"Are you the fellow who enjoyed terrorizing Tim MaCgrady yesterday?"
"If you're the one who's now moving and letting me in I'm all you want," he said squinting as he smiled.
"They're waiting for you." he said and walked away after rolling the newspaper under his arm. Mason Stone watched him disappear into the workshop behind a long row of vehicles and racks of tools, then opened the door. A narrow corridor opened before him. Moments later, a woman appeared through a door at the far end. Mason waited for her to say something, his hands sunk into the pockets of his mackintosh.
"Can I help you?" he finally said, aloud.
"You certainly can. My name is Mason Stone. I'm a private detective. I'm looking into the disappearance of Samuel Perkins."
"Wouldn't it be more accurate to say you're investigating the murder you're accused of?" retorted the woman, her hands crossed under her breasts.
Realising he was talking to the right person Mason didn't wait until he was invited to approach and firmly covered the distance between them "Is that a side effect, Miss...?"
"Darden. Mrs. Darden."
"Am I disturbing you, Mrs. Darden?"
"Don't stand in the doorway: follow me. If it's as long as I think it is, we'd better get comfortable. Would you like some coffee, Detective?" Mason followed Mrs. Darden to a small office in a prefabricated building. She went off to get coffee and five minutes later, when she returned, she placed a stack of papers in front of Stone in addition to the cup.
"Comfortable?" she asked him.
"Too much, comfort withers. What are they?" he asked, pointing to the stack.
"What he's here for: Samuel Perkins' racing records for the last six months. Amazed?" Mrs. Darden was a beautiful woman with a stern face and an icy soul. A businesswoman in a man's world.
"Astonishment is for fools. I'm more of a doubtful type."
"Well, I'll untie that for you: I could refuse to talk to you, no one is forcing me to tell you anything about my business and my company. You are nobody to me, Mr Stone, and you have nothing to bargain with to persuade me to do so. But I want to give you my help: if you have to scare one of my taxi drivers to death to get some information, you must obviously be desperate."
"I thought it was a rather pleasant conversation instead."
"Tim almost had a nervous breakdown."
"A rather sensitive big boy."
"By coming to you, I'm convinced you won't bring any more confusion into my company. I'll be in the next office if you need me."
"You take bad news well, Mrs. Darden."
"I assess situations and adapt. If I didn't know better, I'd have been bankrupt long ago."
"A woman with that kind of cunning, I wonder where she'd go if she wanted to."
"In the other room, for the moment."
"Don't treat me like the big bad wolf, Mrs. Darden. I'm on the shepherd's side."
"That may be. And I know you believe that, but your actions tell of your nature, I'm afraid. Tell me if I'm wrong. You are not a man who is easily discouraged. You're used to pushing, pushing and pushing. You insist, you're not capable of giving up. There are no boundaries that cannot be crossed. Maybe you don't see them or maybe you choose to ignore them," he didn't wait for her to respond and left.
A small smile had grown on Stone's face, which he still turned to the portion of the corridor he could see from his chair. It had been a long time since he had felt so attracted to a woman.
It took him no less than forty minutes to go through the copies of Samuel Perkins' records. The originals were in the hands of Matthews' team, of course. In any case, the whole thing proved almost useless. There were addresses, times and payments. Next to the tables filled out in an undoubtedly masculine handwriting, someone had written mileage notes.
Probably a Sunshine secretary in charge of monitoring that the prices corresponded to the route and the time taken to reach the destination. From what could be gleaned, Samuel Perkins was a dedicated and almost indefatigable driver: copious night shifts, at least four a week, and almost constant double shifts of around sixteen hours. However, he did not find recurring destinations that caught his eye. The records stopped four days before Elizabeth's death. Before he got up, he jotted down an address, perhaps the only one that had appeared three times in the previous two months. It was nothing to shout about, but it was still something in a city that had more taxis than private cars. It was an address in New Jersey. He turned off the lamp on the desk and left the room, taking the file with him. He knocked on Mrs. Darden's door and when she invited him in, he said thank you and stood in the doorway, his back against the doorframe and his hand on the half-open-door handle.
"Ask away, Detective," Mrs. Darden said, filing the records in a huge cabinet in front of her desk. It was a cramped, makeshift office. She could hardly move, even the thin Mrs. Darden.
"A few more things, if you'll indulge me."
"Until now, I have given you everything you wanted." Mrs. Darden sat down on the edge of the desk. She slid the small reading glasses down to the tip of her nose.
