The Hand on the Wall(42)
“After lying to me,” she said. “A lot. Telling me your family was dead . . .”
“And I apologized for that. Clearly not enough. I did everything I could. I put myself out there.”
He had. This was all true. He had told Stevie all about his life that night in the tunnel. And when they found Ellie, he sobbed. He laid himself bare. And in response, Stevie had panicked, spit out all the information about how his father had made a deal with her—she could come back to the school if she helped keep David on the level.
“The thing with your dad—I told you, I wasn’t spying. He brought me back. That’s it. I don’t even really know what he wanted from me.”
“Something he thought you could give,” David replied. “That’s how he works. My dad can sense where people are weak. That’s how he’s gotten to where he is. It’s also how I know that if I look through his stuff, I’ll find something. See, devious malcontents spawn devious malcontents. The evil eat their own. I needed some smart people, people who know stuff about politics, like Vi. That Hunter guy was a lucky find too. People who give a shit about making a difference for the future. Whereas you . . .”
She couldn’t see his expression that well in the dark, but she felt the smirk.
“. . . want to solve the great crimes of the past so that everyone will think you are Nancy Drew. And in the process, what? Ellie dies, and—”
Here, he cut himself off. But the knife had already gone in. It didn’t matter that she had given Edward King nothing. Edward King saw weakness in her.
“I think it would probably be better if you went downstairs,” he said. “Keep warm. It’s going to get colder, I hear. A lot colder.”
February 24, 1937
FOR FIVE NIGHTS, GEORGE MARSH KEPT WATCH OUTSIDE OF MANELLI’S Restaurant.
Someone had gotten the word to Andy or Jerry that George was in town and looking for them. They had been spooked enough to try to warn him off. When you tell someone to stay back, it’s because you’re going into a corner and can’t get out. The postcard told him that at least one of them was in New York, and whoever it was was frightened. He would wait and watch, as long as it took.
It was too risky to stand out on the street. There was a grocery across the way on the diagonal that accepted two hundred dollars a night to let him sit inside and look out the window. Additional funds went to a few guys who sat at the bar at Manelli’s all night and listened, reporting back anything of interest. Money had no meaning now—it was just something he handed out, small fortunes in a city rocked by the Depression. He would pay everyone on Carmine Street if he needed to.
Right after nine o’clock on an icy night, as he was opening a new pack of cigarettes and the owner of the shop was sweeping up, George saw a figure walking toward Manelli’s, head down but casting furtive backward looks. Whoever it was had a scarf wrapped high, covering his face. It was a very poor attempt not to be noticed. The person went to the door of Manelli’s, looking in both directions before going inside.
“Sal,” George said, never taking his eyes off the window, “dial Manelli’s for me, huh?”
The shopkeeper set the broom aside and dialed the phone, then passed the receiver to George. The bartender picked it up after a few rings.
“A guy just walked in,” George said, as a greeting. “If that’s Andy or Jerry, say ‘You gotta come downtown. No delivery.’ Otherwise, say ‘Wrong number.’”
After a pause, the bartender said, “Yeah, no delivery. Come downtown if you want it.”
George handed back the phone.
About a half hour later, the door to the restaurant opened and the same figure hurried out with his hat down and a scarf wrapped around his face. George stubbed out his cigarette into an ashtray on the grocery counter. When the figure reached the end of the block, George began to trail him. The snow helped—it was fresh and clean, so it was easier to track the newest set of prints as they turned left. He caught sight of the figure weaving between cars and heading for an alley. George quickened his pace but stayed out of the man’s sight. It wasn’t for nothing that George Marsh had been so decorated a police officer and that he was now in the FBI. These were his streets, and he knew how to work them.
The man stopped by a car and was in the process of opening the door when George made his move.
“Hello, Jerry.”
“Jesus, George,” Jerry replied, already out of breath with fear. “Jesus.”
George punched him in the face, sending him crashing into some trash cans. When he was down, he flipped Jerry on his back and slapped a pair of cuffs on his wrists, pinning his arms behind him. George quickly patted him down, pulling a gun from his waistband and a switchblade from his sock. Then he hauled Jerry to his feet.
“George . . . ,” Jerry began. “I—”
George removed his own coat and threw it over Jerry’s shoulders, concealing the cuffed wrists.
“Walk,” he said. “You run, you scream, I shoot. You so much as look funny, I shoot.”
“Jesus, George . . .”
“And you shut up.”
On the morning he’d arrived back in New York City, George purchased a car from a reliable thief down by Five Points. George had busted him many times as a cop, but the man held no grudges and was happy to supply a vehicle for a paying customer. It was a good, solid car that George had outfitted with blankets and extra lights. It was toward this car that George pushed Jerry now. Once he got Jerry inside, he bound his ankles together with rope, then tied him to the seat. When he was fully secured, he walked around and got in the driver’s side.