Black Maps jm-1

by Peter Spiegelman

  “Keep on him, Sanchez.” We waited. Sikes checked status with the foot patrol. Pritchard and Victor were watching Vetter have coffee at a place off Hanover Square. They thought he might be waiting for someone. Neary was a block behind Compton, approaching Broadway. DiLillo was a block ahead of her. Sanchez cut in.

  “He’s leaving, Eddie. Repeat, Mills is leaving. Wearing black pants and a dark gray overcoat. Got a black leather briefcase on a shoulder strap. Guy doesn’t look happy, Eddie.” Sikes looked at me.

  “Give me a radio,” I said. Sikes reached around and grabbed one. I plugged the earpiece in and flicked the switch. Nothing. “Dead.” I tossed it in his lap.

  He swore colorfully. “That’s the last one.”

  “You’d think an outfit like Brill could afford batteries,” I said, laughing. “I’ll use my phone.” I climbed out of the van.

  It was almost five, and the sidewalks were jammed. I nearly missed Mills as he came out of the building. He was walking quickly, but his gait was stiff. His long blond hair looked greasy, and his complexion was gray, though it could’ve been the streetlights. He was stabbing at his cell phone. He headed up Broad Street. I let him get a half block ahead of me before I followed. In these crowds, I was going to stay close. Mills turned on Water and passed the van without a glance. He took a right on Whitehall, headed toward Bowling Green. I followed, struggling through the crowd. So far, it was the same route Cheryl Compton had taken.

  It was much colder now, and the air felt like snow. The clouds, lit from below by the city, were heavy with it. Mills was still fiddling with his phone. The crowds grew thicker as we approached Bowling Green. The stream of people became a river, with tributaries and crosscurrents. One branch flowed north, up Broadway, another to the west, into the Bowling Green subway station, and there was a heavy press southbound, to the ferry terminal. People were bundled against the cold, and lost in the automatic routines of commuting. We were at the bottom of Bowling Green, just opposite the Custom House. Mills crossed Whitehall and headed for the subway. I was right behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I managed a quick call to Sikes before I descended beneath the river. I was on the 4 train, to Brooklyn, wedged between a musty-smelling man and a large woman whose breasts were mashed against my broken rib. I was riding at the front of the car, near the connecting door to the car ahead. Through its scratched glass I could just see Mills’s arm and shoulder.

  I knew from the sheet Neary had given me that Mills lived in Park Slope, and I figured we were headed there. That meant three stops to Atlantic Avenue, then a transfer, probably to the 1 train, and one more stop, maybe two. We rumbled along under the river, the lights in the car periodically winking out and fluttering back on. We slowed coming into the first stop in Brooklyn.

  Borough Hall is a big transfer point, and lots of people got on and off the train. I got a momentary scare when I lost sight of Mills, but then he reappeared, having been hidden behind a man traveling with several large rugs. I shifted my position and saw him in profile. His narrow face was taut, and his lips had all but disappeared. So far he’d shown no signs of concern about being followed; no furtive glances, no sudden course changes. He seemed oblivious to what was going on around him, blinkered by tension and fear.

  We went on, past Nevins Street, to Atlantic Avenue. Atlantic Avenue is a bigger transfer point than Borough Hall, linking more subway lines and connecting to the Long Island Rail Road’s Flatbush Avenue station. If Mills were headed for Park Slope, he’d change here. He stirred as we approached the station. I wormed my way toward the doors. There was a rush of people when they opened, and in it I lost Mills. I scanned up and down the platform and saw nothing but a mass of shuffling bodies. The station was a maze of narrow passages and stairways. I was following signs to the 1 train when I saw a tall, thin figure jabbing at a cell phone. It was Mills, but he wasn’t switching to another subway line. He was headed toward the LIRR station.

  Flatbush Avenue is a small station, one end of a spur line that makes two other stops in Brooklyn and ends in Queens, at the LIRR’s big hub in Jamaica. It’s under perpetual renovation, but remains a ratty affair, with not much more to it than a couple of platforms, some ticket windows, an information booth, a decomposing newsstand, and a scabrous snack bar. At this hour it was packed. Up ahead, Mills moved with the crowd toward the platforms. I grabbed some schedules from the information booth and followed.

