Caper (6 page)

I hurried down the block to my car. Amazingly, I hadn't gotten a ticket. I hopped in, fired her up, and by the time the Lexus had maneuvered around the buses I was ready to go. When he hit the corner, I was right on his tail.

The congressman hung a left, headed for home. Of course, that presented a problem. What did I do when he went into the underground garage? Here I was winging it. The only thing I could think of was to drive right in after him. I'd follow him to his parking space, block his car with mine, hop out, and say, “Okay, sleazebag, let's have a little talk.”

It was an intriguing idea. What would he do then? Call the cops on me? I didn't think so. He wouldn't want to call the cops. Following him through the garage door was a rather attractive scenario. Unless it cut my car in half.

Only he didn't turn into his garage. That was pretty disappointing, once I had it worked out. But he went right on by his apartment house and on down Fifth Avenue.

The traffic got heavy in the Fifties due to the Broadway mall. Don't get me started. The city closed Broadway in the theater district to create a permanent pedestrian mall. The spillover traffic onto the nearest downtown avenues was enough to piss off even George M. Cohan, the man the mall honored.

We inched our way south of 42nd Street, hung a right on 37th, wove our way through the trucks in the garment district over to Seventh Avenue. I was still trying to figure out what the congressman was up to, when he hung a left into a garage. It wasn't a private garage. A huge sign flashed PARK. Below it proclaimed some astronomical daily rate in glowing block capitols as if it were the deal of the century.

I must admit, up until that point I had been working out other scenarios in my mind, charitable scenarios, ones that cast the congressman in a less odious light. Not the least of which was this: MacAullif said the congressman had a kid. Maybe that kid was a teenage son. Maybe that teenage son was old enough to drive. Maybe he was Sharon's friend, and maybe this was a perfectly innocent teenage date.

That pipe dream vanished when the sleazeball himself emerged from the car and handed the keys to the attendant. The garage was the valet parking type, where you left your car at the curb instead of driving it in yourself. The attendant handed Congressman Blake a parking ticket stub, and he and Sharon headed down the street.

Before the attendant could climb into the congressman's car, I pulled up behind it and hopped out.

“I'm in a hurry. Can you give me a ticket?”

He looked at me like, how big a hurry?

I whipped a twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket. “Please.”

He grinned a snaggle-tooth at me, tore out the ticket, traded it for the bill.

I grabbed the ticket stub, headed down the block. I caught up with them at the next corner. They were waiting for the light. When it changed, they crossed Seventh Avenue.

They were heading for Madison Square Garden.

I frowned. What was at the Garden? It wasn't basketball or hockey season. They had rock concerts, yes, but there wasn't one on the marquee. So where were they going?

The mystery was solved when they went through the front door and headed downstairs. Madison Square Garden was above Penn Station.

They were taking a train.

I bought a ticket on the 5:00
P.M.
Acela, which appeared to be the train they were taking. If it wasn't I was going to feel like a fool. But they bought their tickets at one of those automated Amtrak kiosks, and as near as I could tell that was what the congressman punched in.

In case you've never ridden Amtrak, the Acela is the faster, more expensive train. That figured.

In Penn Station there are two Amtrak waiting areas, the Acela waiting area, and the non-Acela waiting area. As near as I could tell, they are absolutely alike. But you have to show your ticket to get into them, and if you don't have an Acela ticket you can't get into the ritzy, Acela waiting area, and you have to sit with the unwashed masses in the other one, for all the difference it made.

Today, the segregated waiting areas actually served a purpose. If Congressman Blake got into the Acela waiting room, it would confirm the fact he had bought Acela tickets.

Just my luck, the son of a bitch didn't do it. Instead, he and Sharon stood in the middle of the station looking up at the huge departure board, where every ten or fifteen seconds the train names and departure times would whirl with a clack, clack, clack, and reappear in different positions, or sometimes the same position, it was not always clear which, unless you really cared about that particular train. The 5:00 Acela to Washington was the one I wanted to see clacking. My ticket was to Philadelphia, as I presumed their tickets were, but Philadelphia was one of a few stops on the line. Once the gate was posted, there would be a mad dash to the escalator to take you down to the track.

