David Duffy - In for a Ruble

Pause. “He’s at school.”

“Gibbet School, Gibbet, Massachusetts.”

“HOW THE HELL DO YOU KNOW THAT?”

The voice was loud enough that even Victoria heard it. Her eyebrow went up again.

“Big Dick. Point is, if I know, they know.”

“You’re not saying… This has nothing to do with him.”

“Tell that to Nosferatu.”

“You haven’t told me what this is all about.”

“Only because I don’t know yet. But I do know—from personal experience—these people don’t hesitate to use violence. The photo?”

“Jesus. All right. But I don’t understand.”

“You’re up against some bad people. I’m doing the best I can to make sure they don’t hurt anyone any more than they already have. E-mail the picture. Soon as you can.”

“Tell me this. No business deal is worth my family. Should I back out of the bid?”

“Can’t answer that. Like I said, I still don’t know what this is all about.”

I broke the connection.

Victoria said, “You’re a bastard.”

“I’m on his side.”

“You used fear to get what you want. You have no reason to believe this boy…”

“It’s for his own good.”

“You’re still a bastard.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

I dialed another number.

Gina answered on the first ring. “Turbo! It’s been months. I’ve been worried. How are you?”

“You mean you were worried about your source of business drying up.”

“You can be a real bastard, you know that?”

“A growing consensus around that point of view. You want work?”

“Sure.”

I asked how soon she could get up to Beacon.

“It’s my last semester, Turbo. I’m on cruise control, just waiting to hear from law schools. And I can use the money.”

“I’ll send you a picture of a kid. His name is Andras Leitz. He took a train there last night, then went across the river to Newburgh. Probably arrived around nine. Work the cabs at the station, see if you can find one that took him.”

“Got it.”

“If anyone or anything feels remotely weird, catch the next train out of town.”

“You’re the boss.”

I doubted Nosferatu was in Newburgh, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I put down the phone.

“I thought you worked alone,” Victoria said.

“I use college students sometimes for jobs like this. Used to use actors, but they’re not always reliable. Gina’s a senior at NYU, applying to law schools. I’m hoping she gets into one here. She’s the best.”

“Do I infer correctly that she called you a bastard?”

“Not the first time.”

“I think I’d like to meet her.”

Gina called late that night.

Victoria and I had spent the day on neutral ground—the Museum of Modern Art. We agreed to disagree on the relative merits of Impressionism versus Expressionism. I dragged her in front of Otto Dix, George Grosz, and Max Beckmann, she retreated to Monet and Renoir. We found some common ground in Picasso and Hopper, but lost it again when we got to Kelly and Diebenkorn.

It didn’t matter, we held hands and were happy in each other’s company. I cooked a chicken in a pot full of garlic for dinner, and she bought another good bottle of wine, a Hermitage from France’s Rhône Valley. She said tonight was her turn on the stereo, so we were listening to a medley of Tammy Wynette and George Jones. I was trying to convince her that the fact that Charlie Parker liked country music was a good reason to listen to Charlie Parker—a losing argument, even I realized that going in—when the phone rang.

Gina’s voice was full of accusation.

“Turbo, you ever been to Newburgh?”

“Once, I think.”

“Then you know what a shit hole it is.”

She’s never reticent about expressing her opinions.

“You called to give me your impressions?”

“Just noting there oughta be a premium for a burg like this, especially on weekends.”

“You said you wanted work.”

“What the hell are you listening to? Have you gone redneck?”

“George Jones. I’m told he’s more American than John Wayne.”

“Whatever. It took the whole day, but I found the cabdriver, and I found the motel where he took the kid. He remembered him because the motel is a total sleaze joint, and he didn’t think it was a place a kid like that would go. But now I’ve missed the last train and I’m stuck in this urban landfill overnight.”

“I thought it was a shit hole.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“Where are you now?”

“Outside the motel—Black Horse Motor Inn. I tried to talk to the manager. He said he hadn’t seen the kid. Then he said if he had seen the kid—and he wasn’t saying that he had—the kid was long gone. Then he told me to get lost.”

“You try money?”

“Turbo, do you hire me because I’m a moron? I offered him a hundred bucks and tried to flirt with him, but I got bubkes. In fact, he kinda threatened me.”

Gina has plenty of attributes. She’s smart, pretty, engaging—and can flirt with the best of them. If all that, plus a C-note, got her thrown out, then the Black Horse had something to hide. Another kind of approach was in order.

“Get out of there. Find a decent hotel, I’m buying.”

“Good luck in this dump.”

She told me how to locate the Black Horse, and I assured her the check was in the mail. She muttered something about combat pay and hung up. Of the half-dozen kids who work for me, Gina really is the best. But you do have to listen to a lot of blowback.

The next morning at 7:05, I was doing sixty up the FDR in the Potemkin—alone. I wasn’t happy about it—neither was Victoria—but since I didn’t know what I’d encounter at the Black Horse, I told her I was better off traveling solo. She said that meant I was looking for trouble. Another argument I wasn’t going to win.

The Black Horse was just as Gina billed—a seedy two stories tucked into a row of low-rent strip malls and fast-food joints on the edge of town. Newburgh’s had a tough time in recent years, tough enough that a few years ago the mayor offered to host a high-profile terror trial because he thought it might be good for business. Ten cars were parked in front of the Black Horse’s two dozen units. Just eight thirty, I sat in the lot, at the far end from the office, and watched. A door to one room opened and a red-faced man looked out, then left and right, before a heavy-set woman walked quickly to her car, head down, and drove off. That scene was repeated a few minutes later, a few doors down, except this time, a fifty-ish man in a suit with no tie held the door for a twenty-ish man in jeans, who made an equally speedy exit. The woman who left the third room, without bothering to check who might be watching, wore a short skirt and sheer blouse beneath her open coat. She looked ten years older than she probably was and had all but certainly spent the previous night working.

Victoria introduced me to a Louisiana songwriter, Mary Gauthier, who has a song about the Camelot Motel and the grace-fallen people who stay there. I had the feeling I was parked in front of the inspiration.

I got out of the car and shivered in the wind. Dust and trash flew around the parking lot, more potholes than pavement. I started toward the office, but something on the ground caught my eye. I knelt for a closer look. A used syringe, its plastic chamber ground into the asphalt, the needle still intact. I strolled the lot and found six more, by which time I was cold and went back to the car. Detroit gets justifiably criticized for its automobiles, but I’ve never heard a bad word against its heaters. I warmed up while I thought about what I’d found.