promised to call should anyone return to “the Spanish girl’s” apartment.
11
M IKE STEIN HAD MADE an intuitive decision to interview Frank Palermo, the bus driver, alone. He had seen him briefly at the murder site and had read his initial police interview.
Frank Palermo led the way into the cool neat interior of his small house. There was a group of women seated around a dining-room table. They were too intent on their activity to look up.
“Hey, Ange,” Palermo called, “bring a coupla cold ones into my den.”
One of the women sighed loudly, shook her head with annoyance and left the table.
“Here we are,” Palermo announced, “my den.”
It had once been a garage, and despite the renovations it still looked like a garage.
“So wadda ya think? My game and communications room.”
He pointed to various items: a large-screen TV, a VCR, a collection of video games, a music system, the works.
“They got real sophisticated, ya know, not like when they first came out, these video games. I got the games all catalogued to sort of, you know, trace the progress these game-makers come up with. They keep you on your toes, these electronics whizzes. And then, when I wanna relax the old brain”—he pointed with pride—“I just lean back in the old contour chair. Only old thing in the room; like it just fits my body, ya know? And I play an old movie or sometimes just put on an old record, stretch out and reeeelax. Ya know?”
“Yes. I know,” Mike said.
There was an impatient kicking at the door. “Open up, Frank, I got my hands full.”
He yanked the door open, and his wife put the tray down on the large desk that dominated the wall opposite the entertainment center.
“Watch my papers, jeez, watch it,” Palermo told her.
“I didn’t touch your papers. There’s your beer and your cheese puffs and your pretzels, so that’s it, right? I can get back to my own business now?”
He gestured toward his contour chair, but Mike declined with thanks. The hard wooden desk chair was better. He put his tape recorder on the desk, in full view but without mentioning it. That would be up to Palermo. It was his den.
“So,” Palermo began after a good gulp of beer. “I seen you looking at my street map up on the wall and the schedule. I’m the coordinator. For the Neighborhood Watch Committee. And treasurer. Not that we have any money; just expenses, like for flashlights and ID cards and things like that.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it,” Mike suggested.
“Yeah, well, I’ll tell you.” Palermo was serious now. He leaned forward from his contour chair, dangled his beer can between his legs. “What happened in Forest Hills last night would not happen in our neighborhood. We take care of our own. We take care of each other. We don’t need to hire some fancy paid security service like they got in some places, like Forest Hills Gardens or Jamaica Estates. We...
“Forest Hills Gardens? You mean they have a private security patrol there? Where the hell were they Wednesday night?”
“Nah, nah. You don’t know Queens too good, right?”
“I don’t know Queens, period.”
“Okay, so here’s the story. Forest Hills Gardens is that ritzy section around the Forest Hills Inn. You know where that is? The square?”
“Right. I know the square.”
“Okay, so all those streets startin’ there, they give ’em names like Deepdene and Greenway Terrace, ya know, all that phony Old English stuff, so anyway, once you’re past the Forest Hills Tennis Stadium you’re out of the Gardens. In just plain old Forest Hills. Got it?”
“No private security patrol in just plain Forest Hills.”
“Right.”
Frank Palermo was relaxed and expansive and in a confiding frame of mind. He glanced at the tape recorder, admired it and kept talking.
“See, we provide our own protection here. Eighteen signed-up members.”
The Neighborhood Watch Committee kept to a tight schedule. When Palermo worked nights,
11
M IKE STEIN HAD MADE an intuitive decision to interview Frank Palermo, the bus driver, alone. He had seen him briefly at the murder site and had read his initial police interview.
Frank Palermo led the way into the cool neat interior of his small house. There was a group of women seated around a dining-room table. They were too intent on their activity to look up.
“Hey, Ange,” Palermo called, “bring a coupla cold ones into my den.”
One of the women sighed loudly, shook her head with annoyance and left the table.
“Here we are,” Palermo announced, “my den.”
It had once been a garage, and despite the renovations it still looked like a garage.
“So wadda ya think? My game and communications room.”
He pointed to various items: a large-screen TV, a VCR, a collection of video games, a music system, the works.
“They got real sophisticated, ya know, not like when they first came out, these video games. I got the games all catalogued to sort of, you know, trace the progress these game-makers come up with. They keep you on your toes, these electronics whizzes. And then, when I wanna relax the old brain”—he pointed with pride—“I just lean back in the old contour chair. Only old thing in the room; like it just fits my body, ya know? And I play an old movie or sometimes just put on an old record, stretch out and reeeelax. Ya know?”
“Yes. I know,” Mike said.
There was an impatient kicking at the door. “Open up, Frank, I got my hands full.”
He yanked the door open, and his wife put the tray down on the large desk that dominated the wall opposite the entertainment center.
“Watch my papers, jeez, watch it,” Palermo told her.
“I didn’t touch your papers. There’s your beer and your cheese puffs and your pretzels, so that’s it, right? I can get back to my own business now?”
He gestured toward his contour chair, but Mike declined with thanks. The hard wooden desk chair was better. He put his tape recorder on the desk, in full view but without mentioning it. That would be up to Palermo. It was his den.
“So,” Palermo began after a good gulp of beer. “I seen you looking at my street map up on the wall and the schedule. I’m the coordinator. For the Neighborhood Watch Committee. And treasurer. Not that we have any money; just expenses, like for flashlights and ID cards and things like that.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it,” Mike suggested.
“Yeah, well, I’ll tell you.” Palermo was serious now. He leaned forward from his contour chair, dangled his beer can between his legs. “What happened in Forest Hills last night would not happen in our neighborhood. We take care of our own. We take care of each other. We don’t need to hire some fancy paid security service like they got in some places, like Forest Hills Gardens or Jamaica Estates. We...
“Forest Hills Gardens? You mean they have a private security patrol there? Where the hell were they Wednesday night?”
“Nah, nah. You don’t know Queens too good, right?”
“I don’t know Queens, period.”
“Okay, so here’s the story. Forest Hills Gardens is that ritzy section around the Forest Hills Inn. You know where that is? The square?”
“Right. I know the square.”
“Okay, so all those streets startin’ there, they give ’em names like Deepdene and Greenway Terrace, ya know, all that phony Old English stuff, so anyway, once you’re past the Forest Hills Tennis Stadium you’re out of the Gardens. In just plain old Forest Hills. Got it?”
“No private security patrol in just plain Forest Hills.”
“Right.”
Frank Palermo was relaxed and expansive and in a confiding frame of mind. He glanced at the tape recorder, admired it and kept talking.
“See, we provide our own protection here. Eighteen signed-up members.”
The Neighborhood Watch Committee kept to a tight schedule. When Palermo worked nights,
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