Condemned (15 page)

“How long you figure he's been inside?” said Castoro, looking at his watch. “It's the third one tonight.”

“Long enough to make an appearance and milk the guests. His regular workers usually put together a spread—hopefully promoted on the arm, from a local eatery. People from the area—Spanish, Jews, old people, bag ladies, pregnant teenagers—come to dance and free load, then he shows up to shake a few hands. This is probably the last one tonight. Why, you in a hurry?”

“I have to take a piss.”

“Go to that joint over there,” said Geraghty, pointing toward a small bar with a neon Budweiser sign askew in the front window.

“Are you kidding? That's a black joint. I'll stand out there like a nun in a whore house.”

“Sit away from me when you talk like that, if you don't mind,” said Geraghty. “I don't want to get hit with your lightning.”

Castoro laughed. “I'll find someplace peaceful and quiet.” He opened the door of the car. The interior light switch inside the undercover car had purposely been disabled so that agents on surveillance were able to slip in and out without calling attention to themselves or the car.

Geraghty sipped his coffee as he watched the front door of the Kingdom Hall. An occasional straggler would enter or leave. Some of the guests came out to the sidewalk to smoke or to cool off after dancing.

Castoro re-entered the car. “How do these politician bastards keep a straight face,” he said, leaning forward to take his coffee cup. “Damn, it's cold. They're always squeezing people to give them money so they can put their own pictures all over the place and get themselves a paying job. They ought to be paying the voters rather than the other way 'round.”

“They're like movie actors,” said Geraghty. “Doesn't bother an actor a bit to kiss a horse's
arse
on screen if that's what the script calls for. It's their job, and they do it. Same with politicians. They do whatever it takes to raise money for themselves. The only thing bothers any of them, actors, politicians, same shit, is when nobody pays attention to them. Funny thing, people don't seem to mind.”

“Reagan was both of them, actor and politician.”

“Reagan was a different story,” said Geraghty. “He was the best there was. Had the right ideas.”

Castoro nodded. He glanced past Geraghty. “Here he is,” he said as Senator Galiber came out of Kingdom Hall with an older man in a cap, and a young woman.

Geraghty turned. “Surprise, surprise. She's still with him.”

The older man began to walk off to the right, as Galiber and the young woman stayed on the sidewalk in front of Kingdom Hall, talking with the people cooling off in front. The woman next to Galiber was a light-skinned black woman, in her thirties, attractive, with long, straight hair.

“Who's the squeeze?” said Castoro.

“Don't know the last name yet. We've seen her before. First name's Jerrold.”

“Gerald, like the boys name, ‘Gerald'?”

“Sounds like ‘Gerald', but she spells it funny, with a ‘J', an ‘o' and two ‘r's. She goes around with him to a lot of these affairs, then takes off with him—when his old lady isn't around. We're putting together a folder on both of them.”

“Nice tits. You think the camera'll work in this light?”

“That piece of shit camera the Agency gave you? I doubt it works in any light. Be careful he doesn't see you.”

“I'm not going to use the flash.”

“I'm talking about light reflecting from the lens. We already have some pictures of them together at a daytime street rally last weekend.”

Just as Castoro took the first picture, a police car rolled up next to the TransAm blocking the Agents's view of Kingdom Hall. “Move it,” directed a young, Hispanic officer in the passenger seat of the police vehicle.

“Shit,” murmured Geraghty as he leaned out the TransAm window. “We're on the job,” he whispered toward the Hispanic officer.

At that very moment, three young men on the sidewalk, one of them balancing a rap blasting boom box on his shoulder, passed by the TransAm. Galiber and the woman glanced directly toward the police car and the TransAm.

“Move it!” the cop repeated as the young men with the boom box moved a bit out of earshot.

“Hey, hey,” Castoro said urgently, “the old guy they came out with just pulled Galiber's car in front of the place.”

Geraghty lowered his hand out the window, between the TransAm and the police car, displaying his credentials and badge. The cops eyes dropped to study the shield in Geraghty's hands. “D.E.A. Surveillance. We're on the job.”

