“Who do you think the other guy is?”
“Got no fuckin’ clue, that’s why I’m hiring you.”
I asked for the usual—his address and phone numbers, his wife’s work address, the time she left for work in the morning, the time she usually came, et cetera.
“And I’ll need a picture,” I said.
He opened his briefcase, took out a photo, and handed it to me. I suddenly understood why he was so worried. Some guys came to me, worried their wives were cheating on them, and then I’d see a picture of the old cow and think, What’s your problem? You should be thanking God she’s fucking cheating on you. But Debbie DiMarco was a total knockout—wavy blond hair, dark tan, and somebody had paid good money for that rack.
“Good-looking woman,” I said.
“Don’t get any ideas,” he said seriously, like he really thought I wanted to bang his wife. I did want to bang her, but still.
“Take it easy,” I said. “It’s a compliment. You have great taste.”
I looked at the picture again, thinking, There’s no way in hell this broad ain’t cheating on this guy.
“Sorry,” he said, calming down. “I just get a little possessive sometimes, I guess. As you can see, she’s very beautiful. I was the happiest man in the world when I met her, but now she’s making me fuckin’ miserable.”
Jesus Christ, he wasn’t going to cry, was he?
Yes, he was.
He dabbed his eyes with a napkin, then blew his nose into it. People were looking over.
I downed the rest of my drink, then said, “Look, I’m gonna do everything I can to get you what you want, but just get ready because it probably won’t be pretty.”
He stood up and looked at me, eyes all bloodshot, and shook my hand, squeezing much harder than necessary.
“Thank you, Jimmy,” he said. “I’m really counting on you, man.”
He finally let go of my hand, and I walked away, letting Mr. Rich Guy pick up the tab.
I probably should’ve left the track with DiMarco’s thousand bucks and considered myself a winner for the day, but when was the last time I did the thing I “should’ve done”? Instead I went back downstairs and invested about two hundred bucks in triples and pick threes and watched the bets go promptly down the tubes as none of the horses I needed on top hit the board. This time there was no drama, no close calls. I just bet, watched, ripped.
In the next couple of races, I didn’t fare much better, dropping another couple hundred. I knew it was happening, that there was no way I was leaving the track a winner, but I stayed and bet the rest of the card. I hit a nice exacta in the seventh race, which built up my stake back to about a thousand, but then I went banzai in the late double and walked out with about two hundred bucks in my wallet.
I knew the smart thing to do was to stop gambling and get right to work on the case, but I got in my car and drove right to Yonkers Raceway. By the fourth race, around nine o’clock, I was back in my car, driving home to Brooklyn, broke and feeling like shit. I knew this wasn’t any way to live my life, but I didn’t know any other way to live it. I didn’t smoke, barely drank, and never did heavy drugs, but I’d been gambling for years, losing my money faster than I earned it. Sometimes I felt like I was falling, except, unlike a dream, I didn’t wake up and find out everything was okay. My nightmare went on and on.
In the morning, I woke up and got to work on the car. I had no choice. I would’ve loved to chase my money at Belmont, but I was broke and had rent and bills to pay. Business had been slow lately and if I hadn’t run into DiMarco at the track, I didn’t know what I would’ve done for money.
I lived in a ridiculously small apartment in Brooklyn, above a deli on Avenue M off Flatbush. It was on the second floor of a tenement-style building. There was one room—my combination living room, dining room, and kitchen—and a tiny bathroom. I couldn’t meet clients there, so I did most of my business at diners, bars, and racetracks. I had no overheard and I didn’t run ads. My business was all word of mouth and by referral. My only equipment was a laptop, a digital camera, and a gun. I usually left my gun at home, knowing firsthand what kind of trouble those things can get you into.
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