“Gone – as in, no longer here,” DeSanctis shot back. “The garbage’s been picked through, and the recycling bins are on the curb, completely cleaned out.”
“Maybe they already got picked up. What day’s recycling?”
“Tomorrow,” he said dryly. “I’m telling you, she’s been here. And if she figures out how we-”
“Don’t be a moron. Just because she stole Oliver’s garbage doesn’t mean she knows what’s going on.” The elevator doors opened and Gallo followed the alphabet around to Apartment 4D. “Besides, in the grand scheme of things, we’re about to get something a whole lot better than junk mail and some old newspapers…”
“What’re you talking about?”
Ringing the doorbell, Gallo didn’t answer.
“Who is it?” a soft female voice asked.
“United States Secret Service,” Gallo said, lifting his badge so it could be seen through the door’s eyehole.
There was a silent pause… then a fast thunking as a totem pole of locks unclicked. Slowly, the door creaked open, revealing a heavyset woman in a yellow cardigan. She pulled two pins from her mouth and stuck them into the red pin-cushion she wore around her left wrist. “Can I help you?” Maggie Caruso asked.
“Actually, Mrs. Caruso, I’m here about your sons…”
Her mouth opened and her shoulders dropped. “What’s wrong? Are they okay?”
“Of course they’re okay,” Gallo promised, reaching out and putting a hand on her shoulder. “They just got into a little trouble at work, and, well… we were hoping you could come downtown and answer a few questions.”
Instinctively, she hesitated. The phone started ringing in the kitchen, but she didn’t answer it.
“I promise, it’s nothing bad, Mrs. Caruso. We just thought you might be able to help us clear it up. You know… for the boys.”
“S-Sure…” she stammered. “Let me get my purse.”
Watching her scurry back into her apartment, Gallo stepped inside and slammed the door. Like he was always taught, if you want the rats to come running, you have to start messing with their rathole.
21
“Is this even right?” Charlie asks.
“That’s what it says,” I point out. I recheck the address, then look up at the numbers stickered to the filthy glass door: 405 Amsterdam. Apartment 2B. Duckworth’s last known address.
“No. There’s no way,” Charlie insists.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Open an eyeball, Ollie. This guy’s got a three-hundred-million-dollar piggy bank. This should be some Upper West Side, snooty doorman snazzfest. Instead, he’s living in a scrubby bachelor pad that’s tucked above a bad Indian restaurant and a Chinese laundromat? Forget three hundred million… this isn’t even three hundred thousand.”
“Looks can still be a liar,” I counter.
“Yeah, like when three million turns out to be three hundred?”
Ignoring the comment, I point to the unlabeled button for Apartment 2B. “Should I ring it or not?”
“Sure – what else we got to lose?”
It’s not a question I’m ready to answer. The gray sky’s getting dark. In a few hours, mom’ll start to panic. Unless, of course, the Service has already been in touch.
I ring the buzzer.
“Yeah?” a man’s voice shouts back.
Charlie spots an empty brown box in front of the laundromat. “I got a delivery here for 2B,” he says.
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, the raspy buzzer explodes, and Charlie pulls on the door. He holds it open; I grab the brown box. Duckworth, here we come.
As we climb the stairs, the poorly lit hallway is haunted by the potent smell of Indian curry and laundromat bleach. The paint on the walls is cracked and mildewy. The old tile floor is missing pieces in every direction. Charlie lobs me another glance. Bank customers don’t live in places like this. He expects it to slow me down, but all it does is make me pick up the pace.
“That’s it…” Charlie says.
At 2B, I stop and hold the brown box up to the eyehole. “Delivery,” I announce, banging on the door.
Locks crackle and the door swings open. I’m ready for a fifty-year-old man on the verge of tears – just dying to tell us the full story. Instead, we get a frat boy with a perfectly curved Syracuse baseball cap and oversized lacrosse shorts.
“You got a delivery, yo?” he asks in full white-boy accent.
I shoot a glance at Charlie. Even in his Brooklyn-rapper phase, my brother wasn’t this cliché.
“Actually, it’s for Marty Duckworth,” I say. “Does he live here?”
“You mean that freaky little guy? Kinda looked like the moleman?” he laughs.
Flustered, I don’t answer.
“That’s him,” Charlie jumps in just to keep him talking. “Any idea where he went?”
“Florida, baby. Ocean retirement.”
Retirement, I nod. Charlie’s got the same thought. That means he’s got money. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is this dump.
“What about a forwarding address?” Charlie asks. “Did he leave one for you to-”
“What country do you think this is?” Frat Boy teases. “Everybody loves their mail…” Crossing back through the studio apartment, he grabs his electronic organizer from the top of his TV. “I keep it under ‘M,’ for Moleman,” he sings, plenty amused.
Charlie nods appreciatively. “Sweet, dude.”
From my back pocket, I pull out the letter where we wrote down Duckworth’s other address.
“Here you go,” Frat Boy announces, reading from his organizer. “1004 Tenth Street. Sun-shining Miami Beach. 33139.”
Charlie reads over my shoulder, checking to see if it matches. “Same Bat-time. Same Bat-channel,” he whispers.
Saying our goodbyes, we leave the apartment. Neither of us says a word until we hit the stairs.
“What’d you think?” I ask.
“About Duckworth’s life state? I got no idea – though the walking Abercrombie catalogue up there didn’t act like he was dead,” Charlie says.
“That’s who you’re putting your faith in?”
“All I’m saying is, that’s two people confirming a Miami address.”
“And not just any address – a retirement address.”
Still sniffing the bleached curry, Charlie knows what I’m getting at. People don’t live in apartments like this to save for retirement – they live here because they have to. “Which means if Duckworth’s retiring to Florida…”
“… it’s because he suddenly came into some money,” Charlie agrees.
“Only problem is, according to the bank’s records, he’s had plenty of money for years. So why’s the prince dressing like a pauper?”
At the bottom of the stairs, Charlie pulls open the door to the street. “Maybe he’s trying to keep his money hidden…”
“Or maybe someone else is trying to keep his money hidden,” I point out, my voice getting quicker. “Either way, it’s not just the hallway that’s starting to reek.” I speed outside, man on a mission. “Until we talk to Duckworth, we’ll never know for sure.”
Tossing the cardboard box back to its home, I head straight for the payphone on the corner, reach for my phone card, and quickly dial the number for Florida information.
“In Miami… I’m looking for a Marty or Martin Duckworth at 1004 Tenth Street,” I tell the computerized voice that answers. There’s a short pause as we wait in silence. It’s only five o’clock, but the sky’s almost completely black, and a night wind whips down Amsterdam Avenue. As my teeth start to chatter, I step back from the booth and pull Charlie in toward the phone, hoping to keep him warm. And hidden. I search over my shoulder, checking to make sure we’re safe.
Charlie nods a thank-you and…
“You said Duckworth?” a female operator interrupts on the other line.