The Guilty: (P.I. Jack Marconi No. 3) Page 16

  “And Junior knows you know too much.”

  I looked at the computer. A little white box that appeared on the screen told me the file backup was complete. I pulled out the zip drive and stuffed it into my blazer pocket, then closed the lid on the computer and stuffed it under my good arm.

  “You busy?” I asked Blood.

  “Workin’ for you, buildin’ up your tab,” he said. “I can see it be tough to drive with that boo-boo in your shoulder.”

  “One painful boo-boo,” I said.

  “White peoples are whiners,” he smiled, raising his pant leg high, pointing to two nickel-size pieces of scar tissue on his lower thigh. “Uzi done that many years ago in a drive-by. My bro took the bullets out at home with a jackknife. I passed out from the pain. But when I woke up, I strapped on a hand cannon and gave the shooter some real hell.”

  What Blood meant by “hell,” was that he had retaliated by shooting the shooter back. Probably mortally wounding him. That’s the way the street worked in Albany. How all personal scores involving guns and knives were settled. Blood was probably only a teenager when it all went down.

  “I quit now,” I said. “I won’t ever put Junior away.”

  “And that poor girl in Valley View might die.”

  I tossed him the keys to the 4Runner, and together we left, knowing we had our work cut out for us.

  43

  BLOOD PULLED UP TO the South Pearl Street precinct of the APD. He double parked in a no loading zone in front of a police station. I told him to wait for me right where he was. He smiled and nodded. I got out and went inside. The desk sergeant told me that Detective Miller was in but that I had to wait inside the waiting room for him. He came through the door to greet me less than a minute later.

  “You just got hit,” he said. “You should be in the hospital. That wound infects, you’ll lose your entire arm at the shoulder.”

  “Most flesh wounds are worse. How is Sarah?”

  “The same. No attempts on her life yet. .”

  Struck by his use of the word ‘yet,’ I handed him Junior’s computer.

  “Grab a search warrant of Robert David Jr.’s home,” I said. “And put this back where I found it in his upstairs office.”

  “You get a copy of the hard drive?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “You gonna share it with me?”

  “Soon as I look at it.”

  “How should I be so sure obtaining a warrant is the right move right now?”

  “Trust me,” I said. “Those pictures I sent your way should have been enough to convince a judge. How much longer you gotta wait, Nick? Until someone really gets killed?”

  He ran his thick right hand through his closely cropped white hair. I knew he felt almost powerless going up against mega-wealthy citizens like the Davids. He had no choice but to toe the line laid out for him by the very men and women who pulled the strings in Albany. Maybe I was mixing my metaphors here, but the point remained the same. Miller could do only so much.

  “Hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.

  “Lots of people tell me that,” I said.

  “Where you going now?”

  “Got a date with a certain employee of David Enterprises.”

  “Take care of that shoulder.”

  “Just get that warrant,” I said.

  But what I really wanted to say was this: “Stop stalling and go get that warrant.”

  I decided instead to bite my tongue. Better not to piss off the APD more than I had to.

  44

  BACK OUT IN THE 4Runner, I asked Blood if he was packing.

  He leaned forward from behind the steering wheel, brought his right hand around his back, and pulled out a Glock.

  “Nice piece,” I said.

  “Glock 9,” he said. “Preferred choice of weaponry amongst the rapper elite.”

  “Get ready to use it,” I said.

  “Where we heading?”

  “First we hit the drive-thru at the Rite Aid pharmacy for some Advil. Then we park outside David Enterprises. Wait to see if a certain goon with a fat face and a silly mustache appears.”

  “Then what?”

  “Albany street justice time.”

  “You plan on whacking him?”

  “No,” I said. “Worse than that.”

  “Me likey again,” he said. Then he pulled the 4Runner away from the station.

  45

  MAYBE’S MOVING AND STORAGE facility was located directly across the street from David Enterprises. It was a big operation with dozens of big trucks moving in and out of the parking lot. There were also all varieties of vehicles parked in the big flat lot which provided very good cover for the 4Runner, even with its fire-engine red paint job making it stick out like a Christmas tree bulb.

  Blood and I waited in silence for maybe thirty minutes until the goon appeared just as I knew he would. He walked right out the front door with all the arrogance or stupidity of an untouchable. Dressed in a dark suit, his barrel chest and gut filled the shirt and jacket out to the point of exploding. He looked one way and then the other and started making his way on foot in the direction of the downtown.

  “Big fat target’s been spotted,” I said.

  “Affirmative on that, Keep,” Blood said.

  Blood pulled out of the lot and slowly followed the goon. When we caught up with him, he turned to us, wide-eyed. I stuck my head out the window.

  “Remember me?” I said.

  Startled, he stopped in his tracks and stole a look at me over his left shoulder through dark aviator sunglasses. He started to run. But Blood pulled ahead, ran the 4Runner up on the sidewalk and blocked his path. He about-faced and tried to make a beeline back the way he came. That’s when Blood got out, and with his Glock in hand, chased him down. It wasn’t much of a chase for an athlete like Blood. More like a cheetah chasing down an overweight cow. Blood pressed the barrel of the pistol against the goon’s spine while gripping his jacket collar with the other. In that manner, Blood dragged the man who shot me back to the 4Runner.

