FOR FIVE NIGHTS, GEORGE MARSH KEPT WATCH OUTSIDE OF MANELLI’S Restaurant.
Someone had gotten the word to Andy or Jerry that George was in town and looking for them. They had been spooked enough to try to warn him off. When you tell someone to stay back, it’s because you’re going into a corner and can’t get out. The postcard told him that at least one of them was in New York, and whoever it was was frightened. He would wait and watch, as long as it took.
It was too risky to stand out on the street. There was a grocery across the way on the diagonal that accepted two hundred dollars a night to let him sit inside and look out the window. Additional funds went to a few guys who sat at the bar at Manelli’s all night and listened, reporting back anything of interest. Money had no meaning now—it was just something he handed out, small fortunes in a city rocked by the Depression. He would pay everyone on Carmine Street if he needed to.
Right after nine o’clock on an icy night, as he was opening a new pack of cigarettes and the owner of the shop was sweeping up, George saw a figure walking toward Manelli’s, head down but casting furtive backward looks. Whoever it was had a scarf wrapped high, covering his face. It was a very poor attempt not to be noticed. The person went to the door of Manelli’s, looking in both directions before going inside.
“Sal,” George said, never taking his eyes off the window, “dial Manelli’s for me, huh?”
The shopkeeper set the broom aside and dialed the phone, then passed the receiver to George. The bartender picked it up after a few rings.
“A guy just walked in,” George said, as a greeting. “If that’s Andy or Jerry, say ‘You gotta come downtown. No delivery.’ Otherwise, say ‘Wrong number.’”
After a pause, the bartender said, “Yeah, no delivery. Come downtown if you want it.”
George handed back the phone.
About a half hour later, the door to the restaurant opened and the same figure hurried out with his hat down and a scarf wrapped around his face. George stubbed out his cigarette into an ashtray on the grocery counter. When the figure reached the end of the block, George began to trail him. The snow helped—it was fresh and clean, so it was easier to track the newest set of prints as they turned left. He caught sight of the figure weaving between cars and heading for an alley. George quickened his pace but stayed out of the man’s sight. It wasn’t for nothing that George Marsh had been so decorated a police officer and that he was now in the FBI. These were his streets, and he knew how to work them.
The man stopped by a car and was in the process of opening the door when George made his move.
“Hello, Jerry.”
“Jesus, George,” Jerry replied, already out of breath with fear. “Jesus.”
George punched him in the face, sending him crashing into some trash cans. When he was down, he flipped Jerry on his back and slapped a pair of cuffs on his wrists, pinning his arms behind him. George quickly patted him down, pulling a gun from his waistband and a switchblade from his sock. Then he hauled Jerry to his feet.
“George . . . ,” Jerry began. “I—”
George removed his own coat and threw it over Jerry’s shoulders, concealing the cuffed wrists.
“Walk,” he said. “You run, you scream, I shoot. You so much as look funny, I shoot.”
“Jesus, George . . .”
“And you shut up.”
On the morning he’d arrived back in New York City, George purchased a car from a reliable thief down by Five Points. George had busted him many times as a cop, but the man held no grudges and was happy to supply a vehicle for a paying customer. It was a good, solid car that George had outfitted with blankets and extra lights. It was toward this car that George pushed Jerry now. Once he got Jerry inside, he bound his ankles together with rope, then tied him to the seat. When he was fully secured, he walked around and got in the driver’s side.
“The girl,” he said. “Alice.”
“George, I . . .”
“The girl. Is she alive?”
“I could never kill a kid, George. We didn’t even mean to kill the woman. And I never wanted you to get beat down. That was all Andy . . .”
“Where is she?”
“She’s alive,” Jerry said eagerly. “She’s alive. We left her with some people to watch her.”
“Where?”
“Up in the mountains, on the other side of the lake. The New York side. These people have a cabin up there. Nice people. Family people. We told them she was my sister’s kid and we were trying to keep her out of a bad situation. Nice people, George. We were just keeping her up there until we figured it all out.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere up there in the woods. Some cabin. I forget where.”
George punched Jerry in the side of the head.
“Jesus, George . . .” Jerry was sweating profusely, despite the cold.
“You kidnapped a girl and forgot where you left her? Here’s what I’m going to do in that case: I’m going to attach you to an anchor and throw you in the East River.”
“Jesus, George!”
“You remember where the cabin is,” George said calmly. “You think about it.”
“Maybe if I saw a map or something I could remember.”
George had prepared for this. He had a large selection of maps next to his seat, maps from all over the country. He was prepared to drive to California if he had to. He held them up.
“New York,” he said, unfolding the map. “Assume that I’m going to kill you. You can only improve your situation. Impress me. Look at this map. Tell me, where are we going?”