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“Take the cab out to Lodi.”
“Jersey?”
“Yeah. There’s a place on Route 17 called Lucky’s Pink Palace. Ask for Christopher. He’s expecting you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“Thought you were in a hurry. If you want to wait…”
What I want—thanks to Ingrid…oh boy, that Ingrid—is to fall on the bed here and take a long nap.
But that’s just not an option right now.
“Okay. When will the cab be here?”
“It’s there now.”
“It’s here now,” he repeated, incredulous.
He yawned.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Fulmar heard the connection go dead.
Fulmar went out the revolving door of the Gramercy and saw what he thought was Lanza’s taxicab waiting at the corner.
He started walking toward it. The cab’s engine started and then the car began rolling toward him.
For a moment, Fulmar thought that he might be mistaken—the monster fishmonger was not behind the wheel—but then the car stopped when its back door was even with him.
He opened the door and asked the driver, “This Joe Socks’s?”
“Yeah,” the driver said.
Fulmar saw that the driver was a tiny guy, maybe five-two, one-ten—probably has to jump around in the shower just to get wet—and about age thirty. He had a two-day growth of black, stubby beard and wore a dark work shirt, corduroy pants, and a black leather Great Gatsby driving cap.
Fulmar got in the backseat.
“Where’s the big guy?”
“What big guy?”
Fulmar shook his head.
He looked out the window and yawned.
“Never mind,” he said and settled in for a nap.
A jarring sensation abruptly awoke Fulmar from his deep sleep.
At first it felt like the taxi had hit a wall or something. But when he looked out the window and back to where they’d just been—down what he guessed was Route 17—he saw that the cabbie had just jumped a curb to reach a parking lot.
This part of Route 17 was a hellish-looking thoroughfare through a rough part of town. It had two lanes in each direction—with vehicles bumper-to-bumper—and traffic lights as far as the eye could see. It was lined with cheap used-car lots, greasy burger and fried chicken joints…and strip clubs.