  “Get in,” I said.

  Blood patted him down, found his revolver, and handed it to me. Then he shoved the goon into the backseat.

  “Sit still,” he said. “And put your seatbelt on.”

  “Fuck you, coon,” said the goon, his upper lip twitching under his half-moon mustache, his face red and puffy.

  Blood punched him square on the jaw, causing his bulbous head to snap back. When he raised it up again, his eyes grew glassy and his jaw hung open.

  “Speak nicely or don’t speak at all,” Blood said. “And no one uses ‘coon’ anymore, honky.”

  The goon fumbled for the seat belt and snapped it on.

  “Safety first,” I said.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” said Blood getting back behind the wheel.

  “Take us to the train bridge,” I said. “The goon and I have a few things to discuss. Don’t we, goon?”

  But I’m not sure he heard me with the bells still ringing in his honky head.

  46

  DURING THE FIRST HALF of the twentieth century, downtown Albany was veined with a complicated network of railroads and street cars. Many of the rail lines were connected directly to the dozens of factories that crowded the Hudson River banks. But when the factories and warehouses moved out, the empty rails were left behind. Some of the railways that crossed over Broadway were supported by heavy-metal trestle bridges which are simply too big and the prospect of demolishing them too expensive for a city constantly running in the red. In turn, they’ve become hiding grounds for vagrants, drug dealers, kids looking to do a little partying, and the site for an occasional murder. It was also the perfect spot for us to conduct a little face-time with a man who twice tried to kill me in as many days.

  We drove around the bridge’s stone piers and up onto road that led up to the abandoned railroad bridge itself. Behind us was a massive, empty, concrete warehouse that once upon a time was used
for cold storage. Beyond that was the highway and the Hudson River that paralleled it. Directly before us stood the steel trestle bridge which no longer supported trains, but instead a couple of burnt out cars, two or three plywood shanties, three or four fifty gallon drums that were used as fireplaces, bags of trash, and scattered liquor and wine bottles. Looking down at my feet, I could also make out some used needles and even a spent shell casing. This was no place to be caught alone and unawares after dark.

  Blood killed the engine and got out. He opened the back door and once again pulled the still groggy goon out by his collar, letting him drop hard into the brown gravel road. The goon squirmed and clawed at the gravel while down on his stomach. He looked like a fat fish that had fallen out of the fishbowl. I almost felt insulted that this was the man responsible for carrying out my assassination. You would think a couple of high rollers like the Davids would invest in a much more expensive and sophisticated goon whom they could reliably entrust with the delicate task of prematurely ending my life.

  Grabbing the tape recorder from the glove compartment, I popped in a fresh mini-cassette. Then I got out, painfully, and approached him. He turned over onto his back like a wounded cockroach and looked up at me, squinting his black eyes in the late afternoon sun.

  “What do you want from me?” he begged.

  I thumbed Record on the recorder, not bothering to conceal it.

  “You the one who shot me in the park?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his words heavy and a slightly slurred.

  “Yes, you do. You took a shot at me a few days ago and I let you go. You remember that one don’t you?”

  He nodded, slowly, as though he still couldn’t believe I actually let him go when I should have just killed him. Maybe I was all about second chances. Or maybe I was just plain stupid.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. “We both know that was me. But I missed.” He started giggling. “And you fucking let me go.”

  He sat up.

  Keeping the Record button depressed, I slipped the recorder into the chest pocket on my blazer, knowing it would still easily pick up our conversation. Then I pulled out my .45 with my good, left hand and aimed it at his head.

  “So, did the Davids order you to take a second shot at me?”

  “What didn’t you understand about the first time I told you to fuck off?” he said, trying to get up. “And you already know who I work for.”

  I thumbed the hammer back. If I shot him in the head at this distance, I’d have to wipe his brains from my boots.

  “I just want you to say it,” I demanded. “For the record.”

  “You’re not gonna shoot me,” he said. “You’re one of the good guys and you don’t have the balls, Marconi. If you did you would have shot me on that bridge, you dumb fucking whop.”

  I planted a bead on his left foot and squeezed the trigger. I blew his big toe clean off. He screamed while arterial blood sprayed and spattered. I would have to wipe some of it from my boots, after all.

  “Once again, insect,” I said. “Did you or did you not shoot me?”

  He nodded emphatically while sobbing real tears.

  “Okay, yes. Yes. Fucking yes.”

  “And did the Davids order it?”

  “Yes.” His tears were getting trapped in his mustache while drool hung down in thick strands off his bottom lip. Then he cried, “You blew my foot in half.”

  “You blew away half my trap. Now we’re even. Answer me again.”

  “Yes. Mr. David ordered it. I do jobs for him. He paid me personally. In cash.”

  “Which Mr. David?”

  “What the fuck do you mean which Mr. David?” He was screaming now.

  “Junior or Senior?”

  “There’s only one Mister David,” he said. “And that’s the old man.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Does he want you to kill Sarah Levy?”

