Night Fall

“Yeah. Listen, I need to find her. She’s married now-”

“I know. Married some guy who’s not on the job. She lives in… I think Staten Island. Why do you need to find her?”

“I don’t know until I find her.”

“Yeah? Why do you needme to find her? You could find her in less than an hour. And why are you in a pay phone? What’s up, John? You in trouble?”

“No. I’m doing something on the side.”

“Yeah? What side?”

I looked at my watch. If I pla

“Just hold a second. I have power at the Wheel.”

He put me on hold and I waited. The Wheel is the perso

Fanelli came back on the line and said, “Marie Gubitosi is not actually off the job. She’s on extended maternity leave, as of January ’97. Married name is Lentini. Married a wop. Mama’s happy. I’m trying to remember what happened with Kowalski and his wife when the wife found out-”

“Dom, give me the fucking phone number.”

“They would only give me a cell number. No address. Ready?”

He gave me her number, and I said, “Thanks. I’ll call you next week.”

“Yeah. Maybe sooner if you manage to get into deep shit. You gotta tell me what this is about.”

“I will.”

“Watch yourself.”

“Always do.” I hung up, fed the phone, and dialed the number. After three rings, a female voice answered, “Hello?”

“Marie Gubitosi, please.”

“Speaking. Who’s this?”

“Marie, this is John Corey. We worked in South together.”

“Oh… yeah. What’s up?”

I could hear at least two kids screaming in the background. I said, “I need to talk to you about an old case. Can you meet me someplace?”

“Yeah, right. Get me a baby-sitter, and I’ll drink with you all night.”

I laughed and said, “Actually, my wife can sit.”

“You mean your lawyer wife will baby-sit? What’s she charge?”

“We’re divorced. I have a new wife.”

“No kidding. Can I tell you-the first one was stuck-up. Remember that retirement party for Charlie Cribbs?”

“Yeah. She was a little off that night. Look, why don’t I just come over now, if it’s convenient? Staten Island. Right?”

“Yeah… but the kids are crazy-”

“I love kids.”

“Not these two. Maybe I can help you over the phone.”

“I’d rather talk in person.”

“Well… Joe… my husband, doesn’t want me getting involved again with the job.”

“You’re on extended leave, Marie. You’re not off the job. Let’s make this easy.”

“Yeah… okay… hey, didn’t you get out on three-quarter?”

“I did.”

“So, how are you back?”

I didn’t want to answer that, but I had to. I said, “I’m with the ATTF. Contract agent.”

There was a silence, then she said, “I was on the task force less than six months, and I only worked two cases. Which one are you interested in?”

“The other one.”

Again, a silence, then she said, “I’m getting the feeling you’re not on official business.”

“I’m not. The case is closed. You know that. I got your name from another guy on the job. I need to talk to you. Off the record.”

“What guy?”

“I can’t say. And I won’t say your name either. I’m at a pay phone, and I’m out of change. I need about half an hour with you.”

“My husband’s a route delivery guy. Comes home unexpectedly. He’s big and jealous.”

“That’s okay. I can explain. And if I can’t, I’ve got a gun.”

She laughed. “Okay. I could use some adult company.”

She gave me her address in Staten Island, and I said, “Thanks. I’m going to try to catch the three o’clock ferry. Meanwhile, maybe you can dig out your pad. July 1996.”

She didn’t respond to that, and said, “I’m twenty minutes from the terminal by cab. Stop and get me a package of Pampers.”

“Uh…”

“The package that has Elmo on it.”

“The-?”

“Custom-fit cruisers. Size four. There’s a Duane Reade on your way. See you.”

I hung up and got out of the phone booth.

Elmo?

I hailed a cab on Broadway, flashed my NYPD dupe shield, which is a lot more recognizable than Fed creds, and said to the gentleman wearing a turban, “I need to make the three o’clock Staten Island ferry. Step on it.”

The cabbie probably hadn’t seen too many American movies and replied, “Step?”

“Speed. Police.”

“Ah.”

This is a Manhattan taxi driver’s wet dream, so the guy ran a few lights on Broadway, arriving at the Whitehall ferry terminal at five to three. He refused payment, but I gave him a five anyway.

For some reason that no one in the universe could explain, the city-owned commuter ferry was now free to foot passengers. Maybe it costs a hundred dollars to get back.

The ferry was tooting its horn, and I ran through the terminal and got aboard. I snagged a ferry schedule and walked through the lower cabin. There were lots of empty seats at this hour, but I went up the stairs and stood on the forward deck. Sunshine, blue water, brilliant sky, tugboats, seagulls, skyline, salty breeze, very nice.

As a kid, I used to ride the ferry in the summer with my friends. It was five cents. We’d get to the other side, buy an ice cream, and ride back to Manhattan. Total cost, twenty-five cents; not a bad deal for a big-time adventure.

Years later, I’d take dates on the ferry at night, and we’d stare at the Statue of Liberty, all lit up, and the incredible skyline of Lower Manhattan with the Twin Towers of the new World Trade Center rising floor by floor, year by year, and the Brooklyn Bridge with its necklace of lights. It was very romantic, and a cheap date.

The city has changed since then, mostly, I think, for the better. I can’t say the same about the rest of the world.

I stared at the Statue of Liberty awhile, trying to work up some long forgotten childhood patriotism.

Well, maybe not forgotten, but certainly not fully awake at the moment, as I realized over lunch with Kate.

I turned my attention to the approaching shoreline of Staten Island, and I thought of my brief conversation with Marie Gubitosi. She could have blown me off by saying, “I don’t know anything, and what I do know I’m not telling you.”

But she didn’t say that, so she knew something, and maybe she’d share it. Or maybe she just wanted company and a pack of Pampers. Or maybe she was on the phone right now with the OPR, who’d record our conversation and take me away. In any case, I’d know soon enough.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I got off the ferry at the St. George terminal, walked to the taxi stand, and gave the driver the address in the New Springville section.

I don’t know this outer borough very well, but when I was a young rookie, cops who screwed up were routinely threatened with being exiled to Staten Island. I used to have nightmares of me walking a beat through woods and mosquito swamps, twirling my nightstick and whistling in the dark.

But like most places whose mere mention makes your blood run cold, like Siberia, Death Valley, or New Jersey, this place didn’t live up to its scary reputation.

In fact, this borough of New York City is an okay place, a mixture of urban, suburban, and rural, mostly middle-class with a Republican majority, which made the free ferry ride all the more unexplainable.