Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
It took almost everything he had to take the food and drive to Jal’s place instead of heading for the RFK Bridge and combing every street in Hunt’s Point until he found what he was looking for, even if he hadn’t really known what that was.
What little restraint he had left, he used to have a pleasant night with Jal and not ruin it with pesky things like plans to have a good heart-to-heart with someone who had nearly ruined her.
He’d nearly told her a half dozen times.
During dinner, while watching a movie. But after all the excitement of the day they’d fallen asleep on the sofa and had only woken up long enough to get into bed and tuck her into his arms. Before he knew it, the sun was up and he had to leave for work.
He’d tell her everything, but only after it was done. No sense in her worrying about him.
The thought of keeping her in the dark left him with a queasy feeling in his stomach that he couldn’t shake, even hours later as he stared at a single red pin on a map of one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city.
The auto body shop hadn’t shown up on any of the usual maps or search engines, not that Ciaran had been at all surprised. It had taken quite a lot of poking around on some less than legitimate websites to find it, and given Andy’s record, he probably fit right in.
He zoomed in on the map until he could switch to the street view.
The place wasn’t much to look at, just a box of corrugated steel with rolling doors at both ends and little to no signage.
There were places just like it back home.
Small, unmarked garages, usually tucked into odd places like under elevated roadways, or deep in dodgy industrial parks.
The junkyard or repair business existed only as cover for more illegal activities in the back.
“Earth to Scotty.”
Ciaran jumped. He closed the browser and looked up to see Cliff standing on the other side of his monitor with a smirk and an empty coffee cup. He heard a hint of a snicker and shot Catherine a look. She put her hand up to block her face from his view and went back to her sketchpad.
“Traitor,” he groused and then greeted his friend slash boss. “Thanks again for the support yesterday.”
Cliff perched a hip on the edge of the desk even though Ciaran hadn’t invited him to come closer. “No problem,” he replied. “But tell me, what was this ‘family emergency’ you just had to rush off to? I thought all of your family was still across the pond.”
Ciaran resisted the urge to remind him that his brother lived in San Francisco. “It was Jal,” he admitted, and gestured to his face. “Or rather, her abusive ex that got out of jail and tried to stir up a little trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The kind that’s not really my place to talk about, if that’s all right.” It came out a little sharper than he had intended.
Cliff put up his hands in mock-surrender. “All righty, then.” he replied, managing a surprisingly good imitation of the movie quote, ferocious head shake included. He stood from the desk and leaned toward Ciaran. “I get the message, but you owe me one.”
“Understood.”
Cliff turned and headed for the breakroom.
“Not a word,” he warned Catherine.
She shook her head. “Wasn’t going to say anything.” She didn’t look up from her work, but the eye that was visible was crinkled at the corner. “Other than to remind you that you owe me one too.”
Ciaran mock-scowled at the curtain of black hair that obscured everything but that eye. “Add it to my tab.”
It was shoddier than he had expected. From behind the wheel, Ciaran studied the building that the dark side of the internet said was DiBattista Motors.
The steel walls and roof had seen better days and were spotted with rust, the glass door to the tiny waiting room sported a spiderweb from a well-placed boot that had been patched with a board or piece of cardboard from the inside.
The pair of roll up doors looked like they had gotten into a fight with the Greek restaurant across the street, one door was closed, the other only half-open, both with numerous scuffs and dents.
The wheels of a car dangled down like the teeth that hadn’t been knocked out, while a pair of mechanics worked from underneath, sparks cascading down around them.
Ciaran shifted in his seat. He’d been in the same spot long enough that his back and his bladder were starting to take bets on which could be more of a nuisance.
With a sigh, he rolled his shoulders, and his neck popped loud as a gunshot.
As he put the shifter in gear, he muttered a prayer to whoever might be listening that he didn’t end up on the wrong end of one of those blow torches by the end of this and parked just outside the open door.
As he climbed out, the door rumbled up, revealing a man with a thick black goatee and eyes nearly as dark beneath a bandana tied around his brow.
Oil-stained coveralls protected his clothes.
The man took a step outside the shop, squinting into the setting sun, and wiped his hands on a rag that was more oil than its original orange. “Can I help you?”
There were at least three unspoken expletives in that short question. Ciaran flipped his keys around the ring to smack into his palm as he swung the car door shut. “My clutch just started to make this horrible grinding noise. I was hoping that I could get it checked out.”
“Sorry, this is a private garage,” the guy replied, his voice heavy with an Italian New Yorker accent. “Referral only, so I think you need to get back in your car and go back to wherever you came from.”
Ciaran flipped his keys again. “Oh, well then. It just so happens that I have a pal who works here.”
He scratched his head for a moment as he worked out what Ciaran had said. Once he did, the rag twisted around one meaty fist. “And who’s your ‘pal’?”
“Name’s Paolinelli. Andy Paolinelli.”
The guy glanced over his shoulder and back to Ciaran. “He didn’t mention anyone coming by.”
Ciaran just flipped the keys again, landing in his palm with a musical clink. “We talked about it being in the next few days, and I found myself out of work a little early today.”
The meathead twisted the rag a little tighter as he considered. This could go one of two ways. The guy could knock him out with one punch or—
“Yo, Pauli!”
