Rubbed Out (9 page)

B
efore cell phones, running a stakeout by yourself was difficult, not to mention terminally boring. All that sitting with no one to talk to. No one to trade jokes with. That's not true anymore. You can talk to your heart's content. As long as you have the money to pay the bill.

But you still can't read. At least nothing you have to concentrate on. Crossword puzzles are okay. But there are only so many of those you can do. I suppose I could always whittle. Or knit. I can see it now. Sam Spade's book of knitting patterns for revolvers and other assorted weapons. They have tea cozies. Why not gun cozies?

Actually, I used to knit. For a brief period when I was trying to be domestic. I even knit a sweater for Murphy. It ended up with very long sleeves and a short body. It would have fit a gorilla perfectly. I gave it up after that—the knitting, that is. If I'd been smart, I would have worked on the knitting and given up Murphy instead.

Another bad thing about being alone on a stakeout is there's no one to run out and get food. You have to stock up beforehand. Although these days, with a cell phone, you can probably get a delivery to your car, though that's not a good way to remain inconspicuous.

And then there's the pee factor. That's huge. If you're a guy you can pee into a Coke bottle. I've heard some women do that too. Not me. I'm not that hardcore. I figure, screw it. You gotta go, find a restaurant, buy a coffee and a Danish, and use the rest room.

The block Janet Wilcox's building was on was strictly residential. Which meant there were no coffee shops or restaurants I could sit in, no stores to linger in. I'd either have to stand outside—which I wasn't inclined to do because I'd be fairly obvious and because it was still pouring and I didn't fancy getting pneumonia—or find a place to park the car, not an easy thing in a place where legal spots are a rare commodity.

On the good side, 201 East 81st Street was a five-story brownstone instead of one of those large, fancy-schmancy apartment buildings with both a main and a service entrance. On the bad side, it looked exactly like the one I'd lived in. More memories. But the good side of that was that I was familiar with the layout.

There were usually three or four apartments to a floor, with the superintendent living in the basement apartment. Number 201 seemed to be following the same pattern—a fact attested to by the garbage cans lined up along the iron railing that cut off access to the outside, downstairs steps.

Which meant there was only one way to get in and out of 201. I decided to make sure. I double-parked my car in front of the building and ran up the steps. The door, wood and glass, stuck when I pushed it open. I brushed the raindrops off my jacket, stepped inside, and got a serious case of déjà vu.

The entrance hall was the exact duplicate of the place I'd lived in all those years ago. It had the same nondescript green textured paper on the walls. I remember hearing a decorator friend of mine call it Urban Blight The wallpaper books called it Wheat Grass. Takeout menus were stacked on the radiator, just the way they are in everyone else's building. The place had the same mailboxes with the illegible names written in the little white spaces, the same intercom system. The intercom system was there to give the residents a feeling of security. But like most feelings of security it was false because people were always forgetting their keys and buzzing to be let in. Like I was going to do now.

I ran my finger down the names. There were eighteen. Quintillo's was listed as 3B. I pressed the buzzer and waited. No one answered. I chose another button at random.

“Yes,” a voice came back a few seconds later.

“This is the sister of . . .” I consulted the intercom. “Tom Bernstein in 5B. I forgot my key. Can you let me in?”

“Oh, for God's sake. . .”

“I'm sorry,” I said in the most contrite voice I could muster up.

I heard some grumbling and the door buzzed open. I went inside. Four bikes and a stroller were stored by the steps. The walls of the inner hallway were painted ballpark-mustard yellow, a slightly darker, but no less ugly shade of yellow than the walls in my place had been. I peeked behind the stairs. No entrance. No steps leading down to the basement. The people living here had to take their wash to a laundromat. What a pain that had been.

I decided it would be prudent to go upstairs and scope out the locale of Quintillo's apartment. I had a pretty good idea where 3B most likely was, but I wanted to make sure. Sometimes landlords cut up these apartments in funny ways so that they can get even more money.

