blinked.
MacAullif nearly gagged. “Oh, my God!”
“MacAullif—”
“I don’t believe it! Are you telling me after you found the dead mobster’s body you spoke to the widow?”
“No, of course not.”
“Did you talk to her before?”
“Well—”
“You did, didn’t you?” MacAullif’s voice was rising. “You talked to her before you found the mobster’s body, but after I got the credit card receipt from the motel manager. You talked to her to see if she’d hire you! To investigate the murder of her husband! Whom she suspects you of killing! You figured if you were going to check out the guy anyway, you might as well have someone pay for it!”
“It wasn’t the money.”
“No, of course not,” MacAullif said scathingly. “That would be logical . That would make sense . That would be a simple, basic motive anyone could relate to. But you—correct me if I’m wrong—you want her to hire you because you want to convince her you’re a basically good person who would never harm her husband.”
“I’m accused of murder. She’s a witness against me.”
“Exactly! She’s the last person in the world you should be talking to! But you figure you can charm her! What did you do, appeal to her better nature? Show her your dick?”
MacAullif wrenched the car out of the spot, sped down the street.
“Where we going?”
MacAullif said nothing, just kept heading west.
“My car’s back there.”
“I know where your car is.”
He got on the West Side Highway, headed uptown.
“It’s nice of you to drive me home, MacAullif, but I’d rather have my car.”
We seemed to be passing a lot of cars. I peeked at the dashboard. MacAullif was doing ninety.
“I guess if you’re a cop you got a right to drive any speed you want.”
MacAullif ignored me. If anything, he accelerated.
“That’s my exit,” I said as we passed Ninety-sixth Street.
MacAullif zigzagged through traffic, went up the ramp to the Cross Bronx Expressway and the George Washington Bridge. He kept right, swerved around the entrance to Martha Washington, the bridge’s lower level.
“We going to Jersey?” I said. I remembered Al Pacino saying the same thing in The Godfather when Michael Corleone was in the car with Sollozzo, and his heart was in his throat because they were heading for Jersey, and the restaurant where they’d planted the gun in the bathroom for him was in the Bronx. “I thought you said it would be a bad idea to talk to the motel manager.”
MacAullif pulled out in front of an eighteen-wheeler, passed a slow-moving panel truck and got in the right-hand lane to exit.
We weren’t going to the motel. I had a sudden paranoid thought, Good god, he is going to turn me in to the cops . Which shows how stressed out I was. Because that couldn’t possibly compute. After all, what conceivable explanation could he come up with for putting me under arrest?
We weren’t going to the police station either. MacAullif got on the Palisades Parkway, heading north, and hit the gas.
One good thing, he was obeying the speed limit. At least compared to New York. He was only doing seventy. I guess because he wasn’t a Jersey cop and couldn’t count on their cooperation. Not because he was afraid they’d stop him and take charge of his prisoner.
“Where the hell are we going?”
MacAullif steamed on by exit one and kept going north. Finally he slowed, put on his blinker.
I looked.
There was a roadside rest area up ahead on the right. Not with amenities. Just a place you could pull off the road and park.
MacAullif drove in. There was no one around. He parked behind a grove of trees, killed the motor.
“Get out.”
My mouth fell open. I wasn’t Michael Corleone in The Godfather . I was Adriana in The Sopranos , Chris’s cop-collaborating girlfriend being taken for a ride by Bruce Springsteen’s guitarist, Silvio.
“Am I getting whacked?”
“I wish.”
He jerked his thumb.
I opened the door, got out, waited
MacAullif nearly gagged. “Oh, my God!”
“MacAullif—”
“I don’t believe it! Are you telling me after you found the dead mobster’s body you spoke to the widow?”
“No, of course not.”
“Did you talk to her before?”
“Well—”
“You did, didn’t you?” MacAullif’s voice was rising. “You talked to her before you found the mobster’s body, but after I got the credit card receipt from the motel manager. You talked to her to see if she’d hire you! To investigate the murder of her husband! Whom she suspects you of killing! You figured if you were going to check out the guy anyway, you might as well have someone pay for it!”
“It wasn’t the money.”
“No, of course not,” MacAullif said scathingly. “That would be logical . That would make sense . That would be a simple, basic motive anyone could relate to. But you—correct me if I’m wrong—you want her to hire you because you want to convince her you’re a basically good person who would never harm her husband.”
“I’m accused of murder. She’s a witness against me.”
“Exactly! She’s the last person in the world you should be talking to! But you figure you can charm her! What did you do, appeal to her better nature? Show her your dick?”
MacAullif wrenched the car out of the spot, sped down the street.
“Where we going?”
MacAullif said nothing, just kept heading west.
“My car’s back there.”
“I know where your car is.”
He got on the West Side Highway, headed uptown.
“It’s nice of you to drive me home, MacAullif, but I’d rather have my car.”
We seemed to be passing a lot of cars. I peeked at the dashboard. MacAullif was doing ninety.
“I guess if you’re a cop you got a right to drive any speed you want.”
MacAullif ignored me. If anything, he accelerated.
“That’s my exit,” I said as we passed Ninety-sixth Street.
MacAullif zigzagged through traffic, went up the ramp to the Cross Bronx Expressway and the George Washington Bridge. He kept right, swerved around the entrance to Martha Washington, the bridge’s lower level.
“We going to Jersey?” I said. I remembered Al Pacino saying the same thing in The Godfather when Michael Corleone was in the car with Sollozzo, and his heart was in his throat because they were heading for Jersey, and the restaurant where they’d planted the gun in the bathroom for him was in the Bronx. “I thought you said it would be a bad idea to talk to the motel manager.”
MacAullif pulled out in front of an eighteen-wheeler, passed a slow-moving panel truck and got in the right-hand lane to exit.
We weren’t going to the motel. I had a sudden paranoid thought, Good god, he is going to turn me in to the cops . Which shows how stressed out I was. Because that couldn’t possibly compute. After all, what conceivable explanation could he come up with for putting me under arrest?
We weren’t going to the police station either. MacAullif got on the Palisades Parkway, heading north, and hit the gas.
One good thing, he was obeying the speed limit. At least compared to New York. He was only doing seventy. I guess because he wasn’t a Jersey cop and couldn’t count on their cooperation. Not because he was afraid they’d stop him and take charge of his prisoner.
“Where the hell are we going?”
MacAullif steamed on by exit one and kept going north. Finally he slowed, put on his blinker.
I looked.
There was a roadside rest area up ahead on the right. Not with amenities. Just a place you could pull off the road and park.
MacAullif drove in. There was no one around. He parked behind a grove of trees, killed the motor.
“Get out.”
My mouth fell open. I wasn’t Michael Corleone in The Godfather . I was Adriana in The Sopranos , Chris’s cop-collaborating girlfriend being taken for a ride by Bruce Springsteen’s guitarist, Silvio.
“Am I getting whacked?”
“I wish.”
He jerked his thumb.
I opened the door, got out, waited
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