“They're getting in, they're going to pull away,” Castoro said. Galiber's gleaming black Cadillac convertible, facing in the opposite direction, began to move away.

“Sorry,” the young Hispanic cop said softly.

“We gotta go, we gotta go. Pull up, pull back, do something,” Geraghty directed the cops. The police car rolled back. Geraghty drove the TransAm away from the curb and straight ahead for a block, then made a quick U-turn. “We won't even be able to find that big boat of his in the dark.”

“Oh yes we will,” said Castoro. “We'll spot his tail light.” Castoro picked up a small, battery powered drill from the floor near his feet.

“You drilled his tail light?”

Castoro nodded with a sly smile. “While I was out taking a piss.”

“Good work.…” Geraghty floored the throttle. The TransAm burned rubber, its tailpipes splaying out a loud, deep sound as they sped back past Kingdom Hall like kids in a drag race.

“You see anything?” said Geraghty, searching forward and to the left through the windshield.

“Not yet,” said Castoro, looking ahead and to the right into the cross street as they started through an intersection. “There he is, there he is. This way, to the right,” he said suddenly.

About two blocks to the right, a tail lamp beamed bright white brake light through the hole Castoro had drilled. Galiber's car was moving away from them, up a hill.

Geraghty tried to wheel the car right. There was a car waiting at the light on the right side of the cross street. He quickly twirled the TransAm steering wheel left, made a complete screeching circle in the middle of the intersection, and plunged into the cross street. Ahead, almost at the top of the hill, the car with the drilled tail light, smaller but clearly visible, made a right turn.

“He made a right,” said Castoro as Galiber's car disappeared.

“Worry not, m'lad. We've got ‘im by the balls. Good damn thing you drilled that hole.” Castoro smiled. Geraghty was now sitting back as far as he could in his seat, his arms extended to either side of the steering wheel, as the car raced to where Galiber made the turn. After the turn, they could see Galiber's car a distance ahead. As they closed the gap between them, Geraghty eased off the accelerator, wanting to stay far enough behind Galiber's car to remain unnoticed, yet close enough to keep it in sight. Galiber's car soon pulled into the driveway of a restaurant called Alex & Henry's. The restaurant sat by itself in the middle of a large parking area.

“We can't stop here in the middle of the street,” Geraghty said as he drove past the restaurant.

“Looks like he's parking,” said Castoro.

Geraghty drove out of sight, waited for a car going in their direction to pass, then U-turned and drove back toward the restaurant slowly.

“He parked in the lot,” said Castoro. “I see the car. I don't see him.”

Geraghty passed the restaurant, drove another quarter of a mile and U-turned again. He pulled to the curb diagonally across the street from the restaurant and turned off the lights.

“They go inside?” Geraghty asked, looking toward the restaurant.

“It's hard to see from here. There's a tree in the way.”

“We can't park any closer, or we'd be too obvious.”

“Pull into the parking lot instead of staying back here,” said Castoro.

“The parking lot of the restaurant?”

“Affirmative. Like we're going to have a couple of shooters. Which isn't such a bad idea.”

“You're right,” said Geraghty. “If he comes out and drives this way, we're like sitting ducks with our asses sticking out.” He turned the ignition key and drove into the restaurant parking lot, backing the car into a spot at the far end of the lot which had a view of the entrance. He turned the lights off.

“We just going to sit here?”

“What choice do we have?” asked Geraghty. “We'll wait for him to come out and drive to her pad for a quickie. Then we'll wait some more.”

“What if they're having dinner?”

“We'll have a longer wait,” said Geraghty. “You better make notes. The Boss'll want a minute-by-minute report. He wants something concrete on this guy.”

“What's this guy done that we're investigating?”

“He's introducing a bill in the Senate to legalize drugs.”

“Treacherous bastard,” said Castoro. “Doesn't he realize that if it passed, we'd all have to go out and find a real job?”

