is she came in here and had breakfast with Jo-Ball on Sunday, over there, and then took the car service that was idling out front. There’s always one there waiting for a call. They like my coffee.”

I looked up at him over my coffee cup, squinting. “Twenty if you know the car service.”

“Had the company card in the window. Shit.” Garrison covered his face with his dish rag, thinking as hard as he could. “Blue diamond-shape card…”

I smiled. “Blue Diamond Car Service?”

I STEPPED OUT OF THE
diner, and you know where I was headed.

For the second time in two days there was a surprise waiting for me outside Donut House.

Two police detectives approached. Same two who interviewed me the day before. This was no cause for worry. Normally.

I apologize in advance to the cops in their private lives, where I’m sure they’re good people with positive energy. I hope so for their wives’ sake, anyway. Maybe my profession makes cops hostile toward me in particular, and that has altered my perception of them. They don’t like anyone muscling in on their business, coming between them and what they consider crime. Plus maybe they don’t like my size. I’m harder to intimidate.

I’m just saying, but police are not my favorite people, and I don’t think that I’m totally alone in that department.

I guessed these two were heading into Donut House to further interrogate Garrison.

One of these detectives was a heavyset Chinese, with blue eyes, freckles, and thinning hair swept back. His name was Doh. His smile was always forced and out of practice, his eyes long-suffering and probably focused on retirement. The other detective was a short, bald Italian with a bushy black unibrow. His name was Crispi, and he looked like he could get angry at a buttercup.

Doh says to me, “Just the guy we wanted to see.”

Those are words you never want to hear from a cop.

So I says, like a hello, “Detectives.”

Crispi folded his arms. “What’re you doing here, Davin?”

“Coffee.”

Doh showed me his forced smile. “We hear things about you, Davin. In the neighborhood.”

“Good things, I’m sure.”

Crispi refolded his arms. “We hear Scanlon has his hooks in you.”

“He sells toys.”

“Not all he sells.” Doh leaned in like this was big news. Everybody in Carroll Gardens and Cobble Hill knew Vince Scanlon was the local shylock. Well, maybe not all the hipsters that were gentrifying the neighborhood. True locals and goofballs knew.

Doh hadn’t asked a question, so I had no response. He finally continued. “If there’s a connection with Johnny One-Ball’s murder, we’ll find it.”

I glanced down at the blood spatter on the sidewalk, then pointed at the dent in the light pole where the second bullet hit. “Serve and protect. Any idea who took a shot at me, and why?”

“Police business,” Crispi said, his jaw muscles rippling.

“Detectives, just so you two remember, I’m a victim of attempted murder. Part of your job is to apprehend and prosecute whoever it was that took a shot at me.”

I turned and went down Court Street.

Doh calls after me, “Davin…”

I kept going.

Pop used to say,
Just because someone asks you a question, doesn’t mean you have to answer
. That goes double for cops. The only words you need to say to a cop are “I want my lawyer present.”

Blue Diamond Car Service was north on Smith near Atlantic and was sort of famous in the neighborhood. Interesting story. Back when, some screwball decided to try to extort the Transit Authority by firebombing the subway. So he was sitting there with his first bomb, a jar of gasoline I think, in a paper bag on the floor between his legs, and it went off. Yeah, while he was still sitting there. He was badly injured; likewise some people in the subway car got injured and killed. Somehow this screwball survived, though worse for wear, and escaped down a subway tunnel. He came out at the Bergen Street stop at Smith Street and walked into the Blue Diamond Car Service, which was run by Arabs. Picture this guy, burned pretty much to a crisp, and he walked into the car service looking for a car. The Arabs freaked out—they came here to escape a war-torn Middle East. First year in business, and who came in but some guy who looks like he’s been torched by a car bomb. They called the cops; the ambulance took him away. I can’t remember if the screwball lived, but if he did he probably wished he hadn’t.

