The Job (38 page)

“I still don’t get what you’re talking about,” I said.

He looked at me with drunken admiration.

“You’re good. You’re real good. I now see why they hired you. You’re perfect….”

“Perfect for what?”

He stood up.

“I really have nothing more to say on the subject. Except this: You’re going to get found out. You, Jerry, Mr.-Fucking-High-rise. It’s one of the only rules of life. We all get found it. It’s just a matter of time.”

With that, he turned and staggered away. He didn’t get very far, as the six whiskeys he’d thrown back suddenly kicked in and he stumbled right into a waiter carrying a tray of food. The tray smashed to the floor, the waiter skidded into a table, and Peterson ended up collapsed against a banquet table. Within seconds the maitre d’ was on the scene. Helping Peterson up, he caught a whiff of his breath and began to frog-march him toward the door. I threw some money down on the table and caught up with them in the lobby. The maitre d’ was holding Peterson by the arm in an attempt to keep him vertical.

“Can I give you a hand there?” I asked the maitre d’.

“Is he with you?” the maitre d’ asked me.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, he’s drunk and I want him out of here, now. You okay to drive?”

“I was only drinking Perrier-you can check with your waiter.”

“Then I’m making it your responsibility to get him home. And when he sobers up tomorrow, tell him he’s barred from here. Permanently.”

He handed Peterson over to me. Grasping him by the arm, I led him out the door and into the parking lot.

“Where are your car keys?”

“Fuck you,” he said, the words slurring.

I tightened my grip on his arm and, with my free hand, quickly frisked him. Then I reached into the left pocket of his suit jacket and removed his keys. They were attached to a ring with a BMW logo.

“What color is your car?” I asked.

“Black.”

“Where’d you park it?”

He pointed to a distant corner of the parking lot.

“There,” he said.

“Great,” I said and led him off in search of the BMW.

The sun had just set, the lot was surprisingly large, and there wasn’t much in the way of street lighting-so the hunt for the black BMW was a tiresome business, especially as I was having to maneuver a drunk at the same time. Peterson had now veered into incoherence, and kept bumping into fenders and hoods. Scraping his shin against a parked Volvo, he muttered a threat: “You do that again, I’ll hit you back.”

“Come on, come on,” I said, taking hold of him by the back of his belt.

“The sooner we get to the car, the sooner you get home.”

After five minutes of lurching through this obstacle course of parked cars, we finally reached the BMW. But as I leaned Peterson up against the passenger door and bent down to unlock it, I heard a voice behind me.

“Tell you what, pardner-say we all give him a lift back.”

Keeping a grip on Peterson, I spun around. There, standing behind me, were two dark, heavyset guys. They were both wearing baseball caps and sunglasses. They were both carrying guns. Within seconds they had converged on us. When I tried to scream, I felt something cold and metallic nuzzle the side of my head. It was a small nine-millimeter pistol placed directly against my left temple.

“I’d shut the fuck up if I was you,” Thug Number One said, a hint of Dixie in his voice. Grabbing the car keys from me, he tossed them to Thug Number Two. He had his gun held against Peterson’s heart-but the whiskey had muddled Ted’s brain so badly that he wasn’t really cognizant of what was happening. Thug Number Two unlocked the rear door, shoved Peterson inside, then joined him in the backseat and threw the keys back to Thug Number One. He led me to the driver’s door, opened it, and told me to get inside. As Thug Number Two covered me with his gun, Thug Number One ran around to the front passenger door and climbed in. Then, dropping the keys into my lap, he said:

“Drive.”

“You want my money, take my money,” I said.

“Just let us-” I didn’t get to finish that sentence. Thug Number One rammed the barrel of the gun against the side of my head again-only this time he made certain I felt some pain.

“You want instant brain surgery, you keep talking.”

“Okay, okay,” I muttered, terrified.

“Now drive the fucking car.”

I put the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine fired on the first try. I slapped the gear stick into first and headed toward the lot’s exit. As soon as we were moving, Thug Number One removed his gun from my head, but kept it ready in his lap. Glancing into the rearview mirror, I could see that Thug Number Two had also lowered his pistol. Not that he really needed it-Peterson was now sprawled across the backseat, deep in an alcoholic stupor.