It turned out I could have saved myself the climb. I'd been right. Quintillo had the middle apartment. Its windows faced toward the back instead of toward the street, just as mine had done. The six months I'd been out of a job, I'd spent hours every day watching five stray, mangy-looking cats tearing at the garbage bags people threw out the window, stalking rats almost as large as they were, and snoozing under the shade of a couple of spindly sumac trees that had erupted out of the asphalt.

Ergo: I couldn't see Janet Wilcox from the street and she couldn't see me. I stood in the hallway listening to the indistinct sounds of the radio drifting under the door of Quintillo's apartment. The radio didn't mean anyone was in. Lots of people keep their radios on when they aren't home. Or they used to. I imagine they still do.

Some do it so their pets will have company; other people do it to convince burglars that someone is home. The ones that had ransacked my apartment hadn't been fooled. I was thinking I should have tried the TV when I heard steps coming down the stairs and left. Better, I reasoned, not to have to explain what I was doing there.

On the way out, I passed a man coming in. He was dressed in a gray overcoat and had one of those men's hats with ear flaps on his head.

“Nasty weather,” he said, smiling at me and revealing a mouth filled with too many teeth.

I nodded noncommittally.

“Just moved in? I don't remember seeing you before.”

“Visiting.”

But when I turned again, the smile was gone and he was appraising me as he fumbled with his keys. Or maybe I'd just imagined it in the dim light. When he saw me watching him, he gave a curt little nod and swiveled around so his back was toward me. I decided I was becoming paranoid in my old age as I hurried down the steps and into my car, investing more in a simple transaction than I should.

I called Wilcox from my cell to tell him I'd arrived. “Remember,” he said. “Phone me when you see Janet. Don't do anything else.”

“I remember.”

“I'll ring you up in a couple of hours to see how things are going.”

I don't think he heard me mutter, “Terrific” as I clicked off. I couldn't wait to spot Janet and get the hell out of there. I drove around the block, parked in front of a Greek coffee shop, and got two large coffees, three cheese Danishes, a couple of chocolate bars, and a large hamburger and fries to go. I paid with a fifty.

“Don't you have anything smaller?” the guy behind the counter growled.

“No.” I'd forgotten that no one in New York City likes anything larger than a twenty.

He rolled his eyes and slapped my change down. I counted it. It came to $31.13. I checked the receipt. If I lived down here again, I couldn't afford to eat.

The counterman was scowling at another customer when I walked out the door. I drove back to 81 st Street, double-parked diagonally down from the building, and settled in to wait. By now it was three o'clock in the afternoon, and the schoolkids were coming home. I ate my hamburger, which was lousy, and munched on my French fries while I watched them, some walking in groups, others walking hand in hand with their mothers, others with their maids.

Everyone was walking hurriedly, heads bent down, sheltered under umbrellas, anxious to get out of the rain. Then I watched people walking their dogs. My mother wouldn't let me have a dog. I'd begged and I'd pleaded, and finally I wore her down and she'd relented.

I'd come home one day from school to a tired-looking, splay-backed Springer spaniel that had been kenneled way too long. Her name was Cindy, and I loved her anyway. I loved her even though she wasn't a puppy. I loved her even though she was too tired to play. Six months later I walked in the door after school and Cindy was gone. Just like that. Banished back to the kennel. Too much trouble, my mother had said.

I took a sip of coffee and wondered what had happened to her, as I watched a woman drag an unwilling poodle down the street. And then I wondered what my mother was doing. How she was doing. I should call her. Drop by. I was thinking about that when my cell rang. It was Calli telling me Tiger Lily had gone into labor and she'd called the vet. I told her to keep me updated and she signed off before I could ask how much she was asking for the puppies.

Two minutes later the phone rang again. This time it was Wilcox.

“Have you seen her?” he demanded. “Have you seen my wife?”

I told him I hadn't.

