Stakeout (2013)

by Hall, Parnell

We seemed to be passing a lot of cars. I peeked at the dashboard. MacAullif was doing ninety.

  “I guess if you’re a cop you got a right to drive any speed you want.”

  MacAullif ignored me. If anything, he accelerated.

  “That’s my exit,” I said as we passed Ninety-sixth Street.

  MacAullif zigzagged through traffic, went up the ramp to the Cross Bronx Expressway and the George Washington Bridge. He kept right, swerved around the entrance to Martha Washington, the bridge’s lower level.

  “We going to Jersey?” I said. I remembered Al Pacino saying the same thing in The Godfather when Michael Corleone was in the car with Sollozzo, and his heart was in his throat because they were heading for Jersey, and the restaurant where they’d planted the gun in the bathroom for him was in the Bronx. “I thought you said it would be a bad idea to talk to the motel manager.”

  MacAullif pulled out in front of an eighteen-wheeler, passed a slow-moving panel truck and got in the right-hand lane to exit.

  We weren’t going to the motel. I had a sudden paranoid thought, Good god, he is going to turn me in to the cops. Which shows how stressed out I was. Because that couldn’t possibly compute. After all, what conceivable explanation could he come up with for putting me under arrest?

  We weren’t going to the police station either. MacAullif got on the Palisades Parkway, heading north, and hit the gas.

  One good thing, he was obeying the speed limit. At least compared to New York. He was only doing seventy. I guess because he wasn’t a Jersey cop and couldn’t count on their cooperation. Not because he was afraid they’d stop him and take charge of his prisoner.

  “Where the hell are we going?”

  MacAullif steamed on by exit one and kept going north. Finally he slowed, put on his blinker.

  I looked.

  There was a roadside rest area up ahead on the right. Not with amenities. Just a place you could pull off the road and park.

  MacAullif drove in. There was no one around. He parked behind a grove of trees, killed the motor.

  “Get out.”

  My mouth fell open. I wasn’t Michael Corleone in The Godfather. I was Adriana in The Sopranos, Chris’s cop-collaborating girlfriend being taken for a ride by Bruce Springsteen’s guitarist, Silvio.

  “Am I getting whacked?”

  “I wish.”

  He jerked his thumb.

  I opened the door, got out, waited for MacAullif to join me.

  He didn’t.

  Before it dawned on me what he was doing, MacAullif started the car and drove off.

  18

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE HE LEFT you there,” Alice said.

  It was not the first time she had said so. I guess her disbelief was ongoing. I had accepted the situation. At least the fact that it happened. Of course, I had a lot longer to think about it, having had to get home from Jersey.

  It involved crossing the northbound lanes of the Palisades Parkway, not fun in rush hour, to get to the southbound lanes. Then crossing the southbound lanes, slightly easier, to get to the right-hand side of the road.

  Then trying to hitchhike on the Palisades Parkway, a fruitless, bad, and illegal enterprise. At least no one tried to pick me up, which probably would have resulted in a ten-car pileup or me getting arrested or both.

  Then it required walking several miles south to exit one, I couldn’t tell you how many as my internal odometer is somewhat faulty. Then attempting to hitchhike south on 9W for several blocks, until finally giving up and just walking the damn thing.

  Then taking a bus over the George Washington Bridge, catching a subway downtown to pick up my car, and then driving home.

  If you’re wondering, yes, I had my cell phone, yes, I could have called Alice to come get me, but that would have required her going downtown to get my car and fighting her way through rush-hour traffic to pick me up, with the end result that she would have had all that time to come to grips with MacAullif stranding me in New Jersey, and move on to new subject matter, such as what I had done to deserve it.

  Not that she didn’t get there anyway.

  “So, MacAullif is pissed off because you found another body and happened to run away without telling the cops?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “What the hell were you thinking? You’re out on bail for a murder so you go breaking into a mobster’s house.”

  “I thought my number was on his caller ID.”

  “Yes, you did. Tell me, what would have been easier to explain, getting caught in the guy’s house, or having dialed him on your cell phone, a call that could have been made from anywhere on earth?”

  “There’s still some pockets you can’t get service.”

  “It’s not funny, Stanley. This whole thing’s got me freaked out.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes, I know. But I’m not going to be on your jury.”

  “This isn’t going to court.”

  “You copping a plea?”

  “I thought it wasn’t funny.”

  “It isn’t. I’m trying to boost my spirits by ridiculing you.”

  “How’s that working?”

  “It’s not really satisfying.” Alice shook her head. “I can’t believe you ran away.”

  “I didn’t run away.”

  “You didn’t stay. You found a dead body and you took off.”

  “I had to.”

  “Why?”

  “If the cops found me there, they’d think I did it.”

  “With what gun?”

  “How the hell should I know what gun?”

  “You can’t shoot a guy without a gun. Was there a gun there?”

  “Not that I noticed. There could have been one under the body. There could have been one under the bed. There could have been one in the trash. There could have been one anywhere in the house. It didn’t matter where. If there was one there at all, the cops would assume I used it and that would be that. Even if there wasn’t a gun, there was no way I could explain what I was doing there.”

