Bronx Requiem(54)

Twenty minutes later, he pulled up in front of a small house with an oversize garage and about twenty vehicles scattered around the two buildings.

Beck parked on the patchy asphalt surface outside the office, went to the trunk of the Marauder, and pulled out three thousand in cash from a stash of twenty-five grand in the trunk’s hidden compartment. As he stuffed the money in his pocket and closed the trunk, a short man with a healthy gut hanging over his khaki slacks came out of the office flashing a big smile. The salesman wore a white shirt that didn’t button at the neck, and a red-and-blue-striped tie that didn’t quite make it over his belly. Nor did his comb-over quite make it across his bald head. Beck took an immediate liking to him, shaking his meaty hand, matching the strength of his grip.

“How’re you today? Sam Herbert. M and T auto sales. What can I do for you?”

“What’s the M and T stand for?”

“Martha and Tom. My mom and dad.”

“Are they still with us?”

“Just mom. Dad passed away four years ago.”

“And you’re carrying on the tradition, Sam?”

The short, stout man nodded with a sincere look. “Doing my best. You shopping for a vehicle?”

Beck got right to it. “I’m going to buy a truck today.”

Sam Herbert’s face lit up like someone had given him an unexpected birthday gift. It sounded like this fellow was here to buy, not just shop.

Beck let the sales ritual unwind for almost two hours. Like most salesmen, Sam Herbert never stopped talking the entire time. Beck took a test drive of an old Ford Ranger, bargained good-naturedly, made up a story about how he was in food supply and had recently taken on the account for the Ellenville area. Beck claimed he was trying to get more business from Eastern Correctional, asking Sam if he knew anybody who worked there.

“Oh, sure,” said Sam. “Done business with a lot of those folks. Good people.”

Beck kept his half of the conversation going, asking innocuous questions about the staff at Eastern. He changed the subject and asked about local bars and restaurants. Then circled back to ask about which residents favored what establishments.

Beck ended up with information on where the prison staff hung out, and a dark green Ford Ranger, a 1998 XLT with 147,276 miles he’d bargained down to $5,700 from $6,500, citing the significant rust on the underside of the truck, which Sam explained away as the unavoidable result of “all the gosh-darned salt they have to put on the roads every winter.”

Beck used $2,850 of his cash and a New York State driver’s license in the name of Tom Tolsen with Beck’s photo on it and a rural post office box for a mailing address to close the deal. Sam promised to give the truck the once-over and get all the paperwork done right away.

“I’ll be back around four to pick it up. Can you get me plates by then?”

Sam checked his watch. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll run over to the DMV in Ellenville. I should have ’er all ready for you this afternoon.”

Beck left with a smile, a nod, and a final firm handshake from the loquacious Sam Herbert.





34

By the time Palmer dropped off Tyrell and met Ippolito for breakfast at their usual diner it was a little past four in the morning on Thursday.

As they settled into a booth, Ippolito asked, “You get * Tyrell tucked away?”

“Yeah. Did you finish all the paperwork for * Frederick Wilson?”

“Yep.”

“I guess that’s all we can do.”

Ippolito said, “For now. As soon as we finish here, I’m going to grab some sleep. You better, too, John. Your eyes look like two piss holes in the snow.”

“Thank you. That’s charming. Especially with breakfast.”

“You going to eat?”

“No.”

“Don’t be a fag. Eat something. That goddam f*cking Adderall is taking away your appetite.”

Ippolito ordered bacon and eggs with home fries. Palmer settled for a toasted bagel with butter.

Ippolito asked, “So when you figure we’ll get ballistics on those guns from dead Derrick’s whorehouse?”

“I told them to rush it. Where are you on setting up the meeting with Jackson?”

“It’s in the works. I’m figuring by end of day, today.”

“Is Bondurant going to be in on it?”

Ippolito said, “One way or another. That spooky freak is always hanging around in the background. By the way, that’s another reason we should go in this direction.”

“What do you mean?”

“Word is going to get out we arrested Tyrell. I’d prefer Jackson doesn’t tell his pal Whitey to rip out your witness’s tongue and put a bullet in his head. And I’m not exaggerating about the tongue.”

“Christ, Ray, we can’t let that happen.”

Ippolito answered with a mouth full of bacon and eggs. “Don’t worry. Bondurant won’t do shit unless Jackson tells him.”

“So end of day today, huh?”

“Yeah. What’s the matter?”

Palmer grimaced. Shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Jeezus, what the f*ck, John? I don’t want a reluctant virgin on this. Tell me now if you don’t want to do this.”