Don’t Blink

Chapter 57

I SPUN AROUND to see Courtney leaning against the doorway, her arms folded tightly, as if she was hugging herself for comfort. Her eyes were shooting so many sharpened daggers at Ferramore, I practically had to duck.

No one had to ask how long she’d been standing there or how much she’d heard.

She’d obviously heard enough.

But there were no tears like she had had with me out on the deck. She wasn’t sad now, she was angry – mad as hell at Ferramore and even more pissed off at herself. I thought I knew what she was thinking: How could I have been so stupid?

“So tell me, Tom, what did you have to pay your little French supermodel to change her story? How much was that check?” she demanded to know.

I expected Ferramore to show at least a little remorse here. Maybe even a little class.

Boy, was I ever wrong. The rich have such incredibly high opinions of themselves.

The prick smirked. “Hell, she was cheap compared with that CEO of ParisJet. I actually had to buy his company.”

All at once, Courtney yanked off her ten-carat diamond ring and threw a fastball at Ferramore’s chest.

“C’mon, Nick, let’s go,” she said.

It was the four most beautiful words she, or anybody, had ever said to me.

“I hope you two are extremely happy together,” chirped Ferramore as he buckled his trousers. “Oh, and by the way, you’re both fired! Good luck finding new jobs.”

“Don’t worry, we will,” Courtney shot back. “You see, I get to start over. But you? You’ll always be a scumbag!”

Brava, Courtney!

She turned and walked off, and I was about to follow in her steps, but I just couldn’t help myself. The moment was too good; I wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

“By the way, Ferramore,” I said, glancing down at his ridiculous white jacket, “Captain Stubing from The Love Boat called. He wants his uniform back.”

Chapter 58

IN THE MOVIES, Courtney and I would have made mad, passionate love all night long to the tune of a saxophone sound track. Then we would’ve blissfully woken up in each other’s arms without a single hair out of place.

So much for the movies, which don’t seem to get it right very often anyway.

I didn’t have Courtney in my arms or anywhere else in my apartment the next morning. What I did have, however, was a terrific hangover and a severe case of bed head that would’ve scared Lyle Lovett.

As upset as Courtney had been as she’d stormed off Ferramore’s yacht, she’d known better than to engage in any “Sweet Revenge” scenarios with me. And as drunk as I had been, I really hadn’t been looking for anything more than a kiss on the cheek. Maybe. After all, I had been beyond obnoxious at the party, and I’d broken my promise to her.

“We’ll be making two stops,” Courtney had told the cab driver. “First his apartment, and then mine.” But she held my hand for the entire ride and indeed gave me that kiss on the cheek when we rolled up to my place. And that’s how the night ended.

At least, I’m fairly sure that’s how it ended. It was all still fuzzy in the a.m. In fact, it wasn’t until I’d taken in some hot, über-strong coffee and a cold shower that I managed my first lucid thought.

According to Thomas Ferramore I was no longer employed by Citizen magazine. Just like that, I was suddenly out of a great job, probably the best one I’d ever had. Pink-slipped. Ca

But I still had work to do. I had my mission impossible to try to accomplish.

Armed with an address and some ugly mug shot photos courtesy of Hoodie Brown, I headed out to the South Bronx in search of Sam Tagaletto. Ironically, he lived less than six blocks from Yankee Stadium. Was that how he’d first met Dwayne?

Tagaletto’s home was on the second floor of a decrepit corner brownstone, the bricks of which looked to be literally crumbling when not outright missing. This guy apparently didn’t care much about curb appeal.

Or, for that matter, who wandered into his building off the street.

Not only was there no buzzer system, the front door was actually propped open with – what else? – one of the bricks from the building’s façade.

My plan once inside was fairly simple. So simple, in fact, any eight-year-old could have done it and probably had. Ring and run!

After climbing the stairs, I rapped my knuckles hard against the door of apartment 2 – B before dashing up to the third floor. I needed a glimpse of Tagaletto to make sure it was really him – assuming he was home.

He was.

After the sharp snap! of a turning dead bolt, the door to his apartment opened as wide as its chain lock would let it. That’s when I saw him – tall, ski

I stole another peek down through the third-floor railing as Tagaletto glanced left and right with his dark, deep-set eyes. Then, like a turtle, he retreated back into his apartment.

I settled in for the wait.

Hopefully, the guy would soon have places to go and people to see, any one of which could be the break I was looking for. I needed to get lucky. Then again, with my luck the guy would turn out to be a hermit. Sam Tagaletto, the agoraphobic bookie of the South Bronx…

Great, just great.

Less than half an hour later, though, I heard it once again – the sound of a turning dead bolt.

Yes! Sam Tagaletto was leaving his apartment. Now, where was he going? And could I follow him without being spotted and getting the shit kicked out of me?

Chapter 59

I COULD COUNT on one hand how many times in my life I’d ever “tailed” someone. And I’d still have five fingers left over.

This was a new feeling, all right, including the relentless pounding of my heart as I fell in line behind Tagaletto out on the street. How close is too close?

Best not to find out, I decided. I kept a safe distance for the first few blocks, nearly losing him once when he turned a corner at a busy intersection. In fact, were it not for Tagaletto’s nicotine habit I would’ve lost him for sure along the crowded sidewalk. All I had to do was keep my eye on the gray cloud hovering over his head. The guy smoked more than a chimney in the wintertime.

Lean and scraggly, Tagaletto wasn’t exactly the physically imposing type. But somehow, some way, he still managed to look menacing. Maybe it was the “don’t fuck with me” walk. He definitely had that down pat.

For another few blocks I kept right in line behind him. Until, finally, he made another turn, disappearing from view in a maze of storefronts.

Immediately I began to sprint. Tagaletto had gone down a narrow alley next to a pizza parlor, its red neon sign glowing in the window: SLICE OF HEAVEN.

“Shit, where is he?” I mumbled, reaching the alley and peering around the corner. Out of breath, all I could see were piles of garbage lining both sides and no one in between. Slowly, I started to walk. Where the hell did he go?

I saw the most probable answer halfway down. It was a metallic door, the only one. If I had to bet, it led into the kitchen of Slice of Heaven, but that’s as close as I wanted to get. My nose was telling me this was a bad place to be, and it had nothing to do with the smell of pepperoni and onions in the air.

I was about to turn around and get the hell out of there, when I heard the door in the alley begin to open, the sound of rusted hinges ricocheting off the walls. I quickly moved behind a Dumpster that reeked so badly I put my sleeve over my nose.

There were maybe two inches of daylight between the piled garbage and the wall, just enough to catch a glimpse of Tagaletto stepping back outside.