The Concrete Pearl (8 page)

To my right was a vending machine that must have come with the place back when Dott purchased it from the gas company. Judging by the sun-baked wrappers, the candy bars it stocked had come with the machine too.

Directly ahead of me was an old metal desk like the kind my dad used to keep in the basement back before I was born when he ran Harrison Construction from out of our west Albany home. There was a man sitting behind the desk in a swivel chair. His jet black dye job was slicked back like an Elvis duck-tail. He was dressed in grease-pit overalls that looked as if they hadn’t been washed since “Jailhouse Rock” topped the charts. Elvis was sitting way back in the chair, eyes glued not to a desktop buried in paperwork, but to an old black-and-white TV set on a metal stand. On the screen the Yankees were playing the Boston Red Sox. Far as I could tell there was no score.

Having heard me come in, Dott took his time turning to me.

“Help you?”

“Please don’t get up.”

He smiled, sense of humor beaming through nicotine-painted teeth.

“I’ve come to collect my boyfriend’s car,” I said.

“You have I.D.?”

On the television Johnny Damon was up at bat against his old team. I was still having trouble getting used to his being a Yankee. The first pitch was too high, too inside. Damon had to pull his head back at the last millisecond or risk losing it completely.

Dott let out a groan.

“Sox are out to kill that boy for desertion.”

“Don’t you think he’s adorable?” I said.

He stood up. All six feet six of him. He squinted down at me, eyes locked on the narrow exposed space between my size Bs. On the television the game switched over to a promo for the upcoming Channel 13 news at noon. Field reporter Chris Collins stood in front of a PS 20 project trailer wrapped in red tape. “A local school under rehabilitative construction is evacuated after it’s discovered that deadly asbestos fibers have been contaminating the air for more than nine months,” she said into a handheld mike. “Just who’s to blame for the contamination? Tune in at noon to find out.”

I cleared my tight throat.

Dott said, “I brought in a black four-door BMW from Greenfield last Saturday night.” Pulling a ticket from the stack on the counter. “Registered to a Mr. James Atkins Farrell of A-1 Environmental Solutions.” Eyes back on me. “You here to pick up James Atkins Farrell’s Beemer?”

“Yes that’s the one.”

He said, “I called the number for that Environmental Solutions joint, but all I got was a Ma Bell voice recording.”

“Must be my friend purchases his vehicles through his company,” I said.

It also explained why Tina would not have fielded a call about her husband’s towed Beemer.

“You got I.D.?”

I took out my wallet, showed him my driver’s license.

He pulled a pair of reading glasses from the pocket on his overalls, slid them on. He studied the license. For a beat I thought he might recognize me from the local news reports. That is if my name had been mentioned, my image broadcast. He pulled the glasses back off, cleared the frog in his throat.

“You got something that tells me you’re James Atkins Farrell’s significant other?”

“No.”

“Can’t let you have the car.”

He studied me like he had studied the license. I’d been living in a man’s world for a long time now. I knew all about pigheadedness. I knew Dott wasn’t about to change his mind.

“Can you tell me where the car is at least?”

“Why d’you wanna know that?”

“James is very particular about his cars and their condition…Maybe it would be okay if I just took a little walk to check it out; make sure it wasn’t damaged during transport….I won’t be needing the keys for that.”

He came around the desk.

“State Troopers issued the call for the tow. I’m not entirely sure they’d want you snooping around without the proper authorization.”

The room went silent, other than for the baseball game.

“Let me see your pockets,” Dott said.

“Pardon me?”

“Let me see your pockets, make sure you aren’t carrying a second set of keys.”

I pulled out the pockets on my pants and jacket. Aside from a small stack of Harrison business cards, they were empty.

“Now let me have your wallet.”

“Say what?” I said, eyes wide.

“Let me have your wallet…please. I’ll keep it right here out in plain sight on the counter.”

Why Dott felt the need to give me such a hard time I had no idea. Maybe he suspected something fishy going on. Maybe he was having fun with me. I decided to play along anyway. I pulled the wallet from my back pocket, set it on the counter.