Cut to three years later. My dentist, he’s on Court Street. Enter another screwball, one in a puffy down coat who came into his office and confronted the nurse with a gun, forced her and my dentist into a corner. Nobody else was there. The desperado rummaged the receptionist desk looking for cash. Apparently, this latest dummy thought dentists got paid mostly in cash as opposed to insurance claims. It was at this point that my dentist pulled a gun from his sock. To tell you the truth, I had no idea my dentist carried, but I later learned that he and a bunch of other dentists have this gun club. Because he has precious metals in his office, like gold, he was able to get a carry permit. Anyway, the burglar took a shot at my dentist. My dentist, in turn, unloaded his entire magazine of nine shots at the screwball, who dropped his gun and ran out after being hit in what my dentist thought was the hand. At first he thought he’d missed the guy, because the burglar hadn’t fallen down or anything, like on TV. Then he sees the blood and figures he’d hit him in the hand. So this screwball ran all the way down to Smith Street, and where do you think he ended up?

You got it. At the Blue Diamond Car Service. He stood there with blood pouring out from under his down coat asking for a car to Bay Ridge. My dentist actually put eight slugs in the guy’s chest but somehow missed the heart. (My dentist now has a bigger gun with bigger bullets.)

The Arab dispatcher behind the counter, Sammy, was once again faced with the walking wounded. Sammy yells at the screwball, “Why do you people keep coming
here
!”

Now you had Johnny One-Ball getting his head exploded onto a Blue Diamond town car parked at Donut House. It was like I should have guessed it would have been them.

Gruesome stories, but the repetition says something about life. Maybe it’s that irony thing, one of life’s circles.

Sammy is pretty old now, his black hair with a lot of gray in it, thinning some in back, but still thick as a rug everywhere else. I don’t know what kind of Arab he is. I’d seen him and knew who he was, but he didn’t know me from a lamppost.

Car services are humble establishments that are all pretty much the same. A small paneled waiting area the size of a large rug sits in front of a counter. In front of the counter are some beat-up chairs and beat-up magazines. Behind the counter is a large map of New York City, a list of rates to the airports, a CB-type radio to talk to the cars, and in this case a wary Arab.

“You Sammy?” Of course I knew it was Sammy, but it was a way to break the ice.

He looked at me like I might burst into flame, and didn’t answer me, waiting for what might come next.

“My name is Tommy Davin. I’m a neighborhood guy. I was at Donut House yesterday when that thing happened. I was standing right in front of one of your cars when it happened.”

Still Sammy said nothing. He didn’t even blink. These were eyes, I think, that had seen it all, and were sure they would see more. Sadly.

I almost expected him to shout,
“Why do you people keep coming
here
!”

“Horrible thing, what happened. I was a friend of the victim. I’ll tell you why I’m here. I want to give you fifty bucks to tell me who hired one of your cars on Sunday morning, the day before this happened. One of your drivers out front of Donut House was hired by a woman.”

Sammy looked down his big brown Arab nose at the Grant I had set on the counter. Then at his big logbook next to it. Finally, he says, “The TLC forbids me to release such information.” TLC is the Taxi and Limousine Commission, which polices car services and taxicab companies.

“I know, Sammy. I’m asking for you to make an exception. I’m asking for you to go through your logbook, flip to day before yesterday, and see who hired the car on Sunday. It will take maybe thirty seconds. Fifty dollars for thirty seconds is, let’s see…”

“Six thousand dollars an hour,” Sammy says, like in a whisper. “Why do you want to know this thing?”

“The fifty bucks is also so I don’t have to answer that question. Look, I’m not asking for the name of your driver or anything like that, and I’m not going to hurt anybody. I want to find out where the woman went in the car, the destination. What harm could come of that?”

“The TLC and police would not like it. I should call the police.” The smallest of smiles pushed at the corners of his mouth, like knowing what he should do gave him the upper hand.

“You could do that. But will the police pay you six thousand dollars an hour for the trouble?”

There was nobody else in the place, no drivers, no customers.

So Sammy looks at the logbook, looks at me, and says, “I cannot help you, and am going to the bathroom. Please be gone when I return or I will call the police.”

Grant went with him. As soon as I heard the bathroom door latch I spun the logbook around and flipped it open.

I was gone before he returned.

For fifty bucks I’d bought a drop-off address and the last name French. The car wasn’t hired by a company, wasn’t on an account. Cash.

