The Roma Deli on Houston was one of Gabriel and Sal’s favorite places to get a sandwich in Lower Manhattan. It was housed on the lower floor of a late nineteenth-century redbrick garment warehouse that had gone out of business just before the First World War. Gabriel arrived fifteen minutes early, but Sal never showed. Disappointed, Gabriel ate alone and left. He worried about his good friend and sensed something important must have happened for Sal not to show. Gabriel decided to head uptown to the hotel lines on Park to see if any cabby he knew there had seen him.
After dropping a couple at Grand Central, the second rare bird of the morning dropped from the sky. First, a dove had appeared — angelic Jennifer in her white knitted sweater. And now, a raven — like the one perched above the bust of Pallas in Poe’s sad poem. On the corner of Third and 43rd, a young executive in a long black coat bounded toward him, his right arm waving frantically. Gabriel stopped; the man rushed in.
“Kennedy Airport. Please hurry. I need to be there by three thirty. Take the Triboro.” Then he sat back with his briefcase on his lap and closed his eyes, leaving Gabriel to perform the necessary magic to get him there on time.
It was 2:45 p.m. With the early rush-hour traffic beginning, Gabriel knew it’d be nearly impossible to fulfill the request. Still, he had to try. Without hesitation, he burned rubber and was about to discover what Vito’s cab could do. The FDR Drive was usually heavy at this time, but he might be able to pick up speed on the bridge and Grand Central; the Van Wyck Expressway would be another matter, but by then he’d be close, and unless there was an accident or stalled vehicle somewhere, traffic on the Van Wyck was usually not bad from three to four in the afternoon.
Gabriel snaked furiously around the slower traffic, maintaining about seventy miles per hour in even the trickiest spots. Before long, and after seeing how smoothly Vito’s new car handled, Gabriel began to put perhaps too much trust in his automobile, trust he would not have given had he been driving one of the more rickety, loose-near-every-nut-and-bolt cars. As Gabriel raced in and out of the three lanes, other cars raced with him, the sporty cab intimidating and inciting idiotic motorists to keep up, go faster, challenge for the lead. Human nature, Gabriel mused, was sometimes so predictable — monkey see, monkey do was all there was to it. And on this day, on this road, Gabriel was the lead monkey. So he went faster, to see how long these other stupid monkeys would try to keep up.
During rush hours, the cops went on coffee breaks and didn’t show up unless one of the loser monkeys lost control and crashed. Gabriel’s mind went back to Sal; the sick feeling he’d had earlier in the morning returned. He would head back to the city empty and pass by Springfield Boulevard to see if perhaps Sal had called it an early day and gone home. At three o’clock, traffic slowed just before the big bridge; Gabriel pulled two of the dirtiest dollars he could find from his filthy stack, a mandatory donation to the Tunnel Authority, which slowed traffic mercilessly, sometimes up to forty minutes. While he waited for his change, Gabriel saw police patrol cars parked near the money-counting tower headquarters, so he pulled out of the booth at a moderate speed and gunned the Chevy around the first big turn; he planned to cruise under the Hoyt Avenue underpass into the Grand Central at high speed. He sensed he wouldn’t be chased unless he made his speeding obvious. He’d learned how to go fast, but how to fly just under the radar. If you didn’t learn to do this, you’d never make a buck.
His passenger slept, even when cold air snuck into the cab as Gabriel lowered his window to pay the toll. Gabriel cranked up the heat, as well as his daring, and after the first turn, swung into the left lane and pushed down steadily on the accelerator. Without hesitation, the Impala glided to fifty … fifty-five … sixty … sixty-three miles per hour. Should I push it further? Gabriel wondered. The bridge was radar patrolled. The maximum speed allowed was forty. To heck with it — he pushed the pedal down. The car ahead of him just wasn’t going fast enough. Should he slow down or pass? At that high speed, decisions must be made in microseconds. Gabriel didn’t slow down. He blinked right, looked over his shoulder and moved to pass into the center lane, his eyes focused forward again. And then he saw it — twenty-five feet in front of him, a stalled vehicle stood like a two-ton solid iron pillar. There was no time to turn, so Gabriel went for the brakes, which unfortunately, locked on him, and with wide eyes he saw his car headed into the jaws of a dark-blue Dodge monster.
