Phantom Angel by David Handler Page B

Staten Island. Hylan was quiet on a weekday morning. Everyone had gone to work, or so it seemed. A plumbing company van was parked two doors down from the Crown Towers. Not many other cars were parked there.
    I settled in for a long wait. Stakeouts can be downright tedious. I have no idea how long I’m going to be sitting there. So I bring a patient attitude and a ton of supplies. I had my iPod loaded with dozens of my favorite Broadway musicals. I had my laptop, all three New York newspapers and director Elia Kazan’s incredibly candid memoir. I love to read showbiz memoirs, the juicier the better. I had my Nikon D80 with a zoom lens. I had three pairs of sunglasses, a half-dozen baseball caps and a stack of T-shirts in assorted colors. I had a cooler filled with sandwiches from Scotty’s and a dozen bottles of water, since it’s super important to stay hydrated when you’re sitting in a parked car on a hot summer day. I had an empty gallon jug, since it’s also super important to have something to pee into while you’re staying hydrated. I had a toilet kit, a blanket and a pillow. I was prepared to live in that car all day and night if I had to.
    My Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special was locked in the glove compartment, fully loaded in case I needed it. And I have.
    I waited. No one came or went through the front door of the Crown Towers except for the mailman, who had one of those rolling carts that they use. A black Land Rover took off from the underground parking garage. I couldn’t see who was driving it. The windows were tinted. I waited. Had one ham and cheese sandwich, two bottles of water and waited some more, surprised that Morrie hadn’t called me yet to scream at me some more. Possibly his head had exploded.
    I’d been waiting there for about two hours when a beat-up Chevy Impala pulled up behind me and parked. A woman got out from behind the wheel, came around to the Brougham’s passenger door and got in next to me. She was a Latina in her mid-thirties with large, liquid dark eyes and shiny black hair. She wore slacks and a sleeveless cotton blouse.
    â€œHow are you this morning, Mr. Golden?” she asked, her voice brusque and officious.
    â€œA tad warm but otherwise fine. And you are…?”
    â€œSue Herrera. I’m a detective with OCCB.” OCCB is the NYPD’s Organized Crime Control Bureau. “It so happens that we have the Crown Towers under surveillance, Mr. Golden.”
    â€œThe plumbing van, am I right?”
    â€œMy boys ran your plate. As soon as your name came up I called Legs. He told me you’re good people. He didn’t tell me that you and your cute widdle nose just popped out of a Disney cartoon.” She looked at me in amusement. “How old are you anyhow?”
    â€œExcuse me a sec.” I speed dialed Detective Lieutenant Larry Diamond, better known as Legs because he hates, hates the name Larry. Legs is the top homicide detective in New York City. My dad was his rabbi. He’s like a big brother to me.
    When he picked up, I said, “I’m sitting here on the Island of Staten with a Herrera comma Sue.”
    â€œYeah, I was kind of expecting that. She’ll bust your balls but she won’t burn you. Only, listen up, when she asks you if you’re available say no. Don’t go there, little dude.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œJust don’t.”
    â€œWhatever you say, Legs.” I rang off.
    â€œWhat did he say?” Sue Herrera asked me, her gaze softening. Legs has that effect on most women.
    â€œThat I can trust you.”
    â€œHe told me he’s been trying to get you on the job for two years.”
    â€œThat was my father’s life, not mine.”
    â€œWe need to have a conversation, Mr. Golden.”
    â€œAbout what? And make it Benji, will you?”
    â€œWhat do you want with Jonquil Beausoleil, Benji?”
    â€œSorry, Jonquil who?”
    She heaved