I wondered what presumably illegal but probably incredibly boring business venture I would be treated to. More than likely I would wind up staked out in front of some storefront, trying to avoid the notice of Tony’s driver, assuming he didn’t get to go inside.
After a couple of miles we got off the highway and drove past a couple of refineries from which I could not discern a particular product, but could discern a particular smell. We followed smaller roads through what must have been incredibly undesirable real estate, boasting no factories, businesses, or private homes of any kind. I kept way back, and was a couple of hundred yards behind, when Tony’s car turned off onto a side road.
I drove up on the turn carefully, fully prepared to go right on by in case the road was a dead end or in case Tony had pulled off and parked. But Tony’s car was nowhere in sight. A dirt road led off into what appeared to be a desolate wasteland and disappeared around a bend behind an outcropping of rock.
What the hell?
I did not want to follow Tony Gallo down that road. But I sure wanted to know where he was going. Was this where he conducted business? Did he have some underground bunker?
I turned onto the dirt road, drove up to the bend, and stopped dead.
Tony Gallo’s car was parked in what appeared to be an abandoned rock quarry.
Not good. If I could see him, he could see me.
I threw the car into reverse, backed up as quickly as I could out of sight around the bend.
Should I turn around? I couldn’t. I had to know what he was doing.
Which was probably nothing. He probably just stopped to take a piss. It wouldn’t have been my first choice for a pit stop, but then a guy with a Gatorade bottle shouldn’t cast stones.
So what are you going to do? The guy probably saw you, and any second he’s going to come roaring out with guns a-blazing. There you’ll be, stopped like a schmuck. Back up, turn around, get the hell out of there.
I got out of my car, scrambled up a mound of dirt to the outcropping of rock. Crawled to the edge, peered out.
They hadn’t seen me. They had gotten out of the car, and were walking away toward the far end of the quarry. They were walking single file, with the driver ahead, and Tony walking slowly, purposely behind.
Good Lord. Was Tony going to whack his driver? That seemed a little harsh. Maybe he wasn’t as good as Vinnie Carbone, but the guy had only been on the job a few days. Surely he deserved a second chance.
While I watched, they went around a bend I couldn’t even tell was there, and disappeared from sight.
Moments later they were out again, heading for the car.
So what were they doing? What the hell was back there? Why the hell—
Heading for the car!
I crab-crawled back from the edge, pounded down the hill, leaped into my car, gunned the motor. Backed up, turned around, and drove off as quickly as I could without sounding like a pack of Hell’s Angels.
At the paved road I turned right, figuring Tony would go back the way he came. I rocketed down the road, hung a U-turn, pulled off to the side out of sight.
Moments later Tony’s car appeared. Sure enough, it took a left turn back the way he came. I gave him a head start, tailed along behind.
We went right back the way we’d come all the way to the Jersey Pike. We didn’t get on it though, we went right on by. We appeared to be heading for the Lincoln Tunnel.
We were.
We went through the tunnel—no problem for me, I got E-ZPass. Richard gripes that he doesn’t get individual receipts anymore, just a summary at the end of the month, but he doesn’t sit in the long lines at the toll booths. Neither do I. I whiz through with E-ZPass, a convenience when calling on a client, a must when tailing a car.
We came out of the tunnel in midtown Manhattan, wove our way through the garment district, loading docks and delivery trucks on the side streets, office buildings on the avenues.
Tony’s driver stopped in front of an office building on Seventh Avenue. Tony got out of the car and went in. I did not follow. Tony had a driver to wait in the car. I did not. Street signs were screaming, NO PARKING, NO STOPPING, NO STANDING. Tony’s driver was stopping and standing. I guess he figured that didn’t apply to him.
He figured right. When a cop banged on his window, the driver rolled it down, flashed some ID at him, and the cop went away, looking miffed at not being able to hassle someone.
He made up for it by hassling me. He tapped on my window, made me move. I had no magic ID to flash. I drove around the block, hoped like hell the car would be there when I got back.