  He looked up at me, and his tears suddenly stopped.

  “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  I cocked the hammer back again. He raised up his right hand in surrender.

  “Ok,” he screamed. “Don’t. Please.” Then. “There’s some talk about taking her out. But she ain’t easy to get to. If you know what I mean. Not in that hospital.”

  “You willing to talk to the cops about it?”

  “Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Look it . . . What’s your real name, insect?”

  “Rick,” he said. “Rick Rickio.”

  “Sounds like he in a boy band,” Blood chimed in.

  “Rick Rickio,” I said. “You’re bleeding all over this desolate place and all over my boots. My shoulder is bleeding all over the inside of my jacket, thanks to you. And I’m dizzy from pain killers. The way I see it, you got two choices: we can leave you here where you will die before the night is out, not to mention robbed and raped by whatever lives up here during the night. Or, we can take you to the hospital where your foot will be patched up and where you will speak to the police about what you know.”

  “Not much of a choice,” he said.

  “Only choice you got,” Blood said. “You wanna live.”

  “Blood,” I said, “let’s help the wounded Rick Rickio back into the 4Runner.”

  “Okay,” Blood said. “So long as he don’t bleed on me.”

  47

  I CALLED MILLER FROM the car while Blood drove us back to the Albany Medical Center.

  “They’re going to try and hit Sarah,” I said. “I have the proof. Got it on tape right from the insect’s mouth.”

  “And ta-da,” he sang. “We have our warrant, thanks to you. We’re on our way to Marion Avenue now.”

  I told him all about Rick Rickio. About what happened up on the bridge. While I eyed Rickio laid out in the backseat of the 4Runner, I told Miller that Rickio had been shot in self-defense. That my shooting him had nothing to do with revenge for his having shot my shoulder. My shooting him could not be avoided. While I told him this, I kept my fingers crossed.

  Now we were heading to the Albany Medical Center where the goon would receive some much needed emergency medical treatment and that, in exchange for being treated fairly, Rickio would be willing to tell Miller everything he knew about the Davids and what happened on the night of February 18th. He would also confess to having tried to kill me a couple of times and to a possible plot engineered by the Davids to kill Sarah in order to silence her for good.

  “Isn’t that right, Rick the insect?” I said.

  The goon nodded while grinding his teeth in pain.

  “What’s your next move?” Miller said.

  “I’m heading back to Valley View,” I said. “Sarah shouldn’t be alone for one more second. I think we need to find her some better rehabilitative accommodations away from the Davids’ reach, don’t you?”

  “Some place off the map,” he agreed. “Some place top secret. Until this shit storm you’re brewing up with your investigation blows over.”

  “You’re reading my mind, Detective.”

  It was then something struck me. An ice cold sensation that raced up and down my backbone. Like when you were a kid in high school and just handed a math exam for which you knew not a single answer. It was something about Miller’s tone. About his present easy-goingness and his willingness to be so damn nice to me. It didn’t sit too well with me.

  “You go do what you have to do,” the cop added in the same uncharacteristic namby pamby tone. “I’ll let you know what we dig up at Junior’s house.”

  I hung up, still feeling the cold in my back.

  A few minutes later, I made out the brightly illuminated entry sign to the Albany Medical Center. I could also make out the flashing lights of the two cop cruisers Miller had already sent over to greet us.

  48

  WITH THE GOON IN the hospital under police custody, Blood turned the 4Runner around and drove us through the park toward Route 90, westbound, which would take us to Schenectady a
nd Valley View Rehabilitation Center. In the meantime, I did something I should have done a long time ago. I pulled out my cell and dialed 411 caller information. When the operator came on the line, I asked for Michael Levy, crossing my fingers that the local novelist wasn’t so famous that he avoided being listed.

  Turns out luck was on our side. He was listed. The computerized operator gave me his number and even dialed it for me. While I waited for him to pick up, Blood turned onto the highway and gunned it. After a series of five or six rings, I knew that Michael Levy wasn’t picking up. Maybe he was out and about. Or maybe he was writing. The answering machine came on and I left him a detailed message telling him who I was and why I was calling and that he needed to call me back right away. I gave him my cell number and hung up.

  While we drove, I punched his name into the Google search engine on my smartphone. The first item listed was the author’s official website. I clicked on it. A face appeared. It was the pleasant if not ruggedly handsome face of a middle-aged man who sported a closely cropped salt and pepper beard. His hair was graying and cut very close to the scalp like lots of men keep it when the hairline begins to recede at a pace faster than the growth can keep up with it. Below the face was a picture of a bestselling novel called The Condemned. There were a couple of blurbs posted beside the novel. One from a bestselling author who called Levy’s prose “Hypnotic,” and another from the New York Post which called the opus, “Brilliant . . . Sensational . . . Masterful.”

  I wondered what it must have felt like for an author to have something as big and important as the New York Post call his work “Brilliant . . . Sensational . . . Masterful.” On the other hand, I wondered where an author went from there. Maybe everything he wrote from that point forward would have to be considered brilliant or it would be a disappointment in the eyes of the reading public.

  I was still wondering that very conundrum when my phone began to ring.