He looked at the thin leather wallet.

“Pretty little thing,” he said.

“I’m all woman,” I said.

“I know,” he winked.

“Location of Farrell’s car.”

“Over around the back side of the garage, about a hundred feet yonder…Brand spankin’ new black Beemer. But you probably already know that seein’ as you’re James Atkins Farrell’s personal squeeze.”

I walked out, the door slamming closed behind me.

I didn’t go directly to Farrell’s ride. I had to find a way to get at the keys and get inside it. The lot was buried in all sizes and makes of automobile, some of them pricey new models towed for one reason or another. Cadillac, BMW, Mercedes Benz, Lexus. There was a snow white Hummer parked a couple of cars ahead of where I parked the Jeep. One of those sporty, half-sized Hummers that’s supposed to be more fuel efficient then the big tank-sized job Arnold Schwarzenegger used to drive around L.A.

I got in the Jeep, backed out through the fenced in perimeter of Dott’s Garage, parked it on the street. Reaching under the driver’s seat, I pulled out my equalizer. I gripped the hammer tightly, rubber against palm. Then I made my way on foot back in through the open gate.

I took a glance inside the office to make sure Dott was back to sitting at his desk, his back to the door, Yankees/Redsox baseball game monopolizing his undivided attention.

I then made my way over to the snow white Hummer and stood beside it. Raising up the equalizer, I swung it hard into the right rear tail light, shattering it.

The Hummer’s alarm system exploded to life.

I about-faced, ran like hell for the open gate and for the Jeep where I tossed the hammer onto the driver’s seat. That’s when I sprinted back through the gate for the far side wall of Dott’s offices. When the big man came barreling out the front door towards the Hummer, I snuck my way back inside his now empty offices. Studying the tack-board to my immediate left I located Farrell’s keys. They hung by a nail in the center of the board amidst a couple dozen other sets of keys. I yanked the keys off the board, then grabbed my wallet off the desk, shoved it in my back pocket.

I kept an eye out for Dott. Found him reaching inside the driver’s side door of the S.U.V., searching desperately for a way to kill the alarm. He was cursing like an overworked truck driver wired out on
No Doz.

That was also my cue to exit the office and make an all out sprint for Farrell’s Beemer.

Chapter 14

I aimed the electronic key-lock device at the black BMW.

It sprung to life.

I opened the driver’s side door first, took a quick look around. I wasn’t looking for anything specific. I was searching for anything that might help tell me where Farrell had fled too—a receipt, a ticket stub, anything. But in typical Farrell fashion, the vehicle interior was clean. Not like it was driven off the lot yesterday, but close to it. It even still had that new car smell.

But when I looked down at the pedals, I could see that the rubber matt had some gravel and dirt on it. The same gravel and dirt from the public fishing access parking lot? I could only assume that it was. I looked at the gas gauge. The tank was full.

While the Hummer alarm kept on blaring, I closed the driver’s side door, made my way around to the trunk, sprung it open with the key-lock. For a split second I expected to see Farrell’s lanky body stuffed inside it, a small hole in his forehead where a single .9mm cap had penetrated it. But the trunk was empty. Just a spare tire and the tools required to change a flat. Clean as an unused mason’s trowel.

But then, not exactly.

I was about to close the trunk when I spotted something set in the far end of the trunk. It was a shovel. Set beside the shovel were two five-gallon taping compound buckets. I reached in, felt the buckets. They were filled with liquid and heavy. I could only assume that what I was looking at were cleaning materials for asbestos removal.

I grabbed hold of a bucket handle, pulled it closer to me, felt the liquid sloshing around inside the plastic container. Using my fingers like pliers, I pried the lid open. The smell was enough to knock me over. The liquid was brown and floating inside it were little clam-like organisms. I couldn’t imagine what they were or how they helped clean up asbestos. All I knew was that the brown liquid smelled a whole lot like something it very much resembled.

I placed the lid back on the bucket, closed the trunk, went around to the passenger side and opened the door.