It was, but so was the cop. He gave me the evil eye. It occurred to me Tony’s driver wouldn’t have an official ID. He was being accorded Driver-of-the-Mobster status. I wondered if I should make an issue of it.
I drove around the block again. Wondered if this happened to other PIs.
Yeah, I lost the guy I was tailing. Cop made me move my car
.
Third time’s the charm. The car was there, the cop was gone. I pulled up to the curb just as Tony Gallo came out of the building with a young business type. Bit of a flashy dresser. It seemed to me there was something a little sharp and sleazy about him, but it could have just been because he was with Tony Gallo. Anyway, the guy had a shit-eating grin on his face, and he was talking to Tony in an ingratiating, toadying manner. Which, I got the feeling, was the way most people talked to Tony Gallo.
Tony opened the back door and the man got in. Tony got in beside him, and the car took off. That was a stroke of luck. The cop had just come around the corner.
I pulled out, took off after them. We looped around a few blocks, went into the Lincoln Tunnel.
I wondered if we were heading for Ft. Lee. That would be nice. Tony Gallo obviously did business in Ft. Lee, and aside from whacking people in motel rooms, I had no idea what it was. Just like everything else in this damn case. Come on, Tony. Throw me a crumb.
Only Tony didn’t. On the other side of the Lincoln Tunnel he got off the highway. We were going in the opposite direction, so it took me a moment to realize it was the same exit as before. But passing the same used car lot removed any doubt.
I felt a hole in the pit of my stomach, like I’d swallowed an ice cube, and it was burning my insides. I know that sounds confused as hell, but at that moment, that’s what I was. Because I suddenly realized this guy was being taken for a ride!
That had to be it. Tony, ever cautious, scouted out the place, then picked up the guy for the hit. That’s why the guy was grinning like a zany and talking a blue streak. He was whistling in the dark. Trying to kid Tony out of it.
What the guy had done, I had no idea. But I had a pretty good idea where he was going.
My hands were clammy. It was hard to drive. What could I do? These guys were about to whack a guy. Right in front of me. I knew they were. And it was up to me to stop them. How could I do that? What was I supposed to do? Appeal to their better nature? Woodsman, spare that tree? Excuse me, sir, but have you considered the moral consequences of taking a person’s life? Drive circles around them honking my horn till they realize it would be inconvenient to commit a murder with a lunatic around?
No. Alone and unarmed, there was only one way I could save this guy.
I whipped out my cell phone, dialed 911.
I was breaking my no-driving-while-dialing pledge, but 911 was only three numbers, and I didn’t have to look. I punched them in, put the phone to my ear.
It rang three times.
Three times?
911 doesn’t just pick up?
A woman said, “911, what’s your emergency?”
“A man’s about to be killed. An abandoned quarry in New Jersey.”
“Slow down, sir. What was that again?”
“Two mobsters in a car, heading west, picked up a man in Manhattan and they’re taking him for a ride.”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“We just came through the Lincoln Tunnel. The quarry’s about five minutes ahead. Get the cops started. I don’t know what road we’re on, I’ll give you the coordinates as soon as I can.”
“Who am I speaking to?”
“That’s not important right now. A man’s about to be killed.”
“You’re phoning an anonymous tip?”
I sure as hell was. The repercussions of the name Stanley Hastings appearing in the police roster would dork me geometrically.
“Come on, lady. Is this 911 or Facebook? Stop gabbing and send the cops.”
It was a good retort, would have been better if I hadn’t got cut off by a tractor-trailer and had to slam on the brakes and swerve to the left.
My cell phone fell from my hands, slipped down into the crack between the gearshift and the seat.
I couldn’t tell if it was open or shut, whether it had disconnected 911, or still had them on the line. If so, they could hear me even though I couldn’t hear them.
I rocketed by the eighteen-wheeler and spotted Tony’s car up ahead. Thank God. I knew where they were going, I just wasn’t sure where the turn was.
“They’re still in sight,” I said, for the benefit of the presumed, but by no means certain, 911 operator.