A muffled response came from deeper in the shop.
“Some fancy man here to get his car looked at!”
There was a ringing of metal on concrete and the roll of wheels. Andy emerged a moment later from the bowels of the shop and came to stand next to his friend. Dressed similarly, with a streak of grease across one of Andy’s cheeks, the men looked like twins. Or ex-cellmates.
Ciaran took satisfaction in the greenish purple bruise beneath one eye which narrowed the second Andy recognized him. A flush of red rose up from his collar, but he didn’t speak.
“You know this dandy?”
Ciaran glanced down at his own clothes and then gave the guy a mock-offended smirk. He’d come from work and was dressed only in a simple gray suit and vest over a white dress shirt. Guess a waistcoat makes me a dandy.
He flicked a speck of lint off the sleeve and flipped his keys again. “We go back.”
Andy’s eyes narrowed further until only a slit of black remained. “Yeah, we do.”
His buddy just shrugged and clapped him on the shoulder. “All yours then, Pauli.”
Jal’s ex waited until his friend was out of earshot before he took a step in Ciaran’s direction. “Is Sam with you?” He ducked down and looked inside the car, straightening with a scowl when he saw that it was empty.
“No, Jal is not with me.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing here?”
Ciaran folded his arms and leaned a hip on the fender. “I thought we could talk.”
“Unless it’s to tell me where Samantha is,” Spit flew from his mouth as he said her name, enunciating each syllable as if Ciaran was an idiot. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Ciaran crooned. “You mentioned at the park that prison cost you everything. There must be something that you could want more than a woman you haven’t seen in two years, who doesn’t want to see you.”
The flush spread up Andy’s thick neck again. “She’ll come around,” he replied as if there wasn’t any alternative. Ciaran was sure that if he got his hands on Jal, she’d never see daylight without him again, and that was not something that Ciaran was willing to even contemplate.
He forced his calm and cocky mask to remain in place when inside he wasn’t sure which sounded more enticing, to roll his eyes or bury a fist in the prick’s face. “Let’s agree to disagree on that one, pal, all right?” Ciaran said. “Come on, there has to be something.”
“What could I possibly want from a scrawny suit like you?”
“Eh, there’s more to me than all that. Before I came to America, I was much like Jal, doing what I could to make ends meet, stealing what I needed to when more legitimate work fell short, which it usually did.
” He flipped his keys and this time Andy’s eyes narrowed.
He kept the satisfied smile inside. “That’s how we met actually, we picked each other’s pockets. It was quite romantic.”
He probably shouldn’t be riling Andy up this much, especially since there were plenty of reinforcements inside, but the words came out of his mouth without much effort or conscious thought.
If he wasn’t leaning against the car, he’d have his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels in a way that made many a man see red.
Andy ground his teeth. “You? You were a thief?”
“Don’t look so surprised.” Ciaran replied, one side of his mouth tipping up.
The cogs were already turning in Andy’s brain, he could see it in his eyes, the cock of his head. “What kinds of jobs?”
“Pockets, cars, businesses, couple of houses.” Ciaran ticked them off on his fingers. “Oh, and I did a museum once.” Though, he wasn’t going to tell Andy how that one had ended.
“Any banks?”
Ciaran shook his head. “And contrary to what you and your mate might be thinking, I’m not flush with cash. But if it’s money you’re after, maybe we can work together to steal something that you could turn into cash. Maybe even a lot of cash.”
One of his feet was going numb from the position he’d been holding against the car, but Ciaran resisted the urge to stand up. “Surely, there’s something you’ve had your eye on?”
Andy stood there thinking for so long that Ciaran wondered if he was just going to tell him to go to hell and walk back inside. He kept up a steady rhythm of flipping his keys into his palm and waited. A moment later, a light came into Andy’s eyes and Ciaran knew that he had him.
“I think I know of something,” he replied.
“There’s a guy, just bought a mansion up in Fieldston, been driving back and forth across the Bronx with one flashy antique car after another.
A rare Mustang, a ’62 Corvette, some real James Bond looking shit with the steering wheel on the wrong side of the fucking car.
If you can get me in, I’ll find something that will work. ”
Ciaran had only heard of the affluent neighborhood on the northern side of the borough, because someone he knew had bought a house there. Surely, it can’t be…
“I’ll be wanting something in return.”
“Yeah, and what’s that?”
There was only one thing that he could possibly want.
“I help you with this job, and that’s you when it comes to Jal.
” He pushed off the car and put his keys in his pocket.
“You leave her be. No stirring up trouble with the police, no more searching for her. No more trying to run everyone close to her down with a car. She’s free. ”
The flush rose up Andy’s collar again, the muscles standing out so much that Ciaran was surprised that the fabric didn’t split down the back. “We’ll see.”
Ciaran shook his head. “Not good enough,” he replied, finally shedding the nonchalant mantle to show the steely determination underneath. “We do this, and that’s it.”
Andy ground his teeth. For a long moment, there was no sound except the sparking of a welder from inside the shop, and the rush of cars on the street at his back. “Yeah, all right.”
Ciaran let just a sliver of the satisfaction that was practically singing through him show in his smile. He held out a hand.
Andy hesitated for only a moment longer before his meaty hand engulfed it.
“Then we have a deal.”