He gripped the steering wheel and pushed his body back, fearful that the crash might propel him through the windshield, but by the time he actually hit the Dodge, his own car had slowed to about thirty-five. Gabriel flew forward, hitting his chest on the steering wheel and jamming his right knee under the front console and steering column. His passenger, who wasn’t wearing his seat belt either, had awoken and managed to use his briefcase and left arm to brace himself as he lurched forward into the cab’s glass partition, which amazingly, didn’t shatter. The Chevy’s metal hood folded up on impact, like a mountain pushed skyward by the force of crashing tectonic plates and soon, all Gabriel could see before him was a wide piece of crushed yellow metal. The Chevy’s radiator burst, sending steam into the cold air, and the nauseating smell of antifreeze crept into the cab through the vents. Luckily, no other car had been coming fast in the center lane, so Gabriel’s cab was not hit from behind. Within minutes, traffic surrounding the accident slowed, but kept moving steadily around the crash. This was, after all, rush hour, and people from everywhere were rushing to get places. Gabriel clicked on his four-way flashers and glanced in the mirror.
“Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”
The man’s left elbow was sore, but that was all. “I’m fine. I’ve got to make my flight.”
“I’ll flag you down another cab,” Gabriel said. He pushed on his driver’s door, which didn’t budge at first since it had been partly jammed by the front left fender, but then it gave way. Gabriel felt the sway of the Triboro Bridge underneath him as he stepped onto the roadway and limped around the back of the cab to the passenger’s door. He opened it and urged the man to get out while he flagged down a taxi. In a second, a cab had pulled up next to them.
“Anyone hurt?” the cabby barked.
Gabriel shook his head. “Kennedy Airport by three thirty. Hurry please!”
It was now 3:13 p.m. The grateful passenger went for his wallet, but Gabriel promptly waved him off. “Forget it. Get in.”
The man hopped into the other taxi, and the cabby, an older Middle Eastern man, nodded to Gabriel. “Good luck kid.” He then snuck into the slow-moving right lane and picked up speed.
He’ll never make it now, Gabriel thought.
And the panic set in as his focus turned to the well-being of the passengers in the car he had hit. He discerned little movement through the huge back window of the big Dodge. Gabriel recognized the car instantly by the shape of the rear lights and the squared-off rear of the car. It was a Dodge Polara, just like his own car, only this was a 1964. Strangely, there was almost no visible damage whatsoever on the Dodge — the bumper appeared pushed in a little on the driver’s side, but that was all. Gabriel rushed to the driver’s door. What he saw frightened him. An elderly woman sat in the front bench seat behind the large steering wheel, feeling gingerly around her neck with her right hand.
“Ma’am, are you hurt?” Gabriel inquired, opening her door slightly. She did not respond and continued to stare ahead. “Do you need an ambulance?”
Still no answer. Her eyes were glazed over; it was obvious that she was not cognizant and did not hear him, and he knew there was little he could do. Then he saw the mammoth tow truck that patrolled the bridge, yellow lights flashing, making its way around traffic and heading toward him. A little relief set in, and then some more when the old woman spoke.
“My pearls.” And then, more loudly, almost panic-stricken: “Where are my pearls?”
Gabriel realized that was why she’d been feeling around her neck. He looked into the Dodge’s cabin and
saw a large string of pearls on the floor.
“They’re right there, ma’am.”
But the woman did not respond. In the distance, a siren wailed. Gabriel closed her door and moved cautiously away, and a jolt of pain shot up his leg and pulsed around his right hip. He limped his way around the front of the Dodge, opened the passenger door, picked up the pearls and held them in his open hand for the woman to see.
He leaned toward her. “Here they are. Your pearls, ma’am; they’re right here. See?”
The woman’s eyes moved to Gabriel’s hand. “Are these my pearls?”
“Yes,” Gabriel said, happy to see the woman awakening from her stupor.
“Thank you … for finding them. They were Mother’s. She’d be sad if I lost them.”