The congressman and the kid wandered off to the Hudson News shop to purchase something for their trip. A newspaper for him, a coloring book for her.

She actually bought a teen magazine. At least, that's what she had in her hand when the big board went clack, clack, clack, and the Washington Acela went 13E, which meant it would be departing from track 13 at the east gate, and there was a sudden stampede for the escalator in that direction. The congressman hissed at the kid to come on. She reluctantly left her magazine on the counter, went out, and got in line, which was good. I didn't want them at the end of the line. That would have made it hard for me to be behind them. I got in line about a dozen people back, showed my ticket at the gate, and hopped on the top of the escalator just as the congressman and the kid were nearing the bottom.

They followed the crowd toward the back of the train, the congressman pushing Sharon along as if he were the big grown-up and she were the naive kid who'd never ridden a train before. I wondered how much that carried over into their role playing.

I hit the bottom of the escalator and hoofed along after them. They went in a business class car, which was good, because that's the kind of ticket I had. I caught up, hopped onto the train.

I'd ridden the Acela before, so I knew what to expect. Nonetheless, I had envisioned something out of
North by Northwest
, with a sleeping car and a classy dining car where waiters served you cooling drinks at tables with cloth napkins, and handed you menus, as opposed to a café car that would microwave you a burger. If I was going to have a train adventure, that was what I wanted. Spies slipping notes to henchman in the next car.

But it was not to be. The car was your standard railroad train car, filled with seats. Granted, there were a few instances of seats facing backward with a table between them, making an alcove for four. Still, it was a wide open alcove, not behind closed doors like in
The Lady Vanishes
, my other railroad movie. Both directed by Alfred Hitchcock.

Well, it would have to do. This wasn't about me having a good time. It was about saving a girl from disaster without trashing my pitiful career.

There was an pair of empty seats halfway down the car. Naturally, they took them. Which presented a problem. I would have to find a seat further down the car. Which meant walking past them. Not that I expected the girl to recognize the back of my head. Even so. I kept my arm up, scratched my ear, covered my face as I went by.

Directly in front of them was an empty seat. Too close. Didn't want it. Would it look suspicious if I passed it by? Would I call attention to myself? Would suddenly every eye in the car be on me? People staring. Pointing. In amazement. In awe. In horror.
He didn't take the seat! That man didn't take the seat! Mommy, Mommy, I'm scared!

I kept going. No alarms went off. No bells and whistles. I flopped into another empty seat a little way down the car. Perfect.

Except it was on the same side as they were. I couldn't peer at them diagonally across the aisle. To see them, I would have to peek over the top of my seat. And I wouldn't see them. I would see the people directly behind me. Which would have fine if I'd sat in the seat directly in front of them but which wouldn't work now. Should I get up and go back? Should I look for a seat across the aisle? Should I consider another line of work?

I was still contemplating my options when the train pulled out of the station. That was a relief. I was afraid someone would come and sit next to me. I would have to explain that I needed the aisle seat. I would have to give some reason other than surveillance. Why do you need an aisle seat on a train? Particularly, an Acela Express, where the stations are far apart. It's not like I'd be getting right off. So what could I plead? Acute and chronic diarrhea. There's a romantic image. Just the sort of thing to tell the young lady who sat down with you. Perfect for the secret agent. “Bond. James Bond. I poop a lot.”

The conductor came around and punched my ticket. Unfortunately, he didn't say, “Ah, Philadelphia. Just like the couple six rows back.” On the other hand, he didn't recognize me as the man wanted for murder at the UN.

Fifteen minutes later we stopped in New Jersey and more people got on. I was sitting on the aisle, so if anyone wanted the seat they would have to climb over me or ask me to move. No one did. The train pulled out of the station. The conductor came down the aisle, quicker this time since most tickets were already punched and he only had to deal with the few passengers who just got on.

