Fade Away (1996) (19 page)

'No, I don't mean that.'

'Well, they screwed. That I'm sure of. Despite what Thumper claims, not every guy on the team has gotten thumped. Some have turned her down.

Not many, I admit. But some. She hit on you yet?'

'just a few short hours ago.'

She smiled. I assume you joined the few, the proud, the Unthumped?'

'You assume correctly. But what about her relationship with Greg? Are they close?'

'They're pretty close, I'd say. But Thumper is closest to TC. Those two are very tight. It's not purely sexual either. Don't get me wrong. I'm sure TC and Maggie have had sex and probably still do on occasions. But they're like brother and sister too. It's weird.'

'How do TC and Greg get along?' Myron asked.

'Not bad for team superstars. Not great either.'

'Care to elaborate?'

She paused, gathered her thoughts. 'For five years now, TC and Downing have shared the spotlight. I guess there is a mutual respect for each other on the court, but they don't talk off it. At least, not very much. I'm not saying they dislike each other, but playing basketball is a job like any other. You might be able to stand one another at work, but you don't want to see the person socially.' She looked up. 'Take the Seventy-ninth Street exit.'

'You still live on Eighty-first?'

'Yes.'

Myron took the exit and stopped at a traffic light on Riverside Drive.

'Now it's your turn, Myron. Why did they hire you?'

'It's like you said. They want me to find Greg.'

'What have you learned so far?'

'Not much.'

'So why were you so concerned I'd jump the gun and tell the story early?'

Myron hesitated.

'I promised not to say anything,' she reminded him. 'You have my word.'

Fair is fair. He told her about the blood in Greg's basement. Her mouth dropped open. When he told her about finding Sally/Carla's body, he feared her heart might give out.

'My God,' Audrey said when he finished. 'You think Downing killed her.'

'I didn't say that.'

She fell back against the seat. Her head lolled against the headrest as though her neck could no longer support her. 'Christ, what a story.'

'And one you can't tell.'

'Don't remind me.' She sat back up again. 'Do you think it'll leak soon?'

'It might.'

'Why can't I be the recipient of that leak?'

Myron shook his head. 'Not yet. We got a lid on this so far. You can't be the one to blow it off.'

Her nod was grudging. 'Do you think Downing killed her and ran?'

'There is no evidence of that.' He pulled up to her building. 'One last question,' he said. 'Was Greg involved in anything unsavory?'

'Like what?'

'Like is there any reason thugs would be after him?'

Again her excitement was palpable. The woman was like an electric current. 'What do you mean? What thugs?'

'A couple of thugs were watching Greg's house.'

Her face was positively glowing. 'Thugs? You mean like professional gangsters?'

'Probably. I don't know for sure yet. Can you think of anything that would connect Greg to thugs, or for that matter the murder of this woman?

Drugs maybe?'

Audrey shook her head immediately. 'It can't be drugs.'

'What makes you so sure?'

'Downing is a health nut, a real Granola head.'

'So was River Phoenix.'

She shook her head again. 'Not drugs. I'm sure of it.'

'Look into it,' he said. 'See what you can come up with.'

'Sure,' she said. I'll look into everything we talked about.'

'Try to be discreet.'

'No problem,' she said. She got out of the car. 'Good night, Myron.

Thanks for trusting me.'

'Like I had a choice.'

Audrey smiled and closed the car door. He watched her walk into the building. He put the car back in drive and headed back to Seventy-ninth Street. He got back on the parkway and continued south toward Jessica's.

He was about to pick up his cellular phone and call her when the phone rang. The dashboard clock read 12:07 a.m. It had to be Jessica.

'Hello?'

It wasn't Jessica. 'Right lane, three cars behind you. You're being followed.'

It was Win.

'When did you get back?' Myron asked.

Win ignored the question. 'The automobile following you is the same one we spotted at Greg's house. It is registered to a storage facility in Atlantic City. No known mob connections, but that would seem to me to be a safe bet.'

'How long have you been following me?'

Again Win ignored him. 'The two men who jumped you the other night.

What did they look like?'

'Big,' Myron said. 'One was absolutely huge.'

'Crew cut?'

'Yes.'

'He's in the car following you. Passenger seat.'

Myron didn't bother asking how Win knew about the thugs jumping him. He had a pretty good idea.

'They've been communicating on the telephone quite a bit,' Win continued. 'I believe they're coordinating with someone else. The phone activity picked up after your stop in Eighty-first Street. Hold on a second.

I'll call you right back.' He hung up. Myron checked his rearview mirror.

The car was still there, right where Win said it was. A minute later the phone rang again.

'What?' Myron said.

I just spoke to Jessica again.'

'What do you mean, again?'

Win sighed impatiently. He hated explanations. 'If they are planning to jump you tonight, it is logical to assume it will be by her loft.'

'Right.'

'Ergo, I called her ten minutes ago. I told her to keep an eye out for anything unusual.'

'And?'

An unmarked white van parked across the street,' Win answered. 'No one got out.'

So it appears they are going to strike,' Myron said.

'Yes,' Win said. 'Should I preempt it?'

'How?'

'I could disable the car following you.'

'No,' Myron said. 'Let them make their move and see where it leads.'

'Pardon?'

'Just back me up. If they grab me, I may be able to get to the boss.'

Win made a noise.

'What?' Myron said.

'You complicate the simple,' Win said. 'Would it not be easier to simply take out the two in the car? We could then make them tell us about their boss.'

'It's that "make them" part I have trouble with.'

'But of course,' Win countered. 'A thousand pardons for my lack of ethics. Clearly it is far wiser to risk your own life than to make a worthless goon feel momentary discomfort.'

