moment. Then…
“Skoll,” she said. “Packaged in a cute little green container.”
“He been known to grab a beer or two at the Thatcher Street Pub down in Albany?”
“Sure.”
“Christ, Tina, call the fucking cops right now.”
Suddenly commotion. Another voice coming to me from over the connection. A man’s voice.
“Who is this?” the voice demanded.
I told him.
“This is Tina’s father, Peter,” he said. “Can I ask the purpose of your call?”
“Peter, this is Spike Harrison, I’ve been looking for Jimmy—
“—Ms. Harrison,” he interrupted, “at present we are dealing with a family crisis. Your intrusion is not appreciated.”
I wanted to tell him to stop pretending he didn’t know me. But he hung up before I had the chance to get it all out. When the Call Ended signal revealed itself, I dialed the Farrell residence once again. But this time all I got was a busy signal.
Phone off the hook.
Setting the cell back down, I took one more good look at Jordan.
“Well,” I said, “what now?”
As if directed to do so, my eyes found their way to the Thatcher Street business card. Drinking the rest of my beer, I got up from the desk. I took a quick look around the bedroom, at the queen bed, the simple dresser, the framed shot of Jordan and I on our wedding day that hung on the wall above it, the body-length Ikea dressing mirror set in the far corner, my bathrobe hanging from it blocking out most of my reflection.
“Been a while since I went out for a drink,” I said.
I stored all the evidence, minus Natalie’s card, inside my desk drawer. Then I got up and went to my dresser. Inside my underwear drawer I grabbed a ten and two fives from out of a coffee can where I hid some emergency cash and quarters for the laundry machine. I shoved the cash into my jeans pocket along with my Blackberry and Natalie’s calling card. Grabbing up my keys, I exited the apartment by way of the back terrace door.
Chapter 21
I backed out of my parking space, pulled out onto the apartment complex road that led me to the main drag. I couldn’t help but notice another set of headlights in my rearview. Another car pulling out of a spot in the building lot next door to my own.
I didn’t think much of it at first. People were always coming and going from the apartments at all hours of the night. But these headlights followed me all the way up the complex access road. When I made a left onto the main road in the direction of the downtown, the lights followed me.
I pressed my foot on the gas, tried to create a little distance between me and those headlights. That’s when I killed my lights altogether.
When I hooked a quick left down a neighborhood street perpendicular to the main road, I gunned the Jeep. I also prayed that no cops were patrolling the area.
Having made it to the end of the street, I once more looked into the rearview.
The headlights were gone.
Maybe I was growing paranoid. But better safe than stupid and sorry.
I put my lights back on, turned right, and followed Broadway all the way to where it intersected with the lower Concrete Pearl. Not far from the Thatcher Street Pub.
Chapter 22
Thatcher Street was a throw back to the days when lower Pearl Street thrived as a Barbary Shore of smoke billowing factories and mills that lined the banks of the Hudson River. There were lumber yards, steel mills, paper factories, ship building plants and ports of call that made the riverfront a longshoreman’s paradise. Everywhere you looked you would find strong-backs dressed in dungarees or overalls, lifting and hauling everything from one-hundred pound bags of iron ore to sandbags to newly cut wood planks.
All these years later, the mills and factories had been relocated to Mexico and China, leaving only the unemployed rusted and rotted out building shells to line the Concrete Pearl. But the Thatcher Street Pub had somehow survived. Maybe one of the reasons behind
“Skoll,” she said. “Packaged in a cute little green container.”
“He been known to grab a beer or two at the Thatcher Street Pub down in Albany?”
“Sure.”
“Christ, Tina, call the fucking cops right now.”
Suddenly commotion. Another voice coming to me from over the connection. A man’s voice.
“Who is this?” the voice demanded.
I told him.
“This is Tina’s father, Peter,” he said. “Can I ask the purpose of your call?”
“Peter, this is Spike Harrison, I’ve been looking for Jimmy—
“—Ms. Harrison,” he interrupted, “at present we are dealing with a family crisis. Your intrusion is not appreciated.”
I wanted to tell him to stop pretending he didn’t know me. But he hung up before I had the chance to get it all out. When the Call Ended signal revealed itself, I dialed the Farrell residence once again. But this time all I got was a busy signal.
Phone off the hook.
Setting the cell back down, I took one more good look at Jordan.
“Well,” I said, “what now?”
As if directed to do so, my eyes found their way to the Thatcher Street business card. Drinking the rest of my beer, I got up from the desk. I took a quick look around the bedroom, at the queen bed, the simple dresser, the framed shot of Jordan and I on our wedding day that hung on the wall above it, the body-length Ikea dressing mirror set in the far corner, my bathrobe hanging from it blocking out most of my reflection.
“Been a while since I went out for a drink,” I said.
I stored all the evidence, minus Natalie’s card, inside my desk drawer. Then I got up and went to my dresser. Inside my underwear drawer I grabbed a ten and two fives from out of a coffee can where I hid some emergency cash and quarters for the laundry machine. I shoved the cash into my jeans pocket along with my Blackberry and Natalie’s calling card. Grabbing up my keys, I exited the apartment by way of the back terrace door.
Chapter 21
I backed out of my parking space, pulled out onto the apartment complex road that led me to the main drag. I couldn’t help but notice another set of headlights in my rearview. Another car pulling out of a spot in the building lot next door to my own.
I didn’t think much of it at first. People were always coming and going from the apartments at all hours of the night. But these headlights followed me all the way up the complex access road. When I made a left onto the main road in the direction of the downtown, the lights followed me.
I pressed my foot on the gas, tried to create a little distance between me and those headlights. That’s when I killed my lights altogether.
When I hooked a quick left down a neighborhood street perpendicular to the main road, I gunned the Jeep. I also prayed that no cops were patrolling the area.
Having made it to the end of the street, I once more looked into the rearview.
The headlights were gone.
Maybe I was growing paranoid. But better safe than stupid and sorry.
I put my lights back on, turned right, and followed Broadway all the way to where it intersected with the lower Concrete Pearl. Not far from the Thatcher Street Pub.
Chapter 22
Thatcher Street was a throw back to the days when lower Pearl Street thrived as a Barbary Shore of smoke billowing factories and mills that lined the banks of the Hudson River. There were lumber yards, steel mills, paper factories, ship building plants and ports of call that made the riverfront a longshoreman’s paradise. Everywhere you looked you would find strong-backs dressed in dungarees or overalls, lifting and hauling everything from one-hundred pound bags of iron ore to sandbags to newly cut wood planks.
All these years later, the mills and factories had been relocated to Mexico and China, leaving only the unemployed rusted and rotted out building shells to line the Concrete Pearl. But the Thatcher Street Pub had somehow survived. Maybe one of the reasons behind
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