  People were waiting four deep out there. It was easy to keep sight of Mills, but I was worried about losing him when the train came. I edged nearer, through a phalanx of heavy coats, and made no friends doing it. Mills was still working his cell phone, apparently without success. His face was waxen. The train came, and he pushed on. I did the same, at the opposite end of the car from Mills. It was standing room only and nearly as close as the subway. Something loud and garbled came from the PA system, and we lurched out of the station.

  We rolled along at a good clip, first through tunnels, and then up on elevated tracks. I leaned near the door and looked out. There wasn’t much to see through the Plexiglas: darkness, the smear of city lights, and my own face, white and tense. The conductor came by for tickets, and I bought one for Jamaica. We slowed coming into the East New York station. I pulled out my cell phone. The signal was spotty, but I tried Neary anyway. I heard his voice on the line, but between the weak signal and the train noise, I couldn’t make out his words. I told him where I was and what I was doing, but I had no idea if he heard any of it. I looked down the car. Mills stood by the far doors, swaying as the car swayed.

  I leafed through the schedules I’d grabbed and found the train we were on. The next stop would be Jamaica. It was the junction point for all the LIRR branch lines, and from there, Mills could go anyplace on a system that stretched from Manhattan to Montauk. After Jamaica, this particular train would go on to make the Hempstead branch run, stopping in several Queens neighborhoods on its way into Nassau County. One of those neighborhoods was Bellerose.

  The platform was crowded when we pulled into Jamaica. There was a heavy flow of people on and off the train, but Mills didn’t move and neither did I. After a few minutes, the doors closed and we pulled out again. The conductor came around for tickets, and I bought one for Bellerose.

  I tried my cell again. The signal was still flaky. I punched Neary’s number and this time heard him clearly. Unfortunately, I was hearing his voice mail greeting. I left a message, telling him where I thought I was headed. Then I tried Sikes. He answered right away. I could barely make out his words, but I heard urgency in his voice. I gave him my status quickly, and he started to tell me something about Compton when the signal cut out completely. I tried to get him back but couldn’t.

  The Hollis station came and went, and so did Queens Village, and then we were in Bellerose. Mills was standing by the door, ready to go. Lots of people got off at Bellerose; Mills was the first. He walked briskly, like he knew where he was going. I stayed well back. I wasn’t worried about losing him now; I knew where he was going too. Mills walked out of the station onto Commonwealth Boulevard. I followed.

  It was colder now, a wet, penetrating cold, and snow was coming down in big, ragged flakes that were too heavy to float. They melted on the pavement, and the streets around the station glistened under sodium lights. Mills walked north, toward Hillside Avenue. His stride was stiff and jerky, like he was fighting the urge to run. He never looked back.

  He was two blocks ahead now. I remembered how the streets ran here, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before Mills turned east off Commonwealth. He didn’t disappoint me. When he turned, I did too, onto a parallel street. It was quieter back here, with little traffic and no pedestrians. Warm light spilled from the windows of the small houses, and it was easy to imagine dinner on the table and kids doing homework inside. A lot of the places were lit elaborately for Christmas, and the falling snow was painted in gaudy colors.

  I could follow this street east for three bl
ocks, then turn north again to get to Trautmann’s house. If I was fast enough, I might even get there before Mills did. I broke into a run. It wasn’t pleasant. There was a burst of pain with every footfall. It was work to get air into my lungs and work to get it out again, and each breath burned. After a block, the muscles in my side began to seize up. I slowed to a jog and then to a walk at Trautmann’s street.

  I stopped behind a parked panel truck. Trautmann’s house was less than a block away, across the street. It was dark, and as shuttered and guarded looking as it had been the first time I’d seen it. My heart was pounding, and it wasn’t from the run. I took some slow, deep breaths, trying to dissipate the building adrenaline.

  I hadn’t been there two minutes when Mills crossed the street and climbed the concrete steps to Trautmann’s front door. He rang the bell and waited. He rang again, and waited, and rang again. He stepped away from the door and looked up and down the street and looked at his watch. Then he walked down the steps and up Trautmann’s narrow driveway and disappeared around the side of the house. I stayed put. Nothing happened for a minute or two, and then I saw lights through the tall hedges at the back of the house.