  “You were investigating the murder.”

  “How did I get a line on the guy? If I don’t tell them, they suspect me of murder. If I do tell them, I implicate MacAullif.”

  “MacAullif left you on the Palisades Parkway.”

  “Right. I should pay him back by getting him convicted of a felony?”

  “That’s silly.”

  “Conspiring to conceal a crime is a felony.”

  “You didn’t conspire to conceal a crime. You conspired to solve a crime. It’s not the same thing.”

  “Tell it to the cops.”

  “Stanley. Wake up. You didn’t kill anyone. You didn’t commit a crime. You can’t conspire to conceal a crime that isn’t a crime.”

  “You don’t have to sell me, Alice.”

  “It sounds like I do. If you want to feel guilty about getting MacAullif in trouble, you gotta remember that is provisional on you being convicted of murder. Do I have to explain to you what torturous logic is in play here?”

  “No. You have to explain it to MacAullif. Because he’s the one making the claim.”

  “Oh, give me a break. MacAullif may rant and rave and curse you to the high heavens, but even he doesn’t think you’re going to get convicted of murder and he’s going to be charged as an accessory and kicked off the force. Not in his wildest dreams.”

  “I don’t have to get convicted to get him in trouble. If it turns out he’s been meddling in the case his ass is grass no matter what the outcome.”

  “Great. Just great. And who is this schmuck who got killed?”

  “The guy who rented the room next to the other schmuck who got killed.”

  “Which could be totally unrelated.”

  “Not any more, or he wouldn’t be dead. Which is why MacAullif getting a line on him while he was still alive is such a red flag.”

  “Are you sure he was still alive?”

  “What do you mean?”


  “Is it possible he was killed before MacAullif found out who he was?”

  “We don’t know the time of death. And the way things stand, nobody’s about to tell me.”

  “Would it be a lot better if the guy was dead when MacAullif was asking?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? If he was dead, MacAullif couldn’t have given you the guy’s address so you could kill him.”

  “If he was dead, everyone’s gonna think MacAullif knew he was dead and that’s why he was asking.”

  “If MacAullif knew he was dead, why would he have to ask?”

  “Huh?”

  “How could MacAullif know he was dead and not know who he is? I mean, ‘Someone’s dead, I wonder who. Let me ask the motel manager.’” Alice shrugged her shoulders, spread her hands. “See? It doesn’t compute.”

  “No. ‘The guy who rented the motel room is dead, let me find out who he is.’”

  “MacAullif knows the guy rented the motel room but doesn’t know who he is?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then how does he know he rented the motel room? ‘The guy who rented the motel room is dead. I wonder who he is. Let’s ask the motel manager.’”

  “Stop, stop, stop.” It was like being stung by a hive of bees. “Alice, all your points are valid. You don’t have to convince me, you have to convince a very skeptical New Jersey cop, who isn’t gonna care that all your points are valid. All he’s gonna care is, someone’s dead, and someone’s messing with the evidence. In his humble opinion, which may be supported by very faulty logic.”

  “Can’t you just point out what I did?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not as good at arguing and I don’t have nice tits.”

  “Stanley.”

  “I’m serious. All the arguments in the world aren’t going to help. The only thing that’s going to persuade this cop is finding out who did it.”

  “And MacAullif won’t investigate?”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “And he doesn’t want you to investigate for yourself?”

  “No.”

  “And you feel you have to do what he wants because you got him into trouble.”

  “In a way.”

  “What way would that be?”

  “All, right, that’s how I feel.”

  “So you can’t investigate?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So who can?”

  19

  MIKE SALLINGSWORTH LOOKED OLDER THAN the last time I’d seen him. Which was strange, since I looked exactly the same. I’d hired Mike once, way back when. Now I was looking to hire him again.

  Sallingsworth was a private investigator from Atlantic City. It occurred to me that I only hired private eyes when I was in New Jersey. Mike sat at the kitchen table, sipped his scotch, ran his fingers through his rapidly thinning hair.

  “I’m retired,” he said.

  “For the night?”

  “Don’t be a jerk,” Mike said. It was two in the afternoon. “I retired three years ago. Got tired of the routine. I got a little bit saved up, enough to spend the winters in Florida.”

  “What do you do for excitement?”

  “Not work. You can’t believe how stimulating that is. Get up, walk out, take the air. Come back when I damn well feel like it. There is a simple joy in not working that is an activity in itself.”

  “How’d you like a job?”

  “I would not like a job. I like this scotch. You always did bring me good scotch. On the other hand, you always brought me uninspiring work.”

  “It may not have inspired you. It happened to clear up a murder or two.”

  “As I recall, I never had to lift a finger.”

  “That’s because you’re a wealth of information. I’m wondering if that’s still true. What do you know about the Jersey Shore?”