I leaned in further, took a good look into the back seat. Backing out of the open door, I stood up straight, resting my forearms atop the BMW roof. I gazed out upon the fenced-in automotive ghost-yard. The Hummer alarm had finally stopped.

I thought about the empty shell casing that now resided inside my briefcase along with an empty Skoll chewing tobacco container. I pictured the used condom and cigarette butts that littered the bank of the Desolation Kill. Then I thought about the bigger picture, about the OSHA investigative team arriving at PS 20. In my head I saw the school being evacuated. I saw the APD cruiser pull up, a cop get out. I saw the faxes that indicated asbestos contaminated air. I pictured having handed over an additional ten G’s to Farrell just last week. A sign of good faith gone bad.

Maybe it all added up to Farrell’s disappearance.

Maybe it didn’t.

Maybe I was making the mistake of my life trying to play private detective instead of playing the role of responsible general contractor.

One thing was for sure: I knew in my bones that he had met someone at Lake Desolation on Saturday morning; someone he could not possibly meet up with in public; someone he had to meet all the way out in
Nowheresville
, where no one would see them together. Maybe the no one in question was why Tina didn’t seem all that quick to recover her husband’s car, or her husband for that matter (She hadn’t called the police after all).

No doubt about it, Farrell was meeting someone on the sly.

Question was, had he survived the meeting?

I decided to lean my head back inside the car, take one last look around. For what it was worth.

I opened the center console storage compartment. Like the trunk and the back seat, it was pretty much empty. I did however, find a couple of C.D.s.
Jimmy Buffett’s Greatest Hit(s)
and an audio-book C.D. of
The Secret.
Farrell always did have his finger on the global cultural pulse.

For the sheer hell of it, I pulled out both disks, opened the plastic cases. I knew that’s what they would do on
CSI Miami
. Look inside the cases for some hidden photograph, or ticket-to-some-foreign-destination or a suicide note. But the only thing I found inside were C.D.s and their respective liner notes. Slapping them back into their storage compartment, I shut the lid.

Then I opened the glove box.

At first glance it too appeared to be empty. I rummaged around a bit with my left hand. There was the leather-bound BMW owner’s manual. Pulling it out, I set it onto the empty passenger seat, opened it. In the little document storage fold, I found an insurance card, a New York State Driver’s Registration card made out in Farrell’s name and A-1 Environmental Solutions, and of course, the full-color owner’s manual.

I knew that with the Hummer alarm stopped, it was only a matter of time before Dott put two and two together.

“Come on Jimmy,” I whispered, “give me something else to go on.”

That
something
appeared for me in the form of a business card.

I snatched it up, read it.

The Thatcher Street Pub.

Home of Free Pizza Thursdays.

I turned the card over.

It had a phone number written on it in blue ballpoint along with a red lipstick impression of kissy lips. The name “Natalie” had been written in the middle of the lips in the same blue ballpoint, just above the phone number. I recalled my conversation with Marino’s receptionist, Bobbie, a little while before. She told me that Farrell and Marino had argued over someone named Natalie.

I brought the card up to my face, smelled it.

There was the waxy, sweet smell of the lipstick along with a hint of perfume. Maybe Channel No. 5 or some cheaper imitation. Maybe I was a woman living in a man’s world. But I was still a woman. And I knew that the red lipstick impression, the perfume, the phone number…they were meant for Farrell so that he would not forget Natalie.

Now, neither would I.

Natalie, whoever the hell she was, could very well be the reason behind Tina’s tears (“
Does James have another woman in his life?
”). Natalie might have been the one to meet up with Farrell on Saturday. She might know precisely where Jimmy fled too and why. Natalie, unlike Tina, might know precisely where my asbestos removal subcontractor was hiding and for what reason. Finally, I had in my possession, a real clue.

Things were looking up for the hard-headed girl.

I buried the card inside the interior pocket of my leather jacket.

I was about to back myself out of the Beemer when a hand touched me.

Chapter 15

“Please back away from the vehicle,” the man said.

I pictured the business card hidden inside my jacket pocket, the name Natalie scrawled over a lipstick red kiss imprint. I reversed myself out of the car, stood up.