“Okay,” Thug Number One said.

“Here’s how this is gonna work. You’re gonna do exactly what I tell you to do, drive exactly where I tell you to drive. You open your mouth, you get shot. You try to get help, you get shot. You run a red light, you get shot. You reading me here?”

“I’ll do whatever you-” He jabbed me in the leg with the gun.

“I said, no fucking talking. Now turn right.”

We headed north along the Post Road, then took a right under the interstate and headed downhill toward Old Greenwich. My hands were sweating so badly they kept slipping down the wheel. And my eyes were watering with pure, undistilled fear, because I was certain that they were going to kill us.

Pulling onto the main drag of Old Greenwich, Thug Number One ordered me to make a sharp right underneath the railway bridge, followed by a fast left down a road that ran parallel with the tracks. After fifty yards. we reached a railway crossing with safety gates on either side of the tracks. Thug Number One turned back to his colleague and asked, “This the place?”

Thug Number Two nodded. He told me to pull the car off the road and cut the headlights.

We sat there for a minute or two, the silence punctuated by Peterson’s snores. Then, in the distance, we heard the faint rumbling of an approaching train, followed by the bells and flashing lights of the descending safety gates.

“Now,” said Thug Number One. Immediately, Thug Number Two was pulling Peterson out of the car, getting him on his feet and walking him, double time, toward the crossing. The gates started to descend. Thug Number Two squeezed Peterson and himself under the descending gate just before it fell into place. They were now inches away from the railway tracks. And I suddenly knew what was about to happen.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I said.

“You can’t, you-” “Just sit tight,” Thug Number One said softly, his gun back up against my forehead.

I stared numbly ahead, watching as Thug Number Two led Peterson between the two rails. Peterson was swaying back and forth, oblivious to where he was or what was about to happen. Suddenly they were both caught in the full spectral glow of the train’s headlights. The engine driver frantically began to blow the whistle, brakes shrieking. Thug Number Two let go of Peterson and made a dash off the tracks. The driver’s whistle was now screeching nonstop. Peterson appeared almost bemused by this sound, and turned toward the train, blinking in the light. Then, suddenly, he realized where he was. His mouth opened wide. The whistle drowned out any scream. Thug Number Two had climbed over the gates and was running toward the car. Peterson attempted to jump to safety, but he tripped, his head landing on a rail, just as the train

.. .

I covered my face with my hands. For an instant, the world fell silent. Then Thug Number One turned to me and smiled.

“Looks like you just committed a murder,” he said.

They ordered me to drive back toward Old Greenwich station. Halfway there, Thug Number One directed me to stop on a narrow, darkened road near a large park, and to cut the headlights. The road was empty of traffic-though I did notice a car parked in the near distance.

“We’re getting out,” Thug Number One said.

“Now this is how we’re gonna end our little collaboration. You’re gonna sit here for five minutes while we drive away. Then you’re gonna drive to Old Greenwich station, park the car, and take the next train into the city. Jerry’s expecting you back at his place.”

“Jerry?” I said hoarsely.

“Yeah, Jerry. Now before we say good-bye, I just want you to be aware of one little thing. If you think you’re gonna get out of this by going to the police, you are very wrong. Because all you’ll be doing is indicting yourself for first-degree murder. Of course you might be considering another alternative-like maybe pulling a disappearing act. Well, if you do vanish, then we will make certain that the police get a tip-off about you being the number-one prime suspect in this case. And the Feds will be chasing your ass by tomorrow morning.

“So do the smart thing-and do nothing, except, of course, get yourself back to Jerry’s place. And I’d be prompt if I was you-because he wanted you to know that, if you’re not there by midnight, he’ll make that call to the cops. You’ve got just under three hours to make it to Manhattan, so I wouldn’t stop anywhere for a drink if I was you. Understand?”

I nodded.

“You got any questions?”

I shook my head.

“Glad to hear it. Now we’ve got one last piece of housekeeping to deal with. My friend and I are gonna give the car a nice little rubdown of anywhere we might have touched. Of course, should you try to drive away before this domestic chore is completed …”

“I won’t try to drive away.”

“You know something? I’m beginning to like you more and more.”