“Which is the reason the boss has us following this diabolical shitheel,” said Geraghty. “He's trying to change the rules of the game.”

“This is a bullshit waste of time, for Christ's sake. Legalizing drugs! Hasn't a fucking prayer becoming law.”

“Will you stop blaspheming like that with me sitting right here next to you.”

“Politicians don't have the balls to pass a bill like that, anyway. And if they did, their constituents would shit. The Boss may be Robo Cop, but he can also be an asshole sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?”

The two Agents sat slumped in their seats for a while, listening to the end of a Yankee game on the radio.

“Seattle is beating the shit out of them.”

“It's a long season.”

“Y'ever notice how boring a game is when your team is getting the shit beat out of it?”

“Yeah. Hey,” said Geraghty, sitting up. “The twist is coming out by herself.”

From the entranceway, the young woman who had been with Galiber came out of the restaurant and stood on the sidewalk. Momentarily, Galiber joined her. They stood together, talking.

“They're figuring where they should go to play hide the weenie,” said Castoro.

“He's real careful,” said Geraghty. “We know he's doing it, but we haven't been able to catch him dirty yet.”

“Maybe tonight's the night.”

“Maybe.”

A car drove into the parking lot and stopped near Galiber and the woman. The driver of the newly arrived vehicle, an older black woman, opened the driver's side window and began talking to the two people. Galiber stepped off the sidewalk, bent down and gave the older woman a kiss on the cheek. The younger woman walked around the car, opened the passenger side door, and entered the vehicle.

“What's this, her Mommy's picking her up?” said Castoro.

“Looks that way.”

Another few words, and Galiber stood back, gave a short wave and watched the vehicle with the two women drive off. He walked toward his car.

“Do we follow her, him, or go the fuck home?” said Castoro.

“What the hell do we care where she goes with her Mother? We're interested in him.”

“This is really bullshit.”

Galiber entered his car, started the engine and drove out of the parking lot.

Geraghty started the engine. “You think he made us?”

“Don't think so.”

“He lives in the Bronx, by the courthouse. Might as well follow him. It's on our way anyway.” Geraghty drove slowly out of the parking lot, hanging back as the black Cadillac with the pierced tail lamp drove south.

“Look at the son of a bitch. He's driving, like, twenty miles an hour,” said Geraghty.

“He made us, that fuck. He made us! And now he's fucking toying with us.”

“We're like sore thumbs out here going slow right along with him,” said Geraghty

“He probably called the old lady to come pick up the bitch. Maybe we should break off.”

“We'll stay back here—maybe a little further back. This wise-ass son of a bitch must be having a fine time giving us the finger.”

Galiber picked up speed on the Hutchinson River Parkway, to a stately forty miles an hours, driving directly to a building at Concourse Village, where he drove into the garage beneath the building

As the Senator backed the car into his assigned parking space, he noticed that one of his tail lights shone more brightly, whitely, against the wall into which he was backing. He shifted the car into park. Brightness still reflected from one side of the car. He stepped out of his car and walked to the rear.

“Son of a bitch,” he said softly to himself, studying his desecrated tail lamp. He walked around the car to the other side, inspecting the other taillight. He glanced up and studied the silent garage, his eyes searching into the parked cars, the shadows. He re-entered his car, still muttering, parked and locked the car.

There was a public phone on the wall near the elevators that fed up into the building. He fished a quarter out of his pocket and dropped it into the slot.

“You okay?” he said into the phone. He listened, nodded. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.” He hung up, then fed another quarter into the phone.

“Sandro?” he said.

“Where are you? You're supposed to get here for coffee and desert. Your wife's here.”

“I'm calling you from the pay phone in my garage. I was on my way there, but pulled in at the house because two guys in a red car were just following me.”

“You sure you're not just getting paranoid in your old age?”

“Very sure. The sons of bitches drilled a hole in one of my tail lamps.”

“I guess paranoia can't drill a hole in your tail lamp. Have you been doing anything naughty with anyone's wife?”