What did he plan to do with Jerry once he found him? He always said "deal with him." But what did that mean?
God help her, she hoped he meant totally kill him. After what Jerry had done to Mom, she wanted him dead—he deserved to be dead. God himself should strike him dead.
A sob broke free.
And this thing inside her… every day it got a day older. Right now she could think of it as a thing. But what if it got to the point where she could feel it kicking and turning inside her? When did that happen? It wouldn't be a thing then. It would be a baby. Even with the total grossness of what it was and how it got there, she sensed she'd get to a point where she couldn't kill it.
So despite what Mr. Osala said about the thing being like an insurance policy, she totally had to get it out of her ASAP. Even if that meant running the risk of Jerry killing her if he caught her and found out.
And she thought she might have a way. It would be tricky, but if it worked she might have her cake and eat it too, so to speak.
"You say Eddie Cordero is his AK? You know that for sure?"
Jack sat in an inside booth at the Highwater Diner, perched on the west side of the West Side Highway, practically in the Hudson. Reaching it was real-life Frogger, but worth the risk.
Teddy "Bobblehead" Crenshaw slouched on the far side of the table, slurping iced coffee through a straw. Atop his pencil neck sat a size-eight skull that tended to wobble back and forth as he walked. Nobody called him Bobblehead to his face—he got testy about that. But no one referred to him as Teddy behind his back. When out of sight, he was Bobblehead all the way.
A half-eaten BLT and a hundred-dollar bill sat between them on the Formica tabletop, the latter weighted down by a salt shaker. Teddy's head was steady now as he sat and sipped and kept glancing at the Ben.
"For sure," Jack said. "What I don't know is his real name and where to find him."
Bobble seemed to think on this, then took a big bite of his sandwich and spoke around it. "The Man ain't involved, right?"
Bits of bacon and mayo sprayed the tabletop and the c-note. Eating with this guy was like sitting front-row center at a Gallagher concert.
"Not at all."
"Because I already feel like a snitch as it is. Things've been kinda tight lately, y'know? But if fingering him is gonna bring real heat down on this guy…"
Jack wanted to shake him but knew he had to let Bobble run through his guilt trip.
"I understand. Reason my guy came to me is because he doesn't want the police involved. And there's a good chance 'Eddie' might make something on the deal."
"What if he doesn't want to deal?"
Jack shrugged. "That's his choice. I've been hired to get something he stole back into the hands of the previous owner. There's an easy way, and there's a hard way. I prefer the easy way, and so should your friend, 'Eddie.' Especially since my guy might be willing to pay a ransom. A little cooperation and it can be a win-win-win-win situation."
Bobble frowned. "Huh?"
"You get money, 'Eddie' gets money, I get my fee, and the guy gets his property back. We all walk away happy."
Bobblehead nodded. He seemed to like that spin.
"And if he's not who you're looking for?"
Jack tapped the bill, right on Ben Franklin's forehead. "Like I said: If I think your info's in good faith, you get this to keep. If it's the right guy, you get another."
He sighed and stuffed the end of the BLT into his mouth before speaking. "All right. Here's how it goes: When I heard you was looking for a second-story man going under Eddie Cordero, Hugh Gerrish popped into my head right away. He's a major possibility."
"Possibility? So this is a guess? You don't know this guy uses that AK?"
Jack wasn't looking for guesses. Guesses could send him chasing ghosts.
"No. Don't know for sure, but dig: Gerrish is a second-story man who loves the ponies, especially the thoroughbreds. Take two of the greatest jockeys in history, mash their names together, and you come up with Eddie Cordero."
Jack leaned back, as much to avoid the Sledge-o-Matic effect from Bobblehead as to think. That was why the name had rung a bell. Jack had worked a racetrack scam in his younger days. Didn't care for the sport, but anyone who knew anything about the ponies knew the names Eddie Arcaro and Angel Cordero.
"Did he disappear for a while and come back with a tan?"
"No tan, but he disappears for a couple weeks and then he pops up again, and he's buying rounds, saying what a sweet job he pulled."
"No details?"
"He's smarter'n that."
Jack mulled this a bit. Definite possibilities here.
"Okay, he sounds worth a shot. Where's he live?"
He shrugged, setting his head to bobbling. "Don't know him well enough for that. We both just tend to end up at the Fifth Quarter down on St. Mark's. But you can find out easily enough."
"Yeah?"
"He's out at Belmont most every day during the season—'cept Mondays and Tuesdays when it's dark. And since this is the season, all you gotta do is find him and follow him home."
"Great. But I don't know what he looks like."
"He's forty-something, real skinny, brown hair—dollars to donuts he dyes the gray—and…"
His voice trailed off as he saw Jack's face. Must have reflected the disappointment and frustration he felt. Wasted time.
"You know how many guys at the track look like that? Next you'll tell me he wears a Yankees cap—"
"Naw-naw, he's a Mets fan."
"I need a Capone scar, I need an Aaron Neville mole. And if he hasn't got anything like that, I need a photo."
Jack slipped the Ben from beneath the salt shaker and began to slide it toward his side of the table.
"Hey, wait."
"Good story, Teddy. But no address? No picture? No deal."
Bobble grabbed his wrist. "Wait! Wait! I ran into him last Saturday during the Fifth Quarter's Preakness party, just a couple days after he showed up from his 'sweet job.' Bastard won big too."
"So?"
"So Suzy the bartender was taking pictures with her phone when we were celebrating. I think she got one of me with Gerrish and some other guy. If we're lucky, maybe she hasn't erased them."
Jack rose and shoved the hundred into his pocket.
"Looks like we're heading for the East Village."
It hadn't taken Hideo long to single out Kenji as the smartest of the yakuza assigned to him. And although he seemed the oldest of the three, he could not be much past twenty-seven or twenty-eight.
He was the only one to exhibit any signs of intellectual curiosity. His two fellow hoodlums, Goro and Ryo, seemed to have no interests beyond smoking, drinking, watching TV, and playing cards.
Hideo didn't understand the need for Kaze Group's alliance with various yakuza groups. More powerful than all of them combined, it could crush them in a matter of days if it so wished. Yet it maintained ties. Why? Because it required a buffer between it and certain activities?
He had noticed that once out of sight of his fellows, Kenji dropped his swagger and confrontational demeanor and became a sponge for any knowledge or information to be had.
"What do we do now, Takita-san?" he said in English.
Good for you, Hideo thought.
Of the three, Kenji spoke the best English, and was obviously trying to hone whatever fluency he had.