Other Men's Sins

by Lawrence Falcetano

  “The bonds of love,” I said.

  We laughed and she kissed my cheek.

  We were enjoying each other’s company and the perfect afternoon…until I spotted the stranger.

  I had noticed him several times as the afternoon progressed, but hadn’t mentioned it to Sandy. Each time he was watching us from a furtive place. At first, I thought it might be a coincidence, but he reappeared too many times in too many places and every time, his eyes were directed at us.

  Each time I looked at him, he was looking at us.

  I couldn’t identify him from the distance he kept, but I could tell he was big, fat big, not muscle big, and wearing dark clothes and a wide brim hat, which he wore low over his forehead partially concealing his face. Sandy wasn’t aware we were being followed, so I conducted myself in my usual manner. We continued through the street fair, laughing, joking and having a general good time. Sandy wanted to ride the carousel, so I bought two tickets and we rode double on a spotted pony. All the while, I watched fatso with a keen eye, while he kept a keen eye on us.

  When we walked, he walked. When we stopped, he stopped.

  The guy was beginning to get on my nerves.

  The perimeter of the street fair ended abruptly at the grounds of a branch library amid a park-like setting. I bought two bottles of spring water and Sandy and I sat on a bench to give our legs a break. A half-block away, the street fair continued. Thru the thinning crowd, I saw fatso leaning against a corner building, his eyes were on us again.

  Sandy said, “I think someone is following us.”

  She was more perceptive than I gave her credit for.

  “I know,” I said. “He’s been eyeing us since we got here.”

  “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. “I don’t know what his intentions are, but he won’t try anything in this environment.”

  I took Sandy’s water bottle and mine, and tossed them into a nearby trashcan, then took Sandy’s arm and led her to the front door of the Library. Inside, the sounds of the street fair were muted, but present. Other than a few patrons exploring the bookshelves, and two clerks at the checkout counter, the place was empty. I led Sandy to a row of books arranged on the floor to ceiling shelves in the main reading room. We stood between the shelves and waited. Sandy hooked her arm in mine and pressed herself close to me. My eyes were on the front door.

  It didn’t take long for fatso to make his appearance. He opened the door, and walked in like he was a local borrower. He looked about the place quickly, hoping he hadn’t lost us. I waited to see what his next move would be. I was hoping not to make a scene, but that depended on fatso’s intentions.

  When he walked to a small reading table closer to us, I prodded Sandy to move along the shelving further away from him. I could feel her hand trembling on my arm.

  “Why is he following us?” Sandy said.

  I put my finger to my lips, indicating for her to be quiet.

  Fatso picked up a magazine from a nearby shelf and flip a few pages; his eyes scanned the library over the top edge of the page as he made a cursory search for us. Although the library was well lit, I was still unable to see his face.

  He dropped the magazine on the table and moved between a set of shelves adjacent to where we were standing. We were no more than four feet to his right. If he’d looked in our direction, he would have seen us through the empty spaces on the bookshelf. Sandy pressed herself closer to me. I hoped he couldn’t hear her labored breathing.

  “What if he has a gun?” Sandy whispered.

  I put my fingers to my lips again as I guided her toward the end of the shelves by the rear wall. Fatso stepped up his pace and moved between the shelving in our direction.

  I noticed a single exit door in the sidewall nearby. If the door wasn’t locked, it was a chance to make a quick quiet getaway. If it was, we’d have no recourse but to rush out through the front door, which would cause a commotion in the library.

  With Sandy in front of me, we moved along the rear wall toward the door. Before we reached the door, I glanced back and saw fatso step out from between the shelves. He looked eagerly in our direction. When he thought I had spotted him, he quickly pulled his head in behind the shelves in a childish display of cat and mouse. Through the shelves, I watched him crane his neck in every direction; he appeared to be disoriented, not sure of himself. If he was trying to conceal the fact that he was following us, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

  I guided Sandy between two nearby shelves. We stood quietly. I wasn’t sure if he had seen us but wasn’t taking the chance. While he was preoccupied, we moved to the exit door.

  I pushed the crossbar on the door, but it didn’t budge.

  When I looked back, fatso was moving along the rear wall in our direction. Sandy saw him too. I could see the fear and urgency in her face as I struggled with the crossbar.

  Using both hands, I pushed against the bar again. I didn’t know what fatso would do, if, and when he reached us, but I was fearful for Sandy.

  I had to get the door open—now.

  I slammed my entire body weight against it...once...twice, until it finally snapped free with a metallic click. When the door opened, we rushed outside, letting the door slam shut behind us. As we walked around to the front of the building, I looked back but didn’t see fatso exit the door. We crossed the street at a brisk pace where it was easy to blend in with the street fair patrons.

  We concealed ourselves behind a large tree and watched for fatso to emerge from the library. He wasn’t very good at what he was trying to do and was probably still inside searching for us. If Sandy hadn’t been with me, I would have confronted him and found out what his game was.

  When he didn’t show, I said to Sandy, “Let walk back to the car.”

  “Sounds like a very good plan,” she said.