“You’re welcome,” Gabriel replied, feeling ashamed at having slammed into the nice lady’s car and wanting to apologize for his stupidity. But he held back, kept his mouth shut and accepted her kind sincerity in silence. “Help will be here shortly.” Then he headed back toward his cab as the tow truck positioned itself behind it.
The ambulance arrived not long after and parked in front of the big Dodge. The paramedics attended the woman, who still looked dazed and did not say much. One of the paramedics inquired about Gabriel’s condition.
“Oh, I’m fine. Just a bruised knee. Please take care of her.”
The paramedics strapped the woman to a stretcher and lifted her into the ambulance, which soon was off to Astoria General. A second tow truck arrived and parked in front of the Dodge; the driver got out and busily set about hooking chains to the car’s front end so it could be towed off the bridge toward Hoyt Avenue. Gabriel was awed at how quickly a good day had turned bad, almost tragic. He hoped the old woman would be okay. He put his cab into neutral, and when the way cleared, he felt the big weight of the tow truck behind him bang his rear bumper, denting and scratching Vito’s immaculate Impala as it pushed him off the bridge. He shut his heater vents so as not to smell the pungent burning tire rubber and lingering antifreeze. Soon his cab sat helpless by the wall adjacent to the highway, just behind the ‘64 Dodge.
Both tow trucks left; they had to return to their posts to help other stranded motorists. Gabriel, however, couldn’t leave his car yet. He’d been instructed to wait for the police. A quarter hour passed before a police cruiser from the Bridge and Tunnel Authority arrived to investigate the crash. Not long after that, the NYPD showed up to ask further questions.
“How fast were you traveling?” an officer asked.
Gabriel told the truth. He knew the bridge was monitored closely and that they had surely clocked him, so it made no sense to lie. And he didn’t want to. He was humiliated and wondering what on earth he was going to tell Gibbs, who had entrusted him with Vito’s wheels. For telling the truth, Gabriel received a speeding ticket and was summoned to appear in court to explain his case in three weeks.
An hour had already passed before Gabriel reached a phone on the corner of 31st and Hoyt Avenue and found the courage to tell Gibbs about the accident. Gibbs took it all in calmly. He inquired about injuries and instructed Gabriel to await the company tow truck. Gabriel thanked him and hung up. Now he was agitated and fidgety, so he went to the corner delicatessen and ordered coffee, which turned out to be bitter and disgusting, just like his day.
His mind flooded with thoughts — Helene, her father, Jennifer, the old lady. But paramount on his list was Sal. What on earth had happened to Sal?
CHAPTER 37
When Sal felt the weight of four suitcases loaded into his trunk on the Waldorf line at 9:45 a.m., shortly after admiring Gabriel’s hot-rod taxi, his immediate thought was that he was headed to an international terminal at Kennedy. But when the young couple stepped in and the man announced their destination — “South Hampton, Long Island, please” — Sal was shocked. The gods above must be smiling on me today, he thought.
“Sure thing, sir. You’re on the Checker Hampton Express.”
As he pulled out from the curb, Sal smiled, pondered what he’d tell Gabriel later on — that he’d played chauffeur to Gatsby and his girl and driven them to their luxurious estate. Sal’s excitement was understandable; this trip was outside the city limits in Suffolk County and carried a double fare. It was also a long trip, about a hundred and ten miles or so, and mostly highway. And though the Long Island Expressway had traffic tie-ups around the Queens Mall and Flushing areas, Sal knew that once past Glen Cove, around exit 39, it was easy cruising at about seventy miles per hour.
This was an excellent way to start the morning, and Sal felt fortunate he’d not be dealing with any city traffic for at least five hours; he calculated he’d make around two hundred bucks, not counting perhaps a meaty tip if these folks were not tightwads and enjoyed their ride. And with that little extra and what he’d make the rest of the day, he would probably have enough for his share of January’s rent and other bills. So from the outset, Sal was a gentleman and aimed to treat his passengers like royalty. He found Second Avenue, which would take him to the Midtown Tunnel on 36th Street. While waiting for a light on 40th, he asked if anyone could use a cup of coffee; one of his favorite coffee shops was just ahead on the corner of 39th, and they also had delicious pastries.
“Oh, that would be very nice,” the woman responded. “Wouldn’t it, Joe?”
