Meanwhile he’s making scrawled notes on the back of a brown envelope that originally contained a nasty letter from the IRS warning him that he owed Uncle Sam an additional $17.96. He logs the schedule of Truck No. 4: names and addresses of places it services: restaurants, apartment houses, diners, industrial buildings, taverns.
By the end of the day, sandwiches and beers consumed, Cone is bored and cranky, wondering if he’s got the fire to keep this up for a week. What bugs him is the fear that each numbered truck may have a different schedule of rubbish pickups every day. If that’s true, it’ll take a month of Sundays to list all of Sally Steiner’s customers.
But on Friday morning, he’s there again, parked and waiting. Now there are big flatbeds pulling through the Steiner gate to load up with strapped bales of paper, and open-bed trucks being filled with cubes of compacted garbage to be taken, Cone presumes, to landfills on Long Island or New Jersey. And smaller trucks loading up with tons of swill for what eventual purpose Cone doesn’t even want to imagine.
On Friday he follows Truck No. 2. On Monday he shadows Truck No. 5. And on Tuesday he takes off after Truck No. 3, beginning to think he’s just spinning his wheels. But then, early Tuesday afternoon, something happens that makes it seem likely he hasn’t been diddling himself.
Cone has already noted that the big Steiner trucks are operated by a crew of two, driver and loader. On Tuesday, Truck No. 3 is being driven by a redheaded guy with the map of Ireland spread all over his face. The loader is a broad-shouldered black who looks like he could nudge a locked door off its hinges with no trouble at all.
Everything in their Tuesday routine is normal and dull until about 1:00, when Truck No. 3 slows and turns into an alleyway alongside a one-story cinderblock building on lower Tenth Avenue. Cone parks across the street and opens his second pack of Camels of the day. From where he sits, he has a good view of the action.
The loader climbs down from the cab. But instead of hefting the cylindrical barrels of trash that have been put out for pickup, he exits the alley and starts walking up Tenth Avenue. Cone straightens up, interested enough to forget to light his cigarette.
In a couple of minutes, a battered Chevy van pulls into the alley and stops right behind the Steiner truck. The loader gets out of the Chevy, opens the back doors, and begins to lift the barrels into the van.
“What the hell?” Cone says aloud, and then realizes he’s now got two cigarettes going at once. He licks thumb and forefinger and pinches one out, saving it carefully in the ashtray. The van, loaded with four barrels, backs out of the alley and starts north on Tenth Avenue. Cone takes a quick look at the cinderblock building. It’s got a brass plate next to the front door, but it’s so small he can’t read it from across the street. The yellow truck hasn’t moved, so Cone gets rolling and follows the van.
What a journey that turns out to be! Up Tenth Avenue to 54th Street. East on 54th to Eighth Avenue. North on Eighth and onto Broadway. Up Broadway to 72nd Street. East on 72nd to Central Park West. North on CPW to 86th Street. A right turn and they’re going through the Park at Traverse 3. Cone is happy he’s got a full tank of gas.
He’s keeping a tight tail on the van, but city traffic is heavy and it’s doubtful if the loader will spot him, even if he’s looking for a shadow. Cone doesn’t think that likely; the guy is driving steadily at legal speeds and making no effort to jink.
On the East Side, they turn up First Avenue and continue north, almost to 125th Street. Now Cone guesses where they’re heading: the Triborough Bridge. He wonders if this guy is making a hegira to Long Island to dump his four barrels in some deserted landfill. But that doesn’t make sense; by rights, the contents of those barrels should have been taken back to the Steiner dump for disposal.
On they go, picking up speed now as traffic thins. They stop briefly to pay their tolls, then head across the span. Cone accelerates to pull the Dodge Shadow alongside the van. He glances sideways. The loader looks like he’s enjoying life. He’s smoking a plump cigar and slapping the steering wheel in time to radio music Cone can’t hear.
They get onto the Long Island Expressway, moving at a lively clip. They turn off onto the Northern State Parkway, turn again onto the Sunken Meadow State Parkway. The van is slowing now, and Cone has time to look around. Pretty country. Plenty of trees. Some impressive homes with white picket fences.
Down Main Street in Smithtown and into an area where the homes are even bigger, set on wide lawns with white graveled driveways leading to the house and two-or three-car garages.
The Chevy van turns into one of those driveways. Cone continues down the road a piece, pulls onto the verge and parks. He hops out, lights a cigarette, and saunters back. He stands in the semi-concealment of a small copse of pines and watches the loader lug the four barrels, one at a time, into a neat white garage with a shingled roof.
The four cardboard barrels inside, the man starts bringing them out again and sliding them into the van-or so it seems; the barrels are identical in appearance. Timothy is flummoxed until he realizes what’s going on. The guy has delivered four new barrels; he’s picking up four old barrels that were already stored in the garage.
Cone sees the Steiner loader climb behind the wheel of the van. Away he goes. Cone will make book on exactly where he’s heading: back to the city to make contact with Truck No. 3, dump the trash in the big yellow Loadmaster, and then return the empty barrels to the alleyway alongside that building on Tenth Avenue.
Cone, stays where he is, eyeballing the garage and home. Nice place. The house is two stories high with a lot of windows. Weathered brick halfway up and white clapboard the rest of the way. A tiled terrace at one side with French doors from the house. All set on what looks to be a one-acre plot, at least, with a manicured lawn and a few pieces of Victorian cast-iron furniture scattered about.
He figures he’ll meander up and see if there’s a name on the mailbox. If someone braces him, he’ll tell them he’s the Avon Lady. But he doesn’t have to use any subterfuge. He’s no sooner started up the bricked walk to the front door when he spots a sign on a short post driven into the lawn. It reads: THE STEINERS.
“Ho-ho-ho,” Cone says aloud. He goes back to his car, turns around, and heads for the city. He drives as fast as the cabs on the parkways and expressway, hoping to get back to Tenth Avenue before that business closes for the day. Traffic is heavy, but nothing like what’s coming from the city; that’s bumper-to-bumper.
He’s back in Manhattan by four o’clock, but it takes him almost forty-five minutes to work his way over to the West Side. He finally parks on Ninth Avenue, with his watch nudging 5:00 P.M. He practically runs back to the one-story cinderblock building. The brass plate next to the front door reads: BECHTOLD PRINTING. Just that and nothing more.
The front door is still open, but when he pushes his way in, a blowsy blonde in the front office is putting on her hat. It looks like a velvet chamberpot.
“We’re closed for the day,” she tells Cone.
“Nah,” he says, giving her what he fancies is a charming smile. “The front door is open. I just want to get some letterheads, bills, and business cards printed up.”
“We don’t do that kind of work,” she says tartly.
“You don’t?” he says. “Well, what kind of work do you do?”
“Financial printing,” she says.
“Thank you very much,” the Wall Street dick says, tipping his leather cap. “Sorry to bother you.”
Back in the Dodge Shadow, he realizes he hasn’t eaten all day. So he wolfs down his two deli sandwiches (salami and egg salad) and gulps two beers. All the ice cubes in his plastic sack have melted, and the beer is barely cool. But at least it’s wet.