hospital, Wu had remained in a coma; they’d had to cut a hole in his cranium to relieve the pressure. Gideon reminded himself that this hadn’t been an accident. It was attempted murder. No, with the death of the innocent cabdriver and half a dozen bystanders it was actual murder—mass murder.
Shaking off these thoughts, he slid the X-rays back into their manila folder and rose, going to the window. It was late afternoon—he’d been at it all day. The sun was already setting, the long yellow light spilling down 51st Street, the pedestrians casting gaunt shadows.
He’d hit a dead end—or so it seemed. What now?
His growling stomach reminded him it was high time to put something in there besides coffee. Something good. He picked up the phone, dialed room service, and put in an order for two dozen raw oysters on the half shell.
19
T he police junkyard was located on the Harlem River in the South Bronx, in the shadow of the Willis Avenue Bridge. Gideon stepped out of the cab to find himself in a bleak zone of warehouses, and industrial lots stacked with old railroad cars, abandoned school buses, and rusting containers. A smell of muck and dead clams came drifting off the river, and the white-noise of evening rush-hour traffic on the Major Deegan Expressway hummed in the air like a hive of bees. He’d lived in a neighborhood not much different from this—the last in a succession of increasingly squalid homes he’d shared with his mother. Even the smell was familiar. It was an intensely depressing thought.
A chain-link fence topped with concertina wire surrounded the facility, fronted by a rolling gate on wheels next to a guardhouse. Beyond the fence sat an almost empty parking lot fringed by dying sumacs, behind which squatted a long warehouse. Beyond that and to the right lay an open-air junkyard of stacked and pancaked cars.
Gideon strolled up to the guardhouse. A swarthy-looking cop sat behind the plastic windows, reading a book. As Gideon approached, he slid open the street-side window with a hammy arm covered with gorilla hair. “Yeah?”
“Hi,” said Gideon. “I was wondering if you could help me?”
“What?” The cop still had his nose in the book. Gideon shifted to see the cover: he was surprised to see it was City of God by Saint Augustine.
“Well,” said Gideon, putting on his most fawning, obsequious tone, “I’m so sorry to bother you.”
“No bother,” said the cop, finally putting down the book.
Gideon was relieved to see that, despite the beetling Neanderthal brows and heavy five o’clock shadow, the man had a friendly, open face. “My brother-in-law,” Gideon began, “Tony Martinelli, he’s the cabbie that was killed in that accident last night. The one where a guy ran him off the road on a Hundred Sixteenth Street—you read about that?”
Now the cop was interested. “Of course. Worst traffic accident in years—it was all over the news. He was your brother-in-law? I’m sorry.”
“My sister’s really broken up about it. It’s just terrible—got two babies at home, one and three, no money, big mortgage on the house.”
“That’s really tough,” said the cop, laying the book aside and appearing genuinely concerned.
Gideon took a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow. “Well,” he said, “here’s the thing. He had a religious medallion hanging from the rearview mirror. It was a beautiful one, sterling silver, owned it forever. Saint Christopher.”
The cop nodded in understanding.
“Tony went to Italy, the Jubilee Year in 2000—and the pope blessed that medallion. Blessed it personally. I don’t know if you’re Catholic, but Saint Christopher’s the patron saint of travelers, and he being a cabbie and all—well, that medallion was the most precious thing he owned. That moment with the pope was the high point of his life.”
“I’m Catholic,” said the cop. “I know all about it.”
“That’s good, I’m glad you understand. I don’t
Shaking off these thoughts, he slid the X-rays back into their manila folder and rose, going to the window. It was late afternoon—he’d been at it all day. The sun was already setting, the long yellow light spilling down 51st Street, the pedestrians casting gaunt shadows.
He’d hit a dead end—or so it seemed. What now?
His growling stomach reminded him it was high time to put something in there besides coffee. Something good. He picked up the phone, dialed room service, and put in an order for two dozen raw oysters on the half shell.
19
T he police junkyard was located on the Harlem River in the South Bronx, in the shadow of the Willis Avenue Bridge. Gideon stepped out of the cab to find himself in a bleak zone of warehouses, and industrial lots stacked with old railroad cars, abandoned school buses, and rusting containers. A smell of muck and dead clams came drifting off the river, and the white-noise of evening rush-hour traffic on the Major Deegan Expressway hummed in the air like a hive of bees. He’d lived in a neighborhood not much different from this—the last in a succession of increasingly squalid homes he’d shared with his mother. Even the smell was familiar. It was an intensely depressing thought.
A chain-link fence topped with concertina wire surrounded the facility, fronted by a rolling gate on wheels next to a guardhouse. Beyond the fence sat an almost empty parking lot fringed by dying sumacs, behind which squatted a long warehouse. Beyond that and to the right lay an open-air junkyard of stacked and pancaked cars.
Gideon strolled up to the guardhouse. A swarthy-looking cop sat behind the plastic windows, reading a book. As Gideon approached, he slid open the street-side window with a hammy arm covered with gorilla hair. “Yeah?”
“Hi,” said Gideon. “I was wondering if you could help me?”
“What?” The cop still had his nose in the book. Gideon shifted to see the cover: he was surprised to see it was City of God by Saint Augustine.
“Well,” said Gideon, putting on his most fawning, obsequious tone, “I’m so sorry to bother you.”
“No bother,” said the cop, finally putting down the book.
Gideon was relieved to see that, despite the beetling Neanderthal brows and heavy five o’clock shadow, the man had a friendly, open face. “My brother-in-law,” Gideon began, “Tony Martinelli, he’s the cabbie that was killed in that accident last night. The one where a guy ran him off the road on a Hundred Sixteenth Street—you read about that?”
Now the cop was interested. “Of course. Worst traffic accident in years—it was all over the news. He was your brother-in-law? I’m sorry.”
“My sister’s really broken up about it. It’s just terrible—got two babies at home, one and three, no money, big mortgage on the house.”
“That’s really tough,” said the cop, laying the book aside and appearing genuinely concerned.
Gideon took a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow. “Well,” he said, “here’s the thing. He had a religious medallion hanging from the rearview mirror. It was a beautiful one, sterling silver, owned it forever. Saint Christopher.”
The cop nodded in understanding.
“Tony went to Italy, the Jubilee Year in 2000—and the pope blessed that medallion. Blessed it personally. I don’t know if you’re Catholic, but Saint Christopher’s the patron saint of travelers, and he being a cabbie and all—well, that medallion was the most precious thing he owned. That moment with the pope was the high point of his life.”
“I’m Catholic,” said the cop. “I know all about it.”
“That’s good, I’m glad you understand. I don’t
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