“Are you sure? Are you sure she's staying there?” I pictured him rubbing his hands through his hair. “Maybe I should have gone with someone else after all.”

“Maybe you should have. It still isn't too late.” I powered off. If it came to that, I'd deduct my expenses and give Paul back the rest of the money.

The phone rang again. Wilcox.

“I'm sorry,” he blubbered. “I'm just upset. You understand.”

I understood that he was falling into the abyss.

“You should get yourself some help.”

There was a moment of silence then Wilcox said, “Pardon?”

I didn't say anything.

“How come you can do twenty good deeds and one bad one and it's the bad one that counts?” Wilcox asked.

“I don't know.”

“My minister doesn't know either.”

“I'll call you when I have something to tell you.”

“Please. I'll be waiting.”

I turned the phone off and slipped it into my backpack.

Twenty minutes later, someone pulled out and I got a parking space a little way down from the building. I spent the next three hours finishing off the cheese Danishes, the chocolate bars, and the coffee, and trying to stay awake. Which was difficult. My eyelids kept closing and my head would start to drop. If it hadn't been as cold as it was in the car, I would have dozed off.

I was rubbing my hands together, trying to warm them up, when I noticed a man and a woman going into 201. I leaned forward and squinted, trying to get a better look at them. The woman looked vaguely similar to Janet Wilcox except her hair and makeup were different. But the man was an exact fit for Quintillo.

Looked as if it was time to move. I got out of my car and headed for the door. The woman I made for Janet Wilcox and the man I was now certain was Quintillo were still in the outside hallway. Quintillo was struggling to get a large manila envelope out of his mailbox while the woman was fumbling around in her bag. Probably for the keys.

“Jesus,” he was complaining to no one in particular. “Fucking mailman. He does this every fucking time.”

He had just opened his mouth to say something else when the woman saw me. Her head snapped up. Quintillo's gaze swiveled in my direction. I moved toward him.

“Maybe you can help me.”

Quintillo's eyes flicked back and forth, as if he was expecting something bad to happen and he wanted to be ready for it. “Maybe. What do you want?”

Now that I was closer, I could see that the woman was indeed Janet Wilcox. The eyes, the mouth, and the chin were all the same. Only she'd reinvented herself. She looked twenty years younger. Her hair was blond and blunt cut. She was wearing bright red lipstick and black eyeliner. She had on a black microfiber raincoat that her daughter would have found acceptable and boots with high heels.

“Sorry to bother you.” I gave them both my brightest smile. “I'm looking for a Patricia Hagerd in 5F.”

“There is no 5F here,” Quintillo told me.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Is this 222 East 81st?”

“No. It's 201.”

I laughed, apologized, and left. The moment I got back to my car, I called Wilcox.

I expected he'd answer on the first ring. He didn't. His answering machine picked up instead. I left a message.

“Walter, this is Robin Light. I've found your wife. Ring my cell phone and let me know what you want me to do.”

I called Paul next. He didn't answer either. I left the same message on his machine that I had on Wilcox's. Great. Now what? Stay? Go?

A moment later, Quintillo came out the door and decided the question for me. He looked up and down the street as if he wanted to make sure no one was keeping tabs on him. I ducked my head, but not fast enough. I could tell from the slight stiffening of his body that he'd spotted me.

I waved and pulled out. “Just looking for the address,” I yelled to him.

By the time I'd reached the corner, he'd headed back inside. I drove around and called Wilcox again. No answer. I left another message.

“Are you coming down? Do you want me to go up?”

I tried Paul again. Nothing. Now I was getting annoyed. Wilcox was probably passed out somewhere leaving me holding the bag.

I drove around aimlessly while I tried to decide what to do. Undulating lines of yellow taxis, call lights flickering in the rain, snaked in and out, picking up and letting off people. Buses, lit from the inside like a Hopper painting, stopped at corners. Women in high heels and tight cloth coats scurried along holding tiny black umbrellas.