“I’m pleased,” I muttered.

“Now sit tight, ‘cause this’ll just take a sec.”

With that, they both got out of the car, pulled out handkerchiefs, and comprehensively polished every surface. It took about five minutes. I sat there, a cold sweat streaking down my back, my fingers gripping the steering wheel tightly. It was the only thing keeping me steady right then. When they finished, Thug Number One motioned for me to roll down my window.

“Well, here’s where we say adios. And remember-once we drive away, you wait five minutes before heading back to the station. And believe me, we’ll know if you duck away earlier. Real nice working with you, pardner.”

I watched as they walked the hundred yards to their car. It was parked far enough away from the BMW-and on a pitch-black stretch of road-to make it impossible for me to recognize its make and model. Driving away, they kept their lights off until they turned a corner and vanished from my view, ensuring that I wouldn’t be able to note its license plate number. Their meticulousness was frightening-because it meant that Peterson’s murder (and my role in it) had been planned with painstaking care.

Sitting behind the wheel, staring at the clock on the dash, waiting for the five minutes to expire, I was suddenly sick. I stumbled out of the front seat and collapsed to my knees just as a cascade of vomit poured out of my throat. I kept retching until I nearly convulsed.

I’d been set up, primed to take the fall. And Jerry had been the author of this clot.

“This whole fucking thing is a threat,” Peterson had shouted at me in the restaurant.

But I’d said nothing threatening. In fact, the dinner was supposed to be a stab at reconciliation. So why the hell did Peterson act as if I was there to put the thumbscrews on him? Unless, of course, Jerry told him in advance that I was going to play the heavy, and demand…

Demand what?

“Tell Jerry my position hasn’t changed. Two hundred grand up front, an eight percent taste on all future deals. Otherwise… well, put it this way: Knowledge is power.”

What did Peterson know that gave him such alleged “power”? A power that evidently so threatened Jerry that he’d had him thrown under a train? Granted, Peterson had figured out that Ballantine was behind the fund-but was that a reason for whacking the guy? Did it have something to do with the two hundred grand he was demanding?

“You’re going to get found out. You, Jerry, Mr.-fucking-High-rise. It’s one of the only rules of life. We all get found out. It’s just a matter of time.”

Those final comments-his last words-kept reverberating in my head. A murder had been committed. The police would be looking for a suspect. And I was, without question, the man they’d come searching for, because everything, everything pointed to me.

I was going to get found out.

I would have to run. But if I ran, Jerry would hand me to the cops on a platter. Anyway, running away took work, planning, cash, time-and time was definitely not on my side. In fact, if I wasn’t back at Jerry’s loft in … I glanced at my watch. The five-minute detention had passed. It was now 9:15. And given the way he so carefully plotted Peterson’s death, I was certain that, unless I was at his loft by midnight, Jerry would act on his threat to turn me in.

So I got myself up off my knees, slid back into the car, and shakily drove the five minutes to Old Greenwich station.

I left the car in a distant corner of the parking lot. Using the tail nf my shirt I wiped down the steering wheel the door handle and anything else I might have touched. Then I tossed the keys into a drain and boarded the 9:27 back to the city.

The train was almost empty. There were only two other passengers in my car, and they glanced over at me with interest-noticing, no doubt, the shirttail hanging out of my trousers, the rumpled state of my suit, the residue of vomit on my lips, the fear etched into my face. After I took a seat at the rear of the car, the conductor came onboard and announced, “Looks like there’s been some sort of accident up ahead, so we’re not going anywhere for a little while.”

I stiffened-and wondered if anybody noticed.

“D’you know what’s going on?” asked one of the passengers.

“Seems there’s a body on the tracks around a mile south of here. I believe it’s on the northbound side, but the cops have temporarily closed the line in both directions.”

The next few minutes were the longest of my life. I had to resist the immediate temptation to dash off the train, grab a cab, and order the driver to take me to Manhattan. That would have meant calling attention to myself. The people on the train and the driver would remember me as someone who seemed both jumpy and desperate to get out of town. But I was also worried about being stuck for so long that I might just miss Jerry’s midnight deadline. So I resolved to bail out and find a taxi if the train wasn’t moving within forty-five minutes.