  “I know enough to stay away from it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “There are two kinds of people on the Jersey Shore. Those that are connected, and those that are not connected. Those that are connected are dangerous. Those that are not connected are dangerous.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you can’t always tell which is which.” Sallingsworth poured another scotch, sloshed it around in his glass. “Can I assume you are talking about people who are connected?”

  “That would be a safe assumption.”

  “Safe for you. Dangerous for me. Luckily, I’m retired.”

  “Just because you’re retired doesn’t mean you don’t know things.”

  “Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I don’t like living.”

  “I assure you, you won’t be quoted.”

  “Can you assure me you weren’t followed here?”

  “Why would anyone follow me?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Would it have anything to do with your being arrested for murder?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Was it supposed to be a secret?”

  “No, but this is Atlantic City. We’re talking the Ft. Lee, Englewood Cliffs, Teaneck area.”

  “Murder’s murder. And it’s not every day the perp gets caught at the scene.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Clever defense. How’s it working for you?”

  “Not so good. The point is the guy who got killed isn’t in the mob. He worked for Aflac in New York.”

  “Really? With the duck?”

  “Yeah, the duck. If you heard about that you probably heard about Vinnie Carbone. Got whacked yesterday afternoon.”

  “So I understand. Only in that case they got no suspect.”

  “No, they don’t. I’m wondering if that’s because the cops tread lightly when the mob’s involved.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  “With regard to Vinnie Carbone’s mob connection. You wouldn’t happen to know what that was?”

  Sallingsworth sighed, pushed back the bottle. “Oh, dear. Just when things were going so well. Let me lay it out for you. You lead the cops to me. I give you the name of someone in the mob. You lead the cops to him. The mobster doesn’t like cops being led to him, so he inquires how this might have happened. He traces it back to me, and my retirement comes to a sudden and rather unpleasant conclusion.”

  “That sounds like a worst-case scenario.”

  “Well, it’s certainly not the best. So, could you think of any reason under the sun why I should help you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Your theory is if you tell me how to find this mobster and I lead the cops to him, he’ll be able to trace it back to me and therefore to you. Now assume you don’t tell me how to find him. I’m going to find him and lead the cops to him anyway. Then when he starts tracing things back, he’s going to find I called on you. He won’t know if you told me anything or not, he’ll just whack you for practice.”

  Mike poured another drink. “Not going to happen. And I’ll tell you why. If you get a lead on the mobster, it will be from someone else. And when he starts looking for the guy who ratted him out, he’ll find that guy, not me.”

  “Okay. Try this. If you tell me, I’ll go away and you’ll never see me again. If you don’t tell me, I’ll keep coming back and asking until you tell me or you’re dead.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Of course not. On the other hand, I don’t really wanna take the fall for murder. All right, look. You don’t wanna give me a lead to the mob, give me a lead to someone who can give me a lead to the mob.”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “Not really. It’s one more degree of separation. It’s the same thing you just said about finding the other guy first. Plus I won’t give your name to the guy you give me, which breaks the chain.”

  Sallingsworth studied my face. “You must be really desperate. What the hell’s going on?”

  I gave Sallingsworth a rundown of what happ
ened. When I was done he shook his head.

  “I don’t know how you ever lasted this long.”

  “I didn’t retire.”

  “That’s where you made your big mistake.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “Nothing’s gonna help you. You best shot is go home, watch TV, pretend this never happened.”

  “You forget I have this court date for murder.”

  “Your attorney any good? Your best shot is beating the rap. Trying to solve the crime will probably get you killed.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “You can’t help me at all?”

  Sallingsworth shook his head. “Wouldn’t be prudent.”

  I sighed, got up. “Well, enjoy your retirement, in case I don’t see you again.”

  Sallingsworth nodded, raised his glass. “Thanks for the scotch.”

  20

  AS IF I DIDN’T HAVE enough problems, now I had to investigate a homicide without getting an elderly detective from Atlantic City whacked. It was just the sort of moral dilemma I needed to complete my already impossible situation.

  I drove back from Atlantic City feeling mildly irritated that my old friend, Mike Sallingsworth, didn’t really want to die. So who could I ask for advice now? Not Richard. Not MacAullif. Not Alice. All had weighed in with the universally accepted position that I had totally fucked up. I had come to see Sallingsworth because I needed to get a line on the dead man without involving MacAullif. Now I had to get a line on the guy without involving Sallingsworth.

  As I came up on the Elizabeth exit I wondered if the cops were done with his house. The thought intrigued me. Would there be a crime scene ribbon across the door?

  Could it hurt to just drive by?

  I could think of many ways it could hurt to just drive by, starting with MacAullif twisting my head off my shoulders and ending with New Jersey cops gleefully waterboarding me. Neither seemed a desirable outcome, nor did either seem likely. The cops would have no reason to watch the house. It would not occur to them there might be something in it of some value to the killer. Or the man most likely to be cast in the role.

  As I got off the New Jersey Turnpike and drove toward the place, it occurred to me I was risking getting indicted for a second count of murder and all I was concerned with was whether I got a couple of other guys in trouble. I figured that made me one hell of a good guy.