  We started back through the crowd to where I had parked the Chevy. I kept a keen eye out for this guy’s reappearance, but he never showed himself again. The entire way, Sandy wouldn’t let go of my arm.

  When we got to the Chevy, I found a wrinkled sheet of paper wedged under the windshield wiper with a handwritten scrawl on it. When I pulled it from beneath the wiper and read it, Sandy said, “What does it say?”

  “Give up the Conlon case,” I said.

  This was the third time someone had tried to scare me off the Conlon case. Only this time, Sandy was scared.

  I didn’t like it when Sandy was scared.

  Chapter 18

  Danny and I had been on the road less than ten minutes when I noticed a black SUV following close behind us. I looked through the rearview mirror and recognized Martin Denman, the phony PI who was working for Eileen Conlon. Any real PI would have enough skill to trail someone without giving himself away. It’s easy to keep a distance and not be noticed without losing your subject. It’s not brain surgery. This guy was beginning to annoy me. It was time to get him out of my hair. But not before I found out what his game was.

  Danny noticed my preoccupation with the rearview mirror. Before he could ask, I answered him. “That phony PI Eileen Conlon hired is following us.”

  Danny glanced at the side-view mirror. “The black SUV?” he said.

  “We’ll take him for a little ride and then find out what he knows.”

  I made a sharp turn off the main street onto the secondary roads. The SUV turned the corner quickly, squealing its tires—another giveaway. I drove down several tree-lined streets with the SUV close behind. I made a left, and another left, and then another left, which took us full circle and back to the street where we’d started. The SUV stayed close, only dropping back occasionally. You would think this guy would have enough sense to realize he had been made and was being played with. Danny was more than amused. So was I.

  “Is this guy kidding?” Danny said. “What’s he up to?”

  “I told you, he works for Eilee
n Conlon.”

  To my left, I spotted a little league field with a game in progress. There was a small diamond, and two sets of bleachers crowded with parents and enthusiastic fans. I pulled to the curb and parked. Denman drove the SUV passed and parked at the curb a half block in front of us.

  “This guy’s a clown,” Danny said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s see how funny he can be.”

  I left Danny in the car and walked out to the bleachers and pretended to watch the game. I made small talk with one of the spectators as I watched Denman get out of his car and walk through a small gate at the far end of the field. He was wearing a black suit with a black knit shirt beneath it. I wondered if he carried a gun under that jacket. He leaned against the fence and folded his arms as he watched the game and me. I let him bake for a while in the hot sun inside that black suit, and then I walked away from the bleachers along a narrow path on the side of the first baseline toward a small wooded area away from the game. Denman pushed away from the fence and followed me. I watched him until he walked behind the bleachers, and then I ducked behind a grouping of trees. When he emerged from behind the bleachers, I could see the concern on his face. The great detective had lost his tail. He continued walking in my direction, looking left and right and shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand as he looked across the open field. I took my gun from my hip, then crouched down and waited for him to get close. When he was close enough, I stepped out onto the path, my gun at my side. He stopped and stood perfectly still when he saw my gun.

  “Step into my office,” I said. I gestured with a nod of my head toward the stand of trees.

  He began to put his hands up.

  “Keep ’em down,” I said.

  I followed him into the trees where we couldn’t be seen and put my gun against his flabby belly.

  “What is this?” he said.

  “You tell me,” I said. I reached out with my left hand and searched for a weapon behind his jacket. He wasn’t carrying.

  “Why are you tailing me?”

  He stood quietly, searching for something to say. Sweat began to bead on his forehead and trickle down the sides of his fat face.

  “I want the truth,” I said. “I know you’re not a PI.”

  “I—I was supposed to follow you,” he said, at last. “Find out what you were doing.”

  “You mean, find out how much I’d learned about the Conlon case and report back to Eileen Conlon.”

  “It’s legal,” he said.

  “Lots of things are legal,” I said, “doesn’t mean they’re moral.”

  He didn’t say a word until I pushed my gun deeper into his flab.

  “You’re right,” he said quickly.

  “Why is she so concerned about what I know?” I said.

  “She said she’d pay me five hundred dollars to keep an eye on you for a couple of weeks, tell her anything I found out.”

  “And you lied to me when you told me she hired you to help her find her brother’s killer?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I don’t like being lied to,” I said.

  He saw the indignation in my face, looked down at my left hand, then jerked his fat head back several inches in anticipation of a left hook.

  “Is Martin Denman your real name?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know Eileen Conlon?”

  “I used to sell real estate. I’m currently out of work.”

  “So you took her job offer.”

  “A man’s gotta eat,” he said.

  “Did it ever occur to you that you might be taking on too much? That you might get yourself killed?”

  I raised my gun to his face and waved it under his nose. He looked sacred.

  “I don’t carry a gun,” he said. “I don’t even own one.”

  “Risky,” I said. “You have to play this game with a gun.”

  “I won’t need one after today,” he said. “I’m through with Eileen Conlon. She can keep her hundred bucks.”

  “You risked your life for a hundred dollars?”

