The Night of the Pulp

After a long day of getting nothing done at my day job at a crowded gym, I figured on spending the last half hour alone in the car waiting for the rest of the carpool. I pulled out of the parking garage on 67th street, made a few city block lefts and ended up on the east side of 3rd avenue in a spot with a broken meter. I reclined the seat, switched on the jazz station and stretched out to Ella crooning me to a better place in the dark.

I watched the people scurrying home from work in the cold evening. After a day like the one I had, it was a gift to sit there insulated from the city and the noise alone and invisible. They passed by my window like wind –up toys. There was the wiry haired nervous twitchy guy, the gay couple holding hands, wiry haired nervous twitchy guy, the mother in a near run with her stroller, wiry haired nervous twitchy guy. Wait – why does this guy keep walking by staring into the car? I don’t mean the causal glance, I don’t mean the, “Hey, isn’t that…?” that will plague my life once I become a Big Time Hollywood Movie Star. No, I got the look from someone who thought I killed his cat, slept with his wife and erased all the Star Trek he had on his DVR.

I began feeling twitchy myself like a caged bird. I watched curiously as he casually walked by the car in not even remotely looking casual. He was looking directly at me as if he was trying to recognize me without being recognized himself. He had his hands in his pockets which I did not like. He’d walk past, turn around, walk the other way and make an effort to examine the parking meters before coming back again. I didn’t like it. He was too shifty looking to be up to any good. I reached for the comfort of the .38 in my side holster just in case, when I realized I just made that up. All I had was a couple of pens and a nail clipper. A sharp nail clipper. After a good ten minutes of this I felt the pressure go up.

Suddenly I saw the spectral image of my father sitting next to me. He comes in handy at times like this for dispensing advice like, “Maybe you should get out and ask him how many pieces he’d like his jaw broken into”, and, “You know there is a bat in the back.” I had forgotten about the bat. He was coming back around again so I reached for my phone as if it was ringing. I used it as a distraction so it wouldn’t be obvious I was staring also. Yep, he was totally staring back at me. I knew this because as soon as I got on my phone, he flipped his open as if he was waiting for a call.

So, our strange guy thought I was calling him. That meant he was deliberately looking at me for something but he didn’t know who I was. It could also mean he doesn’t think I slept with his wife or kicked his cat. Not sure about the DVR though. I put my phone away and watched him do the same. We stared at each other like two gun fighters of the Old West waiting for the draw. I’d finally had enough of this game. I made a move to get out and he quickly shuffled off and got back on his phone. He walked out in front of the minivan that was parked ahead of me and disappeared. I had visions of him loading a 12 gauge shotgun he had concealed under his long coat. I reached again for the .38 that I kept forgetting didn’t exist while I listened to my father’s ghost chastise me for not being armed on the streets of The City. I felt like a sitting duck. I got out, opened the trunk and reached for the bat. I wouldn’t go out without a fight.

He came out from behind the van and walked briskly toward my car. He was looking for me in the front and didn’t see me until he was almost on me. I had surprise on my side. I was staring right at him and twirled the bat like a baton in hopes he’d get the message (and not have a shotgun that would reduce the bat, and me, into toothpicks). It was then that he made a sharp turn and darted across the street and jumped into the passenger seat of a waiting car parked there. The car pulled out hastily and made a quick left on to 67th.

My intuition kicked in and prevented me from putting the bat back in the trunk and returning to my peaceful moment. I had a feeling in my gut I followed up on by crossing Third Avenue and hiding by some construction scaffolding. I waited with my hood up and my hands in my pockets. Now I looked like a twitchy shifty stiff in the cold while I waited to see if my thoughts panned out.

Third Avenue was northbound only so I only needed to pay attention to one direction. The sedan made a left onto 67th. That meant if I was right, they’d take another left on Lexington, a southbound-only to 65th, make another left and another on to third again. Sure enough, no more than 5 minutes had passed before I spotted the sedan slowly coming up the west side of Third Avenue from 65th street to my position in the shadows. They had circled around just as I predicted. I’d get the jump on them if they tried anything with my car. They instead, stopped in front of the Starbucks on the corner of third and 66th. The twitchy guy got out and went for coffee. Maybe they were planning to caffeine up before riddling my Honda with bullet holes like a Japanese Swiss cheese. I watched in silence as the sedan turned left on to 66th and disappeared across Lexington, a block away. We were alone now, the nervous guy and I. I watched him though the windows order a tall coffee and about six brownies. He was animated and sweating and jittery. The last thing this guy needs was coffee and sugar. Things fell into place now; he either thought I was his Street Pharmacist, or he was a highly caffeinated assassin looking for a sugar rush before fulfilling his latest contract. Either way, he has the wrong guy. At least that’s what the ghost of my father said standing next to me.

I followed him across Third Avenue to see where he’d go next. Now I was the stalker and he was the prey. Instead of sneaking over to my car, he headed into the building just on the corner. I was ready to let it go as just a strange New York City misunderstanding when I was struck with an urge. After the man went into the building, I counted to ten and followed him in just in time to see the elevator doors close on him. I approached the desk man who was wearing one of those disapproving frowns as if to intimidate strangers with an entitled look. He looked down his nose at me and asked, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, do you know that man who just went up?”

“Yes I do, can I help you with something?”

“Does he live in this building?”

Clearly agitated, he asked firmly, “And who are you?”

“Easy pal, you only work here. At the end of the shift you go home somewhere else. Does he live here, or what?”

“I need to see some ID.”

I reached for my wallet, “My name is Anthony Serafini, I’m a private detective working a very private case for some very influential people who live at an address that makes this place look like the self-storage number downtown.” I had no idea where I was getting any of this from. I was sweating under my clothes because I was sure there was some law against impersonating private dicks. My instinct was to turn and run but something held me fast to the ground while I continued my ruse. “Do you know if that man has any involvement in the trafficking of narcotics or prostitutes?” That did it. The doorman went a little pale as if he suddenly realized he left the stove on in his apartment in Queens.

As I went to hand my wallet to the nervous doorman, I dropped it on the floor, “Oh, clumsy of me.” I went to pick it up as the door man flinched and said he wouldn’t be able to answer that or any other questions I had unless I came back with a policeman.

I folded my wallet back into my pocket. “That’s okay, pal. I get it. I’ll be back.” I said as I turned and walked out. He called after me, “Hey, um, are you gonna show me your id?” I told him I wouldn’t be able to answer any more of his questions.

NOTE: What, exactly, was I thinking? I have no id, no badge or other credentials. I have no .38. I’m only half of a private dick. My father must have been nuts to do this sort of thing all the time. I was shaking by the time I got back to the car. I laughed at the thought of the doorman getting all nervous. I could get used to this. As I got in, my father was sitting there in the passenger seat again. “Nice work, T. Sometimes you make me real proud.”

I sat back in the seat, listened to Ella and blushed at my father’s pride. And that, for some strange reason made all the difference…