"Then let's see how far I can go: the records are missing the last four days."
« I'm afraid I don't have them either, and neither do the police. You see, Detective, here at the Sunshine Cab we ask our drivers for trip reports every week. That's the best we can ask for. Some of them are out there so much that if we asked for it daily, the furthest areas would go uncovered for too long. As you will understand, I can't afford to give up even one street corner to other companies."
"Where are the service records kept?"
"Each employee is free to keep them wherever he wishes. It goes without saying, however, that they should always be at hand, so most keep them on the dashboard."
"Suppose, Mrs. Darden, that someone wanted to keep these records safe. Where would he hide them?"
"If there was anything in them that had the potential to get me into trouble, I would burn them."
Mason instinctively thought back to the ashes in the Perkins' stove.
"What if I didn't want to destroy it because, for some reason, it might come in handy?"
"In every man's castle, then: the house."
"But they should always be at hand, don't forget that."
"The taxi."
"Entrust it to one of the family?"
"For as long as Samuel Perkins worked for me he never mentioned anything that reminded him of her. The only leave he ever requested was for his wife."
"I see. But a man with a taxi can go anywhere without having to explain himself."
"Not quite, Detective. A company that gave its employees that much freedom would go bankrupt in less than a week. We periodically check the mileage against the mileage on the books."
"How do you know that a driver has not stopped somewhere to take a break?"
"We calculate the distance of the last run with that of the area where drivers stop. Generally their home."
"But there's still a margin of error. A mile today, another half tomorrow, and in no time you create a fairly large grey area."
"Every week the kilometres, approximated by excess, which do not turn out and which cannot exceed a certain limit, are marked. "'Frozen', if you will."
"You've thought of everything."
"I am pleased with your admiration. Is there anything else?"
"I bet he wants to get his car back."
"Samuel was a freelancer. The car was his. We just provided him with the equipment and signs. In such cases Sunshine Cab 'leases' the vehicle to the owner, who becomes our employee. Obviously, the cars have to be above certain standards to work with us. It's a question of image."
"A free hitter, then."
"Within certain limits."
"Did he have an area of expertise?"
"All our drivers must have it or areas would form with an overabundance of service and others totally abandoned. You understand it would be chaos. Samuel was assigned Grand Central."
"What kind of vehicle are we talking about?"
"A Checker T."
"What kind of man is Samuel Perkins?"
"Tim didn't tell you enough?"
"I like to have a choice."
"If you want to hear that Sam was capable of doing everything that is being attributed to him I am forced to disappoint you. He was no saint, that must be clear: he had his good temper tantrums too, and frequent ones, but that's part of the job, especially in a city like this. He was a hard worker with all the strengths and weaknesses of all of us. No more, no less. no more, no less."
"Did he know his wife?"
"Not well. She came over a few times, maybe at Christmas, to bring Sam lunch. Something special. Yeah, Sam always worked at Christmas. It's the time of year when the real money is made."
"Why do you think he worked so hard? They both had good jobs and no children."
"I never get involved in private matters. I see what you're getting at but, I'm sorry, I didn't know anything about their married life, so I ignore whether they were on the rocks, whether Sam preferred to spend more time in his taxi than with his wife. I don't think so, Detective, but if I can give you a professional opinion, street kids who manage to grow up and, miraculously, stay out of trouble, become tireless workers. I know a thing or two about that."
"I don't want to take up any more of your time, Mrs. Darden."
"Duty."
"One last thing: is there a Mr. Darden, by any chance?"
The woman, who had already returned to the papers in front of her, looked up at him.
"I imagine it's relevant to your investigation."
Bump in the road
Mason Stone crossed the Washington Bridge in the direction of New Jersey. The sun shone raw, lacking in cheerful tones, the sky emotionless. That morning the traffic was hiccupping, stuck in the tired rhythms of those who don't want to but have to.
The address found in the Sunshine Cab's phone records was in Leonia, a neighbourhood for those who were not blatantly rich but could afford to have a front garden. And in that time of financial crisis, there weren't many of them. Moving slowly forward amidst the honking horns and rumbling bonnets, Mason left Manhattan behind. He was following a truck that he could have easily overtaken, but because of the narrow roadway and oncoming traffic, he decided not to rush.
Within a couple of blocks there was a queue three blocks long.
At an intersection, a dark green Chevrolet Six pulled up behind Mason, and as the driver realised the poor timing he had encountered, he started punching the horn. Mason signalled for him to pass, but he continued to follow without stopping barking. Stone then slowed down to make it easier for him to overtake. Nothing.
