First Thrills - Lee Child [40]
Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe it’s just a hustle like any other hustle, like any of Pop’s hustles. There’s money, and a game to get it.
I turn from the water and see the building we will go to from behind. It is one of two old buildings that shoot up into the sky like cylinders—one red, and the other beige. I’m not sure which color we will enter.
We walk back up to the residential avenue, The Kid with his blonde hair in tow. Eddy checks the license again, and looks up at the contrasting cylinders. There are two doorways, the red one a staircase above street level, the beige a staircase below. Red, I guess. Red makes sense. Eddy drops his cigarette, crushes it with his plain black shoe, and then begins down the steps toward the burrowed cavelike beige door. He rings the buzzer, takes out his badge, and folds it in his breast pocket so it shows clearly. He gestures for me to do the same.
“Yes?” says the filtered voice.
“Is this Mr. Edward Schalaci?”
“Who’s this?” says the voice, sounding like a woman.
“This is Detective May with the NYPD. Does a Mr. Schalaci live there?”
“Yes.”
“ To your knowledge, did he lose his wallet, ma’am?”
A pause. He should have said, might we have a word, ma’am?
“I think so,” says the woman.
Eddy smiles at me.
“Mark can’t deny it’s his now. Love when the wife’s home.”
The buzzer rings and the three of us walk up the creaky stairs, the air hot and damp. I sweat. I hear Eddy wheezing ahead of me. His feet drop heavily on the steps.
“Cocksuckin’ walk-up,” mutters Eddy.
He reaches the top and lets out a huge exhale. He turns to The Kid.
“Wait here,” he says, and then turns to me. “Follow me. Let me do the talkin’.”
The door opens and a pretty older blonde opens the door, her face inquisitive but pleasant.
Rebecca Schalaci.
“Hello, detectives, I’m Rebecca Schalaci.”
Rebecca Schalaci is Margaret Gallo.
“Good morning, Ms. Schalaci. Sorry to disturb you. Is Mr. Schalaci at home?”
“Uh, yes,” she says, and glances at me. “I’ll get him.”
She walks off. Eddy holds the door open.
“Ms. Schalaci,” he says, “you mind if we come in?”
“No,” she says, hesitant. “Not at all. Can I get you anything?”
“ We’re fine, thank you Ms. Schalaci.”
She disappears into the back. The home is top notch, with natural light, neutral walls, ornate molding, a display case with ancient plates, next to a plasma-screen TV. Eddy smiles.
“Wow. What you think we can get outta this guy? Quick, Ron.”
I think.
“Thirty.”
“We can beat thirty.”
He is right.
“We can do better than thirty for sure. Good-looking broad, huh?”
He turns to look at me, his eyes finding mine for a moment, then looking off again.
“Shame. Good-looking broad like that, got no idea what she’s into.” Eddy nods to himself, repeating “shame.”
The mark shows. The man is half gray, half bald, half concerned, and half dressed. He inserts a cuff link into the sleeve of his open shirt as he walks in.
Edward Schalaci is Woodrow Collins.
“Can I help you, officers?”
“Mr. Schalaci,” begins Eddy, “we found a wallet with your ID inside.” Eddy holds up the wallet. “Mr. Schalaci, does this wallet belong to you?”
Schalaci examines the wallet suspiciously.
“Uh, yeah, thank you. That’s my wallet.”
Eddy turns to me and nods.
“Better go get The Kid,” he says.
I nod officially, like a detective.
“Sir, can we go to a more private part of the apartment?” asks Eddy.
I go back out into the hallway. I see The Kid.
“Time,” I tell him. He seems younger still, skim-coated skin—a child’s sharp teeth. He looks back at me like, fuck you.
I lead The Kid inside and find Eddy and Schalaci in what looks like a study. Schalaci sees The Kid and his jaw drops.
“Mr. Schalaci, do you recognize this child?”
Schalaci is speechless.
“Mr. Schalaci, answer the goddamn question. Do you recognize this child?”
Schalaci nods, slowly.
“I thought you did, Mr. Schalaci.”
The Kid looks bored.
“Is this the man?” I ask The Kid.
The Kid nods, and points as if he is in court.