  I waited some more. The snow was falling faster now, in smaller flakes that stuck on the bushes and the tiny lawns. It was quiet, and the snow made it seem even quieter. I walked down the street at an even pace, past Trautmann’s house on the opposite side. No car in the driveway. I kept on walking for another block. A station wagon drove by but did not pause. I crossed the street and turned back.

  The For Sale sign was still up at the house next door to Trautmann’s, and its windows were still dark and empty. I glanced around the street. No one. I walked quickly up the driveway and around to the back of the vacant house. The yard was a square of brown grass, now dusted in snow. It was bordered in the rear by a low cinderblock wall, and on the far side by a section of the fence that ran around Trautmann’s property. I crossed to the far corner of the yard, where it abutted Trautmann’s detached garage. There was a narrow strip of dirt between the rear of the garage and Trautmann’s tall hedge. I scaled the fence and dropped quietly into the gap.

  I crouched, listening, and a low growl came from the other side of the hedge. In the yard behind Trautmann’s, the Rottweiler was running in agitated circles, snorting and grunting. His growls grew angrier, and his grunts became barks. Shit. I moved slowly along the back of the garage and then down the side. The dog quieted down. I stood in the shadows for a minute, getting my breathing under control, listening. Nothing moved. I peered into the small garage window. No car.

  The rear of Trautmann’s house was dark, except for some windows on the far side. I crossed the driveway and edged toward them, staying close to the back of the house. As I drew nearer, I saw that they were kitchen windows, set on either side of a metal storm door at the top of four concrete steps. I put my hand on the iron railing and my foot on the first step. I heard a scraping sound and a crackling noise.

  And something white exploded behind my eyes, and swallowed me whole.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Something cool was resting on the side of my face, pressing up against my cheek. It was smooth and flat. It was heavy. I opened an eye, and the world was dim and red and tilting away. I shut my eye, but things kept on tilting in the darkness.

  Something cool was resting on the side of my face, pressing up.. no. My face was resting on something cool. My cheek was pressed against something cool and smooth and flat. A floor. I was facedown on a floor. My body was loose and liquid and drifting, and I was tethered to the earth only by my face on the floor, and by my head, which was as dense as a crate of mud.

  I heard sounds-murmuring, rising, falling, loud bursts. After a while, the sounds became words, many of them, coming rapidly, one after the other. I strained to catch them, but they were like live fish, slippery, wriggling, and I couldn’t hang on. After a longer while, the words became speech.

  “Stop whining, for chrissakes, and bring that box from the hall.”

  “You’re sure he’s not awake? His arms and legs keep moving.”

  “I told you, a jolt like he got, they twitch around. I gave him a pretty good boot in the head, too. He’s not going anywhere. Just keep your pants dry.”

  “Shouldn’t we put a plastic thing on his ankles too?”

  “Go ahead, if you plan on carrying him around. Me, I’d rather he walk. Listen, take a deep breath and shut the fuck up for a couple of minutes, will you? Make yourself useful, bring that box in here.”

  “You fit it all in three boxes?”

  “Everything we picked, videos and all.”

  “What about the rest?”

  “Had a little bonfire on Sunday. Don’t need any of that shit, and I sure as hell don’t want it turning up around here. They’ll be on our butts soon enough, thanks to you. Don’t want to make it any easier for ’em than you already have, huh Millie?”

  “I told you…”

  “Now is not the time for you to talk. I don’t give a shit what you told me. If you could’ve held your fucking water, none of this shit would be happening and I wouldn’t be packing my fucking bags now.”

  “He knew…”

  “Didn’t they teach you English at prep school? What don’t you understand about ‘Shut the fuck up?’ Christ… and this was such a sweet deal, too. Bought you that fucking hacienda down in Santa Whatever. Got me my place in the islands. And it had legs. We could’ve run this out for years. But you have to shit your pants the first time somebody asks a question. And calling the Federales… fucking incredible. Make us rush things with ’ole Ricky P. And now this.”

  “He knew about Welch…”

  “How did you get this far, being so stupid, huh Millie? If he knew so much, he wouldn’t be making phone calls, telling you to meet him on some street corner, you putz. He was fishing, and you were the fish. And he hooked you and gave you lots of line so you could fucking drag him here. And now what? Now I’m getting out of Dodge, thanks to you.”

