“Fine,” Lou said. “I’ll wait.”
Jack hung up the phone and rushed out into the hall. Laurie was already on her way back and was struggling into her coat. She eyed him as she brushed past on her way to the elevators. Jack hustled to catch up with her.
“What’s happened?” Jack asked hesitantly. He was afraid to upset her any more than she already was.
“I’m about ninety-nine percent sure how Franconi’s body was taken from here,” Laurie said angrily. “And two things are becoming clear. First, the Spoletto Funeral Home was involved and second, the abduction was surely abetted by someone who works here. And to tell you the truth, I’m not sure which of these two things bothers me more.”
“Jeez, look at that traffic,” Franco Ponti said to Angelo Facciolo. “I’m sure as hell glad we’re going into Manhattan instead of going out.”
Franco and Angelo were in Franco’s black Cadillac, heading west on the Queensborough Bridge. It was five-thirty, the height of rush hour. Both men were dressed as if they were going to a ritzy dinner.
“What order do you want to do this in?” Franco asked.
Angelo shrugged. “Maybe the girl first,” he said. His face twisted into a slight smile.
“You’re looking forward to this, aren’t you?” Franco commented.
Angelo raised his eyebrows as much as his facial scar tissue would allow. “Five years I’ve been dreaming about seeing this broad professionally,” he said. “I guess I never thought I would get my chance.”
“I know I don’t have to remind you that we follow orders,” Franco said. “To the letter.”
“Cerino was never so specific,” Angelo said. “He’d just tell us to do a job. He didn’t tell us how to do it.”
“That’s why Cerino is in jail and Vinnie is running the show,” Franco said.
“I’ll tell you what,” Angelo said. “Why don’t we do a drive by Jack Stapleton’s place. I’ve already been inside Laurie Montgomery’s apartment, so I know what we’re getting ourselves into. But I’m a little surprised by this other address. West One Hundred-sixth Street isn’t where I’d expect a doctor to be living.”
“I think a drive-by sounds smart,” Franco said.
When they reached Manhattan, Franco continued west on Fifty-ninth Street. He rounded the southern end of Central Park and headed north on Central Park West.
Angelo thought back to the fateful day on the pier of the American Fresh Fruit Company when Laurie caused the explosion. Angelo had had skin problems from chicken pox and acne, but it had been the burns he suffered because of Laurie Montgomery that had turned him into what he called a “freak.”
Franco posed a question, but Angelo hadn’t heard him because of his angry musings. He had to ask him to repeat it.
“I bet you’d like to stick it to that Laurie Montgomery,” Franco said. “If it had been me, I sure would.”
Angelo let out a sarcastic laugh. Unconsciously, he moved his left arm so that he could feel the reassuring mass of his Walther TPH auto pistol snuggled into its shoulder holster.
Franco turned left onto One Hundred-sixth Street. They passed a playground on the right that was in full use, particularly the basketball court. There were lots of people standing on the sidelines.
“It must be on the left,” Franco said.
Angelo consulted the piece of paper he was holding with Jack’s address. “It’s coming up,” he said. “It’s the building with the fancy top.”
Franco slowed and then stopped to double-park a few buildings short of Jack’s on the opposite side of the street. A car behind beeped. Franco lowered his window and motioned for the car to pass. There was cursing as the car did so. Franco shook his head. “You hear that guy? Nobody in this city has any manners.”
“Why would a doctor live there?” Angelo said. He was eyeing Jack’s building through the front windshield.
Franco shook his head. “Doesn’t make any sense to me. The building looks like a dump.”
“Amendola said he was a little strange,” Angelo said. “Apparently, he rides a bike from here all the way down to the morgue at First Avenue and Thirtieth Street every day.”
“No way!” Franco commented.
“That’s what Amendola said,” Angelo said.
Franco’s eyes scanned the area. “The whole neighborhood is a dump. Maybe he’s into drugs.”
Angelo opened the car door and got out.
“Where are you going?” Franco asked.
“I want to check to make sure he lives here,” Angelo said. “Amendola said his apartment is the fourth floor rear. I’ll be right back.”
Angelo rounded the car and waited for a break in the traffic. He crossed the street and climbed to the stoop in front of Jack’s building. Calmly, he pushed open the outer door and glanced at the mailboxes. Many were broken. None had locks that worked.
Quickly, Angelo sorted through the mail. As soon as he came across a catalogue addressed to Jack Stapleton, he put it all back. Next, he tried the inner door. It opened with ease.
Stepping into the front hall, Angelo took a breath. There was an unpleasant musty odor. He eyed the trash on the stairs, the peeling paint, and the broken light bulbs in the once-elegant chandelier. Up on the second floor, he could hear the sounds of a domestic fight with muffled screaming. Angelo smiled. Dealing with Jack Stapleton was going to be easy. The tenement looked like a crack house.
Returning to the front of the house, Angelo took a step away to determine which underground passageway belonged to Jack’s building. Each house had a sunken corridor reached by a half dozen steps. These corridors led to the backyards.
After deciding which was the appropriate one, Angelo gingerly walked its length. There were puddles and refuse which threatened his Bruno Magli shoes.
The backyard was a tumult of decaying and collapsed fencing, rotting mattresses, abandoned tires, and other trash. After carefully picking his way a few feet from the building, Angelo turned to look at the fire escape. On the fourth floor two windows had access. The windows were dark. The doctor wasn’t at home.
Angelo returned and climbed back into the car.
“Well?” Franco asked.
“He lives there all right,” Angelo said. “The building is worse on the inside if you can believe it. It’s not locked. I could hear a couple fighting on the second floor and someone else’s TV on full blast. The place is not pretty but for our purposes it’s perfect. It’ll be easy.
“That’s what I like to hear,” Franco said. “Should we still do the woman first?”
Angelo smiled as best he could. “Why deny myself?”
Franco put the car in gear. They headed south on Columbus Avenue to Broadway then cut across town to Second Avenue. Soon they were on Nineteenth Street. Angelo didn’t need the address. He pointed out Laurie’s building without difficulty. Franco found a convenient no-parking zone and parked.
“So, you think we should go up the back way?” Franco said, while eyeing the building.
“For several reasons,” Angelo said. “She’s on the fifth floor, but her windows face the back. To tell if she’s there, we have to go back there anyway. Also she’s got a nosy neighbor who lives in the front, and you can see her lights are on. This woman opened her door to gawk at me the two times I was up at Montgomery’s front door. Besides, Montgomery’s apartment has access to the back stairs, and the back stairs dump directly into the backyard. I know because we chased her out that way.”
“I’m convinced,” Franco said. “Let’s do it.”
Franco and Angelo got out of the car. Angelo opened up the backseat and lifted out his bag of lock-picking tools along with a Halligan bar, a tool firefighters use to get through doors in cases of emergency.
The two men headed for the passageway to the backyard.
“I heard she got away from you and Tony Ruggerio,” Franco said. “At least for a while. She must be quite a number.”