“Sure thing, honey,” the man said. He leaned toward the divider. “Nice thinking, kid. I could use a strong cup. Didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
Sal pulled his cab in front of the shop. He would play waiter, even local historian on the way if it were necessary — anything that would earn him a huge tip. Once he had gotten them their food and coffees, they were on their way again, toward the tunnel.
Though it was sunny out and the temperature in the midthirties, Sal wondered why his passengers were headed to the Hamptons, a place where the wealthy kept their summer palaces, and not to Bermuda or Acapulco.
“If you folks don’t mind me asking, what brings you out to the tip of the island this time of year? I hear they’ve got nicer weather in Puerto Rico. And I’m only asking because I don’t get a trip like this often.”
The woman laughed and nudged her partner, as if suggesting that he should enlighten the driver. Tall and slender, with a playful air in her tone of voice, she was the type of woman Sal was instantly attracted to.
“We’re escaping.” She snuggled closer to her partner. Her movements were childish, yet sexy, and made Sal wish he could change places with the man by her side, who seemed distracted. As she wriggled in the back seat, Sal imagined himself running his hands up her thighs, looking into her eyes, doing everything it seemed her partner was avoiding.
“My husband’s a journalist, but for the next few weeks at least, he’ll be working on his novel, a medieval romance, and he needs peace and quiet. While Joe works, I’ll be out improving my photography; I’m fascinated with the ocean, fishing boats, gulls, isolated beaches — so romantic.” She glanced at her husband who was looking out the window.
“If you’re looking for isolation, I’m sure you’ll find it on the south shore. I doubt many folks are there this time of year, except for the locals. And there’s plenty of ocean to photograph. But I’ve heard the winds off the Atlantic really whip in winter. Hope you’re ready for the chilly weather.”
“We will be,” Joe answered, a little doubt weighing his words, “if we can find firewood this late in the season.” He turned to his wife. “I just remembered darling. I’m not sure there’s much left in the shed from last year.”
To Sal, Joe looked like all the other executives he drove downtown during early rush hours, the crescent of wrinkles under dark eyes, the graying hairs, the tight tie, always rifling through papers and worried about schedules, disconnected from reality. If he envied their money, he did not envy their stressed lives.
“Right off of the expressway, there’s a big place, I think,” Sal said, trying his best to be helpful. After he had said thi
s though, he almost wished he hadn’t. If he were wrong, his passengers would be disappointed. It had been two years since he’d last traveled this far out on the Island. “We can stop there, if you’d like.”
“Fabulous,” the woman responded. “Problem solved.”
As if a great weight was suddenly lifted from his mind, Joe leaned back and was soon asleep — the caffeine in his coffee no match for his exhaustion. He slept for the next thirty exits while his wife stared blankly at the passing scenery.
Vast stretches of farmland and wooded fields were visible once they had passed Glen Cove, punctuated occasionally by new gated communities of cheaply fabricated but expensive homes. For some miles, there were factories on either side of the highway sporting darkened cinder block foundations and intriguing, rusting machinery, cooling towers and smokestacks. At times, a lonely group of cows or horses could be seen grazing in the distance, but these were oddities, remnants of a disappearing past, of a rustic island paradise being overrun by suburban sprawl.
The sun disappeared behind some dark rain clouds as they entered Suffolk County; it had gotten chillier in the cab and Sal turned up the heat. Awakening from her trance, the woman glanced at her husband and sighed deeply, as though she doubted that this little vacation was going to do much to heal the wounds in their relationship.
Sal was thinking of drug-addicted Nancy Camino and her lost sister, Janie. After his initial search for Janie had failed to turn up even one lead, Sal had told Nancy not to lose hope, that he’d continue searching till he found her. He’d already unsuccessfully combed three topless bars on 9th and 12th near Midtown and two others in Harlem on upper Broadway. Sal hadn’t done anything since the twenty-third nor heard anything from Nancy over Christmas. As he stared blankly at the road, it dawned on him that he’d failed to search the Lower East Side. That might be a good place to resume, perhaps later when he returned to the city. His passenger’s sudden query startled him.
Paint It Yellow Page 19