  The voices approached and retreated, accompanied by footsteps, the hard sounds of heels on bare floors. The voices were familiar, but I couldn’t find the names. A twitch shot through my shoulders and arms, and I realized my wrists were bound behind me. I tried opening my eyes. One was pressed against the floor and squeezed shut. The other was sticky, crusted with something. I worked it open, and when I did, the world began to spin and tip again, and I was sliding off the floor. I shut it quickly.

  “I’m telling you, he’s coming around. I just saw him blink,” a voice said from close by. Footsteps approached.

  “Yeah? Let’s see,” the other voice said, and something hard prodded my broken rib. I gasped involuntarily, and jerked away. “Shit, you’re right, Millie. Get him up.” They grabbed me roughly by the arms and hauled me into a chair. A spike of pain rode up my side, from hip to armpit. I opened my eyes, and the world started sliding. I squeezed them shut and opened them again. And again. Things steadied.

  I was in a kitchen. It was a medium-sized, rectangular room, with a door and two windows at one end, a passage into a dark hallway at the other, and all the kitchen stuff massed on the long wall in between. The fittings were circa 1960-something: pea green cabinets, orange countertops, speckled linoleum floor, appliances the color of old mustard. Yellow roller shades covered the windows. A dim, ugly light came down from a fixture overhead.

  I was sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair, near a square wooden table. Three cardboard boxes took up most of the tabletop. They were open, and I saw bulky manila envelopes inside. The counters were bare except for an uncapped gallon bottle of vodka, an ice tray, my gun, my cell phone, and some plastic handcuffs, the disposable kind they use for mass arrests. Mills’s briefcase was resting against the dishwasher.

  “Yo, earth to Johnny! You in there, pal?” Trautmann snapped his fingers in front of my nose. He was wearing jeans and a black Metallica T-shirt. He had a highball glass in his hand and a big automatic unde
r his arm. His hands were huge, and the red scar on his forearm seemed to glow. There was tape across his nose and bruising under his eyes, and he made me think of the Vandals sacking Rome. He raised his glass and took a big swallow.

  Mills stood behind him. He looked a thousand years older than the first time I’d seen him, and his steady stream of chatter had gone dry. His eyes were shadowed, and the bones of his face seemed very close to the surface. His lank hair fell forward over his forehead. He crossed his arms on his chest, hugging nothing. He looked at Trautmann and me like we were zoo animals out of our cages.

  “How you feeling, Johnny? Not so hot, I bet.” Trautmann chuckled and took a swig from his glass. He was right. Besides the pain in my side and the dizziness, twitches still jerked through my arms and legs, my eyes were jumping around in my head, and nausea was rippling through me in waves. Worst of all, my brains were Jell-O. My attention kept wandering, like an energetic drunk on a street full of bars.

  “Got your wires all jangled up, huh? Sparky will do that.” Trautmann picked something up off the kitchen table and flipped it end over end in the air. It looked like a long, black flashlight, but instead of a lamp at the end, it had a wide, flat head, tipped with two pairs of metal fangs. He caught it and pressed a button and a blue ribbon of electricity arced across two of the fangs. A stun gun.

  “Not exactly street legal,” he said. “It cranks way higher than what the cops can use. Really eats up the batteries, though. But don’t worry, I got plenty on hand.” Then he made a sudden, grunting noise and feinted at my chest with the stun gun. I didn’t move, but only because I was processing things too slowly to be startled. Trautmann laughed massively.

  “Who’re you working for, anyway-the widow Welch, maybe? Pierro? I think it’s Ricky, but Millie doesn’t buy it. Tell me I’m right, Johnny.” I looked at him but said nothing. Trautmann smiled. “Any friends of yours out there now?” he asked. “Your buddy, Neary, maybe? I’m betting no. I didn’t see anybody, and I’m pretty careful. And you’ve been in here long enough that anybody outside would be good and worried by now. Would’ve come to take a look maybe, or called the cops. But it’s all quiet out there. I figure you for the lone wolf type, anyway. Am I right?” I kept looking at him, and kept quiet.