I sat and stewed. Wished I'd brought a newspaper, or a book, or a crossword puzzle, or a Sudoku, or a KenKen.

After the conductor went by I had a flash of panic. What if they got off. When everyone else got on, they got off, and here I was, riding a train to Philadelphia with my quarry on the loose in Newark, New Jersey. Which would not be apt to earn me the PI of the Month award.

It was ridiculous, of course. No one takes an Acela for one fifteen-minute stop. It's an expensive, high-speed train. You don't pay the premium to save the potential one to two minutes over the local train.

But what if you did it to throw off your tail?

Bullshit. He doesn't know he's wearing a tail.

Unless he spotted you. After all, he's being followed by the world's least competent detective.

I stifled such thoughts. Tried to calm myself with cool rationale. Told myself I was an obsessive, compulsive, paranoid fool. That wasn't as calming as I'd hoped. Nonetheless, the idea I was being silly hit home.
They're right there. You can check on them if you want, but they're right there
.

I knew that was true. They were right there, and I didn't have to check on them.

I had to check on them.

I needed a plausible excuse to walk past them. Was the café car in that direction? Was the bathroom at that end of the car?

Moron. No one's going to stop you and ask where you're going. Just get up and go.

I slid from my seat, started up the aisle. As I did, a sudden fear gripped me.

What if they're making out?

If they were making out, as I was terribly afraid they might be, I couldn't ignore it. I would have to do something about it. I would grab the son of a bitch and pull him off her. Which would be an utter disaster. Aside from blowing my cover, I'm no fighter, and he would beat the shit out of me. Of course, he'd have some explaining to do to the cops. Even so, it was not the way I wanted to spend my afternoon. But if they were making out, I was gonna do it.

They weren't making out. He was reading the newspaper. She was doing her homework.

It killed me, her doing her homework. Just like practicing cheerleading. All the normal little girl things broke my heart.

I kept going, reached the end of the car.

Okay, now what? Go to the men's room? Go to the café car? Go back? Stay here?

I didn't want to go back to my seat, but I didn't want to stand up for the rest of the trip. Could I walk back in the other direction without having accomplished any useful purpose?

Absolutely. No one was looking at me. No one would know.

Cool. Secret Agent fakes out passengers, walks length of car.

Oh, the tiny victories.

I walked back past the congressman and the kid. Reached my seat and kept going. I didn't want to sit there again. I wasn't happy there.

A few rows down was an empty seat on the other side. I slid into it and looked back up the aisle. Excellent. From there I could see if they left their seats. Of course, I had to turn around and crane my neck, but it was possible. It occurred to me that if were a woman, I'd have a makeup mirror I could angle and watch the aisle without turning around.

Of course, I'd also have breasts.

I wondered if I could keep from staring at them.

15

T
HEY GOT OFF IN
P
HILADELPHIA.

They were closer to the back of the car, so they went out that way, which was good, it put me behind them. Of course, if they'd come my way, I would have just scrunched down until they went by and wound up behind them anyway. Still, I was at the point where I was appreciating anything in my favor.

Outside the station was a taxi waiting line.

Shit. No way that worked. In order to get a taxi in time to follow them, I'd have to be right behind them, and they'd see me. If I was any further back in line, by the time the dispatcher got me a cab, they'd be long gone.

I ignored the taxi line, walked in the direction from which the cabs came. I hit the street just as a cab was about to turn in. I stepped in front of it. The driver hit his brakes, honked his horn, and cursed.

In a flash I was at the driver's window. “I need a cab. Twenty bucks says this one's mine.”

“I could get fined.”

“Forty. Last offer.”

The driver looked at me. “Hop in.”

“Drive by, pull up where the cabs pull out, stop there.”

“I don't want no trouble.”

“I'm not giving you trouble. I'm giving you cash.” I whipped out my license, flashed it in his face. “I'm a private eye, I'm tailing a guy and a girl. No rough stuff. For you it's all gravy.”