The DiMarcos lived in Mill Basin. When I got to the house again, I realized how badly I’d fucked up by only asking for a thousand up front. The house was three stories, had to be worth a couple million.
But I already had an idea how I could make that lost money back and then some.
He said his wife went to the gym every day at seven fifteen and, sure enough, at seven fifteen she left the house. Man, she was even better looking in person. She had great legs, like she could’ve been a model, and looked like she was thirty, tops.
She got in her shiny red Merc and drove to the gym DiMarco said she’d go to on Ralph Avenue. I was in sweatpants and T-shirt and followed her inside. I watched her head towards the women’s locker room; then I went to the desk and told them I was thinking about joining and asked for a free day’s trial. The guy tried to make me fill out a form and wanted me to go into the office for a sales pitch. I didn’t want to let Debbie out of my sight, so I promised the guy I’d listen to his spiel after I worked out. Yeah, like that was gonna happen.
While Debbie used a StairMaster, I was right behind her, using an exercise bike. Let me tell you, it was a nice place to be. She was in great shape and spent about forty-five minutes on that thing. I was pedaling as slow as possible and I was still winded.
She did a half hour running on the treadmill while I did some pull-ups and very slow rowing. After she did about twenty minutes of abs and stretches, her workout ended, thank fucking God. If it went on any longer I probably would’ve died.
She went into the locker room again, and came out about a half hour later looking all spruced up and perfect. Meanwhile, I was a sweaty mess because I didn’t want to wash up and risk missing her leave the gym.
She got back in her car and I thought she was heading back to her apartment, but she turned down Avenue N and double-parked in front of a dry cleaner’s. She came out with the clothing, got back in the car, and then drove to Flatlands Avenue. She pulled into a gas station, filled up, then went inside to pay. Then she got back in the car and drove home.
So far the tailing had been a big bust. I was on DiMarco’s tab, but I liked fast cases. I wanted to get my money, ideally today, so I could make it up to Yonkers for the early double.
For all I knew, she was going to stay in her house all day and I would just have to give up and come back tomorrow morning. But after about an hour, she left the house and got back in the car and I followed her onto the Belt Parkway, heading south. She was driving fast, weaving in and out of traffic. A couple of times I thought I lost her.
She exited near Brighton Beach and I figured she was just going to do some shopping or something. But instead she drove into the parking lot of a motel right off the Parkway. Suddenly things were heating up.
She got out of her car and went right to a room. My camera was zoomed in, ready to shoot. The door opened and, as she planted a kiss on the guy’s lips, I started snapping pictures, getting at least four good ones before the door closed.
So it had turned out to be an open and shut case after all.
The guy she’d met seemed familiar, and then it clicked-he was the mechanic I’d seen her talking to earlier at the gas station.
I smiled, then said out loud, “Guess she likes to get her tires rotated every once in a while.”
It wasn’t exactly hard to connect the dots of Debbie DiMarco’s story. She married a rich guy, got bored, and started screwing the hot young Guido at the gas station.
I took out my cell, about to call Andy DiMarco, when I suddenly had a better idea.
If I gave DiMarco the pics, he’d pay me the balance due-a thousand bucks, plus another hundred for expenses. But I had rent and bills coming up, and the way my luck was going, that eleven hundred bucks wasn’t going to last very long. I needed more than eleven hundred bucks and I knew exactly how to get it.
I drove back to the DiMarcos’ house and parked right in front. A couple of hours later, the red Merc pulled up into the driveway and Debbie DiMarco got out. As she passed by on her way toward her house, I said, smiling, “Have a nice afternoon, Miss DiMarco?”
She stopped, turned, and looked at me suspiciously.
Before she could say anything, I said, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
She started to walk away.
“I think you’re gonna want to take a look at these,” I said.
She looked back slowly and saw me holding up the digital camera. “Who the hell are you?”
I laid it all on the table-told her I was a PI, that her husband had hired me, and that I had pictures of her and the mechanic.
“Let me see them,” she said.
She came over, looking at the slide show on the LCD screen.
“Why’re you showin’ me these?” she finally asked, her voice trembling.
“Because I’m a nice guy?”
“Fuck you.”
“Hey, is that a nice way to talk to a guy who might be able to save your marriage, or at least your ass in a divorce settlement?”
“The fuck’re you talking about?”
“These are your two choices,” I said. “I can give these photos to your husband and he can divorce you like he’s going to, or we can go on to plan B.”
“What’s plan B?”
“I don’t give them to your husband. I delete them and you do the right thing and fix your fuckin’ marriage.”
“And how much is that gonna cost me?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“I like to call it ‘a favor.’”
Of course she bit, why wouldn’t she? Nothing like making a quick, easy five g’s. I felt like I’d just hit the fucking triple.
She got back in her car and I followed her to the nearest Chase bank and she made the withdrawal. Before she gave me the money, she said, “Let me see you delete the pictures.”
I deleted them one by one. Satisfied, she gave me the five large.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Miss DiMarco,” I said.
The next afternoon at the bar at Belmont, I met Andy DiMarco.
“Got good news for me?” he asked.
“Depends what you mean by good.”
I handed him printouts of the photos I’d taken. Before I’d deleted them from the camera, I’d uploaded them onto my laptop. I guess I could’ve played it straight and told him his wife wasn’t cheating on him, but I’d already lost most of the five grand I’d gotten from Debbie DeMarco and I wanted the one-grand balance from Andy DiMarco. In other words, I wanted to soak this thing for all it was worth.
Looking at the photos, DiMarco said, “I can’t believe it. I feel like such a fucking idiot. I go into that gas station all the time.”
“Hey, it happens to the best of us,” I said.
DiMarco gave me the thousand balance and expense money, which of course I’d jacked up by a few hundred bucks. The first race was going off soon and I couldn’t wait to go play it.
DiMarco was saying, “Funny thing is, things were getting better the last couple of days. We’ve been talking more, spending more time together. It seemed like we were working things out.”
He looked like he was about to start crying again. I couldn’t take it and said, “Good luck to you,” and headed for the betting windows.
A few weeks later, I was in A.C., at The Taj-broke, losing my balls-when I ran into Big Mikey by the slots.
We bullshitted for a while; then I said, “Oh, I meant to tell you, thanks for that client rec.”
He looked lost.
“You know,” I said, “the guy from Mill Basin with the slut wife?” For a few seconds I couldn’t remember his name; then I said, “DiMarco. Remember, last month you put him in touch with me, told him he could find me at the track? I did a job for him, caught his wife with another guy.”