Win had a way of putting things that made very frightening sense. Myron had to remind himself that the logical was often more terrifying than the illogical - especially where Win was concerned. 'They're just hired help,'

Myron said. 'They're not going to know anything.'

Pause. 'Fair point,' Win conceded. 'But suppose they simply shoot you.'

'That wouldn't make any sense. The reason they're interested in me is because they think I know where Greg is.'

'And dead men tell no tales,' Win added.

'Exactly. They want to make me talk. So just follow me. If they take me some place well guarded--

'I'll get through,' Win said.

Myron did not doubt it. He gripped the steering wheel. His pulse began to race. Easy to dismiss the possibility of getting shot by reasonable analysis; it was another thing to have to park a car down the street from men you knew were out to hurt you. Win would have his eye on the van. So would Myron. If a gun came out before a person, the situation would be handled.

He got off the highway. The streets of Manhattan were supposed to be a nice, even grid. Streets ran north/south and east/west. They were numbered.

They were straight. But when you got to Greenwich Village and SoHo, it was like a grid painted by Dali. Gone were the numerical roads for the most part, except when they twisted and turned between streets with real-live names. Gone was any pretext of straight or systematized.

Luckily Spring Street was a direct run. A bicyclist sped by Myron, but no one else was out. The white van was parked right where it was supposed to be. Unmarked, just as Jessica had said. The windows were tinted so you couldn't look in. Myron didn't see Win's car, but then again he wasn't supposed to. He moved slowly down the street. He passed the van. When he did, the van started its motor. Myron pulled into a spot toward the end of the block. The van pulled out.

Show time.

Myron parked the car, straightened out the steering wheel, turned the engine off. He pocketed the keys. The van inched forward. He took out his revolver and stuck it under the car seat. It wouldn't do him any good right now. If they grabbed him, they would search him. If they started shooting, shooting back would be a waste of time. Win would either remove the threat or not.

He reached for the door handle. Fear nestled into his throat, but he did not stop. He pulled the handle, opened the door, and stepped out. It was dark. The streetlights in SoHo were nearly worthless, like pen beams in a black hole. Lights drifting out from nearby windows provided more of an eerie kindle than real illumination. There were plastic garbage bags out on the street. Most had been torn open; the odor of spoiled food wafted through the air. The van slowly cruised toward him. A man stepped out from a doorway and approached without hesitation. The man wore a black turtleneck under a black overcoat. He pointed a gun at Myron. The van stopped, and the side door slid open.

'Get in, asshole,' the man with the gun said.

Myron pointed at himself. 'You talking to me?'

'Now, asshole. Haul ass.'

Is that a turtleneck or a dickey?'

The man with the gun moved closer. I said, now.'

'It's nothing to get angry about,' Myron said, but he stepped toward the van. 'If it is a dickey, you can't tell. It's a very sporty look.' When Myron got nervous, his mouth went into overdrive. He knew it was self-destructive; Win had pointed that out to him on several occasions. But Myron couldn't stop himself. Diarrhea of the mouth or some such ailment.

'Move.'

Myron got in the van. The man with the gun did likewise. There were two more men in the back of the van and one man driving. Everyone was in black, except for one guy who looked to be in charge. He wore a blue pinstripe suit. His Windsor-knotted yellow tie was held in place by a gold tie bar at the collar. Euro-chic. He had long, bleached-blond hair and one of those tans that were a little too perfect to come from the sun. He looked more like an aging surfer boy than a professional mobster.

The van's interior had been custom designed, but not in a good way. All the seats had been ripped out except for the driver's. There was a leather couch in the back along one wall where Pinstripe sat alone. A lime-green shag carpet even Elvis would have found too garish ran along the van's floor and up the sides like a poor man's ivy.

The man in the pinstripe suit smiled; his hands were folded in his lap, very much at ease. The van started moving.

The gunman quickly searched Myron. 'Sit, asshole,' he said.

Myron sat on the carpeted floor. He ran his hand over the shag. 'Lime green,' he said to Pinstripe. 'Nice.'

'It's inexpensive,' Pinstripe said. 'That way we don't worry about bloodstains.'

'Thinking of overhead.' Myron nodded coolly, though his mouth felt very dry. 'That's smart business.'

Pinstripe did not bother with a response. He gave the man with the gun and dickey/turtleneck a look that made the man jolt upward. The man cleared his throat.

'This here is Mr Baron,' the gunman told Myron, indicating Pinstripe.

'Everyone calls him the B Man.' He cleared his throat again. He spoke like he'd been rehearsing this little speech, which, Myron surmised, was probably likely. 'He's called the B Man because he enjoys breaking bones.'

'Say, that must wow the women,' Myron said.

The B Man smiled with capped teeth as white as anything in those old Pepsodent commercials. 'Hold his leg out,' he said.

The man with the turtleneck/dickey pressed the gun against Myron's temple hard enough to leave a permanent imprint. He wrapped his other arm around Myron's neck, the inside of his elbow jammed into Myron's windpipe. He lowered his head and whispered, 'Don't even flinch, asshole.'

He forced Myron into a lying position. The other man straddled Myron's chest and pinned the leg to the floor. Myron had trouble breathing. Panic seized him, but he remained still. Any move at this stage would almost inevitably be the wrong one. He'd have to play it out and see where it went.

The B Man moved off the leather couch slowly. His eyes never left Myron's bad knee; his smile was a happy one. I'm going to place one hand on the distal femur and the other on your proximal tibia,' he explained in the same tone a surgeon might use with a student. 'My thumbs will then rest on the medial aspect of the patella. When my thumbs snap forward, I will basically rip off your kneecap laterally.' He met Myron's gaze. 'This will tear your medial retinaculum and several other ligaments. Tendons will snap. I fear it will be most painful.'