  “A hundred upfront and four more when the job is done. But it doesn’t matter, now. You won’t see me again.”

  This guy was such a pathetic loser I was beginning to feel sorry for him—until I remembered the merciless onslaught of kicks and punches he’d given me that night in front of my apartment.

  “Why’d you jump me outside my apartment?”

  He looked surprised when I said it, then contrite when he said, “I was just supposed to scare you. She said she’d pay me an extra hundred.”

  “Scare me from what?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It was a stupid thing to do, but the money looked good. I didn’t mean to come down on you so hard.”

  “That was the only part of the job you did well.”

  “It doesn’t take much brains to beat up on somebody,” he said.

  “Were you the one following me at the street fair yesterday?”

  He nodded.

  “What did you expect to find me doing there, except having a good time?”

  He shrugged.

  This guy had no idea what he was doing when it came to PI work. He was a potbelly buffoon hired by Eileen Conlon. She sure didn’t get her money’s worth. She wanted to know what I knew before anyone else did. The question was…why?

  He looked relieved when he saw me put my gun back in its holster. That’s when I hit him with the left hook he had anticipated earlier. He grabbed his jaw and staggered back against a tree. I knew enough to stay away from his marshmallow belly, so I hit him in the jaw again, this time with a right and another left. His eyeballs rolled upward in their sockets. He looked like he was bird watching. I hit him one more time, just for good measure. That’s when he slid down the tree and went to sleep.

  Payback’s a bitch!

  Back at the Chevy, Danny said, “Did he tell you anything?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s retiring from detective work.”

  ***

  When we got back to headquarters, I went immediately to see Briggs. I updated him on Davy Crockett and Eileen Conlon. Briggs put an APB out for Crockett. He asked me what my intentions were at this point. I told him I wanted to confront Eileen Conlon as soon as possible, and maybe, through her, I’d find out where Crockett was hiding and why he was running. If she was uncooperative or evasive, I could always lay the photograph on her. She’d have no choice than but to come clean.

  The wonders of photography.

  I thanked Briggs and headed for the CYO in Brooklyn. I wanted to talk with Russell Grayson, the kid whose name Father Marcus had brought to our attention.

  At the CYO building, I stopped in to see Father Marcus. He told me Grayson was on the playground at the rear of the building. I thanked him and drove around the block and parked at the curb next to an outdoor basketball court that was surrounded by a rusted ten-foot-high chain-link fence. There were a dozen kids shooting hoops and sitting on a metal bench waiting their turn. I recognized Grayson by Father Marcus’ description. He possessed an excellent basketball player’s physique, standing a couple of inches over six feet with thin arms and a pair of slender but muscular legs. His feet looked bigger than they should be, but that might’ve also been an asset. His hair was a deep brown and cropped close to his head. I got out of the Chevy, walked through the opened gate and leaned against the fence. I watched Grayson dribble, shoot and move around the court with the gracefulness of a ballerina. He received the ball, dribbled down court, then spun on his heels and sunk the ball from side court without the ball touching the basket rim. I was impressed. I liked to think it was Andy Conlon who honed Grayson’s skills on the court, but I couldn’t know for sure.

  After several minutes of enjoying the exhibition, I was suddenly surprised when I saw the basketball coming toward me in the direction of the opened gate. It bounced a few feet in front of me, leaving me no choice but to reach out and grab it. When I turned back, Grayson
was standing in front of me with his arms extended. “Thanks, mister,” he said. I hesitated before giving him the ball. “Can I speak to you for a minute, Russell?” I said.

  “How you know my name?”

  I tossed the ball back to him and took out my shield and ID. “I understand you were close friends with Father Conlon,” I said. He bounced the ball a couple of times on the blacktop in front of him, ostensibly to give himself time to think about whether he wanted to talk to me or not. Then he turned and fired the ball back to one of his teammates.

  “Can we walk a little way down the fence line, away from the noise?” I said.

  He followed me through the gate and out to the sidewalk. We stopped about fifty feet away from the ongoing game. Grayson leaned against the fence while we spoke.

  “Father Marcus said you and Father Conlon were friends,” I said.

  “Father Conlon was the best,” he said.

  “He bent down and tied his sneaker lace, giving himself time to think about how much he wanted to say. When he leaned against the fence again, he was silent.

  “I’m not just a cop on a murder investigation,” I said. “Father Conlon was a close friend of mine too.”

  Grayson thought about that for a few moments, and then said, “He was like the father I never had.”

  “I believe that,” I said.

  “He did things for me.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “He helped me with my game, made me a better player.”

  “I can tell. What else?”

  “He taught me things?”

  “Like what?”

  “Things about getting along with people. Things about the Bible.”

  “Did you ever spend time with the Father outside of the CYO building?”

  “Once he took a bunch of us for burgers after we won a game. He used the CYO van.”

  “Have you ever been anywhere with him alone?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did Father Conlon treat you any differently than he did the other boys? Make you feel special in any way?”

  “He treated everybody the same. We were all special to him. He said we were his flock.”