His dark hair was brush-cut with some gray at the sides. His face was taut and narrow, with lots of planes and prominent bones-narrow, deep-set eyes, bony brow, small, sharp nose, high cheeks, and a thin mouth. His skin was the only thing that hinted at his fifty-three years. It was weathered and lined, as if he’d spent a lot of time in the wind or squinting at the sun. It made him look more like a cowboy in an advertisement than an ex-cop from Queens. I lowered my binoculars, picked up the camera, and took a half-dozen shots, full-face and profile.
He was doing hamstring stretches on the stairs when I realized that he was, unhurriedly and quite casually, checking out the street and the intersection-up and down and all around. I was on the shadowed side of the street and mostly hidden by the van, and the light was still pretty thin, so I didn’t think he’d seen me. But I was impressed by whatever it was in his reptile brain that had told him to look around, and cautioned by how smoothly he’d done it. He did one more set of quad stretches, climbed the stairs, and went inside.
I didn’t see him again for over an hour, during which time I drank my coffee, ate half my sandwich, and got suspicious looks from the few people who noticed me parked there. The neighborhood was waking and traffic had picked up, and I was thinking of moving to another street when a black Audi A8 backed out of Trautmann’s driveway. Trautmann was at the wheel. I waited a bit, then pulled out after him. He was headed toward Hillside.
I let a few cars get between us, and a few more when we turned onto Hillside. Working solo, it’s nearly impossible to tail anyone except a serious idiot for any length of time without being made. Trautmann was no idiot, and I knew he’d spot me sooner or later. I just wanted it to be later. There weren’t too many A8s in this neck of the woods, so I could hang well back. He drove east for a couple of miles, into Nassau County, then pulled in at a diner. I drove past. It was a twenty-four-hour spot and looked busy. There was a doughnut place across the street, also doing good business. I circled the block and pulled into its side lot. I went inside, used the bathroom, filled my thermos with coffee, and bought three chocolate doughnuts. Then I went back to my Taurus. I had a partial view of the diner from there, of the door and the cash register. I waited and tried to make my doughnuts last.
Every so often, I took a discreet look with the binoculars. I couldn’t see much-a piece of the counter, a tough-looking waitress working behind it, the cash register on a counter by the door, a big, friendly-looking, white-haired guy manning it, people entering, people paying up, people leaving. The big guy seemed to know most of the customers, and he laughed and chatted with nearly everyone who came and went.
I’d been out there long enough to finish my doughnuts and make a good dent in my coffee when, through the binoculars, I saw the big guy stiffen. His wide grin vanished and his whole face tightened, and he seemed suddenly very interested in his countertop. A second later, Trautmann strolled up to the register. He handed the big guy a check and a bill, and the big guy rang it up and gave him change. The whole time, Trautmann was Mr. Friendly-smiling, talking, laughing-but the big guy said not a word. Trautmann pocketed the change and clapped the big guy on the shoulder with one of his huge hands. The big guy flinched, and he watched Trautmann all the way out the door.
Trautmann walked across the diner lot. He was wearing a black leather field jacket over a gray shirt, well-tailored gray pants, and black cowboy boots. I took some more photos. He got into his car and pulled out, still headed east. I did the same. More businesses had opened and traffic had picked up considerably, and there were plenty of cars between us now. He stayed on Hillside through New Hyde Park and Williston Park. When he got to East Williston he turned off, onto Roslyn Road, and headed north. After two miles he turned off Roslyn Road and pulled into the parking lot of a crappy-looking mall that called itself Roslyn Meadows.
It was a meadow of cracked asphalt, surrounding a corrugated metal heap that looked like the bad marriage of two airplane hangars. There was a discount electronics store at one end of the place and a down-market department store at the other, and lots of space for rent in between. It was still early, just after eight, and the lot was mostly empty. The few cars that were there were clustered around the ends.
I kept on going when Trautmann turned in. I saw his car cross the lot and disappear behind the building. I went down Roslyn Road another quarter mile, turned around at a Burger King, and drove back to the mall. I parked near the electronics store, next to a rusting pickup, and walked around back. Trautmann’s Audi was parked about halfway down, near some dumpsters and a loading dock. There weren’t many other cars there. There wasn’t much at all besides chewed-up asphalt, a sagging metal fence, and a field of weeds beyond it. I went around to the front and went inside.
The holiday crowds hadn’t turned up at Roslyn Meadows yet, and if they did, I suspected it would be to visit the OTB parlor. Still, the mall was ready for them, and decked out in its cheesy holiday best. Styrofoam candy canes and paper garland and mangy plastic trees abounded, and even the windows of the vacant stores-and there were quite a few of these-had been hung with paper reindeer. A fountain had been drained and transformed into something that was supposed to be Santa’s workshop, though it looked more like Santa’s grimy basement. Its centerpiece was a big wooden chair where Junior could be photographed while he wailed and thrashed on Santa’s lap. Neither Santa nor the elves were in yet. Probably still sleeping it off, or maybe down at the OTB. They did have the Christmas music cranking, though-“Santa Baby,” one of my favorites. I was wearing a black sweatshirt and jeans and paddock boots, and a field jacket to cover my gun. I was overdressed for Roslyn Meadows.
A few food stalls were opened, including one that sold pretzels slathered in butter and cinnamon. A security guard leaned at the counter, eating one and dripping melted butter on his radio. He was maybe twenty-one, about five foot seven and a hundred and thirty pounds. His hair was already thinning, and he had bad skin and a ratty moustache. He wore a blue and gray uniform with Trident Metro Security patches on the shoulders and over the breast pocket. I saw a couple of his comrades as I strolled farther down the mall, but I didn’t see Trautmann.
At the midpoint of the mall, a wide corridor branched off to the left, leading to more vacant storefronts, the mall offices, the loading dock, and the rear parking lot. Trautmann was at the far end, with a tall, stocky guy in a Trident uniform. Trautmann had his big hand on the guy’s shoulder, and they were walking away from me, toward the doors to the loading dock. They went through, and the corridor was empty. I walked down. There was no one in the mall offices; the corridor was still empty. I walked farther down. The doors to the loading dock were ajar.
“I know how it is, Brian,” I heard a voice say. It was a deep, friendly voice, with a heavy New York accent and wry, amused undertones. It was a voice you could have a couple of beers with, and a laugh about the general ridiculousness of things. “You need a little extra cash, a little more than I’m paying you, so you move a little weed, maybe some crank. I know how it goes, Brian, believe me-”
Brian cut him off. “I swear, Bernie, it was just the once. No shit, just one time.” Brian was young and scared. “I got jammed up with this guy in Hempstead, and I had almost all the cash, and I went down to AC to get the rest, and nothing worked for me. I mean nothing. Not the craps, not the slots, not blackjack-I couldn’t do nothing.” Brian was practically wetting his pants. “And then the guy was really squeezing me, I mean bad, and I was scared and… I fucked up, Bernie, I know it. It was my bad, but it was just the once, I swear.”