The address was the Williamsburg Savings Bank Building, an Art Deco skyscraper that is to Brooklyn what Big Ben is to London. There’s a glowing clock at the top with red hands. The building gets thinner as it goes up, in steps, until just above the clock there’s this tiny dome. The dome looks kind of stupid, like a tiny yarmulke on a giant. Brooklyn has a downtown area with some big buildings, but Billy Bank is still the tallest building around, and the clock could be seen from miles in all directions, even from my neighborhood.

Ms. French may or may not really have offices at Billy Bank, and she may not really have used her real name. Doubtful on both counts. The Grant in Sammy’s pocket may not have bought me much.

In one week, the following Tuesday, I needed the last payment for Vince. Fifteen grand. If I didn’t come up with it, I’d owe twenty-five grand the following week, a ten-grand late fee. After that, the pink monkey would firebomb my apartment and remove the nose of my closest family member or friend. I needed those paintings, those goodies Huey lost. Max said he’d pay fifty grand for them. I was supposed to get forty percent, that’s standard for the setup, netting me twenty grand, but the crew would never stand for splitting thirty grand. Huey would take his forty percent, leaving Frank and Kootie with only nine grand. That’s way below scale. So if I only got thirty I’d have to lower my percentage to keep the troops happy, which would make me unhappy. I’d have to negotiate that fifty up. I was expecting Max to offer one hundred, which would put me square with Vince with plenty to spare. Of course, I could try to finesse some money out of Huey’s end from that, but not another ten. This sucked.

If Billy Bank was a dead end on Ms. French, my next connection was Huey, Frank, or Kootie. If they didn’t take it directly, they leaked it to someone else, because I didn’t tell anybody. They were the connection I had to work on. If that didn’t give me dividends, the goofballs who took the pips from my three stooges were almost certainly in the business. So somebody must know them. Before the day was over I would have to feel up the neighborhood to see if I could scare something up. That’s what I did for a living, after all, what I did best. Something, even something small, should pop. Goofballs don’t keep secrets very well, not inside the industry.

Not for nothing, but I was still getting pretty anxious about having to start looking from scratch.

My phone vibrated, and I had a new e-mail. I was hoping it was Blaise, that he might have some information on my goofballs that would give me a lift.

It was from Max at USA.

Lunch me. 12:00 Sushi Ole.

SUSHI ISN’T MY THING, AND
I think Max knew it. Which I guess was OK because I hadn’t been very hungry since Jo-Ball’s head exploded. Ensuing events hadn’t exactly kicked off any cravings, either.

Usually I can eat, like to eat, need to eat. My six-foot-six frame needs nourishment, and let’s remember that I’m a man of appetites. Just not for cold rice rolled up in clammy seaweed, or dead fish that hasn’t been shown some hot coals. Somehow adding wasabi is supposed to make everything OK. It doesn’t. Well, more for the rest of you who like this stuff.

I’m not crazy about the atmosphere at sushi places, either. The seats and tables are designed by a smaller race of people for a smaller race of people. I’m just saying.

It didn’t help that this sushi place was in downtown Manhattan. You don’t want to be in or around the financial district at lunch if you can help it. All those giant buildings empty onto the street, and there’s a sense of desperation as hundreds of thousands of workers hit the bricks in search of food. Delis and restaurants in the area had a hard time meeting demand, much less making ends meet what with the commercial rents down there. In a sit-down place the tables were practically on top of each other. In delis, people ate standing up. I don’t like eating standing up. The neighborhood was so pressed for noon nourishment that food carts appeared at corners, creating long lunchtime lines, further snarling up the sidewalks and foot traffic.

Fortunately, I exited the subway at Fulton Street station a little early, so the lunchtime herd hadn’t begun its daily stampede. I started toward J&R, a music store. Thought I might browse the Latin jazz section. I’d been thinking about adding to my Ray Santos collection.

My phone blurped. An e-mail came in. It was from Blaise, as promised.

There was no hello or anything at the beginning of the e-mail, just a name like big guyor ugly guyfollowed by a list of places and times.