Maybe there was a rookie behind the wheel of the truck that wouldn't give way, stiffened by the fear of making a mistake on the first day and earning an earful. At the umpteenth angry blast of the horn, Mason tried to make out the Chevy owner's face in the rereview mirror. The shadow of the fedora he wore made it difficult, but he could still make out a clean-shaven chin and a pair of hollowed-out cheeks. A screech of tyres in front of him forced him to let go and brake. The lorry had hit the kerb. The impact caused the body to swing so far that one side of the truck jerked up off the ground.
As Stone slowed down, the driver of the truck accelerated to keep the pachyderm on its feet. If he failed, Mason would be crushed by the load. As the truck towered over him, he shifted into reverse. Immediately a double set of high lights flashed in the rear-view mirror: the man in the green Chevrolet was gesturing angrily and urging Mason Stone on. Meanwhile, the trucker's attempt had brought the right-hand tyre train crashing back onto the pavement. The structure embarked determinedly.
The Ford's engine screamed violently. The Chevrolet occupied almost the entire carriageway and advanced without giving Stone a chance to move. The truck, now out of control, ended up blocking the opposite lane. The clamped brakes locked the wheels, which left a long, dark trail on the asphalt and white smoke rose from the tyres. The trailer whined furiously. Mason knew from the noise that he would not last long.
Pushed into the arms of a terrible fate, Stone considered crashing his car into the truck and settling his fall, now certain. His car would crumple like a tin of sardines. On the left, a row of lampposts would have provided him with no better service: the old Ford was not agile enough to avoid them all. There were too many people, anyway. He wasn't going to risk their lives for his. On the other side, the deep waters of the East River.
With yet another blast of the horn, the Ford's cockpit filled with light. Stone gripped the steering wheel and lowered his chin until the brim covered his view of the Chevy's high beams. The trucker cursed in panic: the steering wheel was pulling his arms off.
Mason stepped back sharply. A dull thud preceded the clang of scrap metal. The bumpers of the Ford and Chevrolet had engaged. The engine in reverse was at its rev limit. The Ford pushed away HollowCheeks’ car which was pushing it towards the crash. The tyres of both cars groaned. Then the truck's trailer collapsed, taking the load and the tractor with it, just as the space Mason had created became enough for him to shift into first gear and drive to the right. On impact with the kerb, the Ford spun upwards, but it was in that way that it was barely grazed by the lorry, losing only a mirror. A cloud of steam rose from the truck's radiator like the mushroom of an explosion. The dust and goods scattered on the ground enveloped the truck and the bystanders.
Mason Stone overcame the incident and pulled over to the other side.
A huddle of curious onlookers and alarmed good citizens gathered. At the windows there was a luxuriant flowering of heads. Mason left the car mumbling in neutral and opened the door to get out. He only had time to get an inkling of a rapid movement behind him, but it was enough for his instinct to lift his foot. One more moment and he would no longer be able to kick anyone. The green Chevrolet, which had made its way as far as he had since the disaster, had missed him and the Ford by a whisker.
HollowCheeks nailed it sideways, blocking what might have been an escape route for Mason. Through the Chevy's rear window Stone saw him moving to get out, so he mounted the wheel cover and leapt off the Ford's bonnet.
He threw away his cigarette. The two faced each other with a hard grunt in the midst of the commotion. The guy reminded him of a big dog: the drooping cheeks on his skinny face, the deep wrinkles, the big sad eyes, the long-crooked nose. The grey suit fell over him, as if dressed by an old hanger. The long raincoat fit him like a corpse. HollowCheeks e towered over him by more than half a span. His hands were not those of a starving runt, they were strong.
As soon as he got a better look at his attacker's face and breathed in his garlic breath, Mason Stone knew who he was up against an Italian-American named Frankie D’Angelo, a soldier in the Colombo family, under the direct orders of Dominick Petrillo, a man of honour in the New York Mafia.
"What's wrong with you, man?" Mason chose to attack. That tone had the impact of a slap: Frankie's yellow eyes widened and his lips revealed long, crooked teeth. Cursing aloud, he clapped both hands on Mason's chest. They were too close for him to reach into his coat and pull out his gun as he wished. He had to back off at least a step, just enough for Stone to pounce on him.
"Do you know who you're up against?" growled Frankie D'Angelo.
"A bad driver?"
"You see this car?" the mobster asked, pointing to the Chevrolet that had kicked him out.