At a few minutes past eight, I exited the Henry Hudson Parkway in the heart of the Riverdale section of the Bronx. Phalen’s street was a few blocks east and was lined with prewar brownstones. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
Save for one difference: available parking. I found a spot probably less than fifty feet from Phalen’s address.
As I grabbed my shoulder bag and hit the sidewalk, I was reminded of a joke my uncle Leo had once told me. I had been nine or ten years old.
“How do you keep a turkey in suspense?” he asked.
“I don’t know. How?”
Uncle Leo smiled. “I’ll tell you later. Turkey.”
I could barely wait to hear what Phalen had for me. I was actually speed-walking toward his brownstone and my heart was going pretty good. With one foot on the front stoop, however, I stopped.
Did I lock my car?
I couldn’t remember.
I reached into my pocket, my thumb searching for the lock button on my electronic key fob. I gave it a click and watched for the taillights on my Saab to blink – only they didn’t.
I clicked again.
No luck.
I cursed under my breath and started walking back, thinking I was out of range. The entire key chain was out of my pocket and aimed squarely at the dash. I was definitely close enough now.
But the taillights still weren’t blinking.
C’mon, already!
I shook the key fob, pressing the lock button hard a few more times. Was the little battery inside the thing dead?
No, it wasn’t. But I sure as hell was supposed to be.
BOOM! went my Saab.
Chapter 64
MY CAR ROSE in the air a good three feet as an orange fire-ball raced toward me, then knocked me down, my body slamming so hard against the sidewalk that I actually blacked out for a few seconds.
When I came to, the sound of the explosion was still pummeling my ears. All at once I could hear the shattering of glass, the twisting of metal, my car being blown to smithereens!
Slowly I got up, but the heat from the flames was so intense I had to step back. Am I okay? Am I hurt more than I think I am? Am I still among the living?
I looked down at my charred clothing and got part of the answer. Smoke literally was rising from my sweater. I was dizzy and scared to death, but most of all I was relieved to be alive.
Okay, Nick. You’re okay.
Then came another awful scene – and the kind of screaming that raised every little hair on the back of my neck.
My head whipped left and right until I spotted a chocolate Lab dragging a leash on the opposite sidewalk. The dog was spinning in circles, barking like it had gone crazy.
Then I saw why.
Dashing across the street, I practically ripped the sweater off my own body. By the time I reached the curb, I was already flying through the air.
The dog’s owner, a college-aged kid, was on the ground in flames and screaming in agony. I landed on him sweater first, trying to smother the fire. “Help me!” he was pleading now. “PLEASE HELP ME!”
I was smothering the kid with my body and sweater. But the flames were stubborn and I needed help.
Thank God, it came. Whoosh! I felt the freezing cold spray of white powder against my skin. It was like an avalanche, and just in time.
I coughed and sputtered, barely able to catch my breath. Someone had rushed forward with a fire extinguisher, emptying what seemed to be the entire canister. That was fine by me. Really fine by the guy who was no longer on fire underneath me.
“You okay?” I asked as I finally rolled off him.
“I don’t know,” was all he could manage.
By now the entire street was filling with people from the brownstones. Anyone within earshot of the explosion had come out to see what had happened. They didn’t understand, but I did, and it chilled me like the spray of dozens of fire extinguishers.
Someone had just tried to kill me.
The next thing I knew, I was being helped to my feet by some good people in the crowd. “Are you hurt?” one man asked. “You okay, mister?”
I heard the question but didn’t respond. All I could do was look around at all the concerned, frightened faces. With each face I didn’t recognize, I became more afraid. “Oh, no!” I suddenly cried out. “Oh God, no.”
Then I was running away from the crowd. Fast, as fast as I could go on rubbery legs.
Like someone’s life depended on it.
I WAS NOW the designated madman on the street, the guy covered in white powder, with smoldering clothes and charred skin, with singed hair and desperate eyes.
With each frantic step I kept looking around me, hoping that I’d spot Phalen.
Was that Derrick over there by the fire hydrant?
No.
Was that him on the stoop?
Dammit! No again.
I kept banging into people, forcing my way across the street. It was a block party of lookie-loos, my burning car at the center of it, me as the other story of interest.
I reached the front of Phalen’s brownstone and bounded up the steps, my arms pumping. The front door was locked – shit! – so I turned to the column of buzzers off to the side. I dug into my pocket for his apartment number. I remembered I’d written it on the back of his business card.
3C!
I pounded my fist against the buzzer. The seconds took forever as I waited for a response. Plausible scenarios zoomed through my head. Derrick was in the shower. Taking a nap. Not home yet. Anything but what I feared.
I kept stabbing the buzzer, when the front door suddenly opened. A man in a bathrobe was coming to see about the commotion on the street.
“Hey, what’s your problem?” he said as I nearly knocked him over to get inside.
The stairwell was straight ahead. Two by two I took the steps, turning the corner to the second floor, then the third. The man in the bathrobe was still yelling at me, threatening to call the cops.
I scanned the doors. 3C was down the hall, at the front of the building.
It was locked. Of course it was.
I hammered on the door, calling out Derrick’s name. Please be there!
The more I pounded, the less hope I had, though.
I turned around, searching for something to help break down the damn door. Then I figured out what I needed. Hell, I was practically wearing the answer.
But there was no fire extinguisher in the hallway on Derrick’s floor.
I dashed up to the fourth floor. Yes! Near the top of the stairs was a large canister, polished red and silver. I ripped it from the wall. Then I raced back downstairs to Phalen’s door, smashing it as hard as I could over and over, definitely looking like a madman now.
Finally the door splintered. I was able to get at the locks. Then the door flew open. I was just about to call out Derrick’s name.
Instead I fell to my knees. I was staring into what had once been Derrick Phalen’s eyes.
Chapter 66
I FOUND MYSELF back down on the street again, talking to detectives from the local precinct, when I spotted somebody arriving on the scene, somebody who I really didn’t want to talk to right now, or even see.
Officially, the Manhattan DA was out of his jurisdiction up here in the Riverdale section of the Bronx. Unofficially, he didn’t seem to care.
Nor did the two detectives who were interviewing me. Receiving nothing more than a nod from Sorren, they both backed away.
Sorren lit a cigarette and gave me a quick head to toe. First things first: “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”