“Looks like he’s slowing down. Think he’s going to make a turn. Yes, he is!” I caught a street sign, shouted directions for the phone. “It’s a couple of miles to the rock quarry, and I got no way to stop these guys, so you better hurry.”
We whizzed by the stinking refineries, out through the flats, and took the turn into the quarry. I was still a coward’s distance behind. Which wouldn’t do. The cops weren’t there. It was up to me to save the day.
How?
I slammed my car to a stop where I had before, bolted up the mound of dirt, just in time to see Tony and the driver walk the guy around the bend in the quarry out of sight. The guy walked ahead of them. Even from a distance he looked mighty damn reluctant.
There was nothing I could do. I was a witness, and that was it. I was drowning in self-loathing, inadequacy, and guilt. I watched, frozen, waited for the sound of the shot.
None came.
A silencer?
Tony and the driver came back out.
Trailing along behind was the guy. Alive. Just as Tony had done with his driver, they had gone in, looked, come out.
And were heading for their car.
Jesus Christ!
I had to get in mine!
I scrambled down the hill. Even as I reached my car, I heard the sound of theirs starting up. I’d taken too long. It was impossible to get out of the way before they appeared. They were going to find me, and kill me.
What the hell could I do?
I backed up, plowed the car into the bushes beside the road. Prayed there was no embankment, that there was solid ground underneath.
There was. I didn’t go plunging into a river or smack into a tree. I went fully into the bushes until the first few snapped back into place, hiding the car. I killed the motor, hoped I’d been in time.
I had.
Tony’s car rocketed by.
I waited a few moments, then pulled out of the brush.
Tony had a head start. It was going to be tough to catch him. I figured they were taking the guy back to New York.
But that was the least of my worries. If the 911 operator believed me at all, every cop in eastern New Jersey was about to descend on this quarry to prevent a murder. They would not be happy if I was the only one there. I had to leave, and fast.
The only thing was, I had to know: What was so all-fired important they had dragged this guy from Manhattan out here to see?
Cops or no cops, I had to risk it.
I started my car, pulled out, drove into the quarry. I stopped the car, got out, hurried around the bend.
I stopped short.
Looked at what the guy from Manhattan had seen.
It was a freshly dug grave.
56
M
Y CELL PHONE RANG ON
the way back to New York. I fished it out from under the seat. It had fallen shut, severing my connection with the powers that be, but when I pulled over to answer, they were back.
“You called in an emergency?”
“Cancel the call. The incident is over, no one was killed.”
“There was no emergency?”
“There appeared to be an emergency. Luckily, it was a false alarm.”
“You turned in a false alarm?”
“No. I reported an emergency which gave every indication of being real. Luckily, it was only a warning.”
“A warning?”
“Instead of hitting the guy they showed him a freshly dug grave, gave him every indication he was about to wind up in it. I would imagine it was very effective.”
“So, you’re saying there was no emergency?”
I hung up the phone. It rang again, almost immediately. I knew it would. I didn’t answer.
I went through the Lincoln Tunnel, drove straight to the office building. Tony’s car wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t. It took time to pick him up, but it took no time at all to drop him off. They probably didn’t even slow down.
I sat there, weighed my options. None looked good.
I drove to Westport. It’s about an hour drive, but I needed time to calm down. I hunted up the post office, asked if they had a package for me. Damned if they didn’t. I proved I was Stanley Hastings, and they handed it over.
I drove back to Manhattan, checked in with Richard. He wasn’t pleased to see me. Of course, no one was these days.
“What the hell did you do now?” Richard said.
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“I just got a phone call. From the New Jersey police. Asking me to surrender you on a charge of filing a false report.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes.”
“Apparently the cops are pretty hot about it. I got a call from your wife, saying the same thing. According to her, you’re not answering your cell phone. The cops can’t reach you and your wife can’t either and neither one’s particularly happy.”
“Richard—”
“Why, in the name of heaven, would you have filed a false police report?”
I told him. I can’t say he was very sympathetic.
“You thought Tony Gallo was going to whack someone, so you called the police?”
“I couldn’t just let him do it, could I?”