“I’ll be fine,” I told her.
I was happy with the plan. It was a beautiful day, and I didn’t mind walking. You see things on foot that you miss in a car. You hear things. You meet people. Sunny owned properties here. He did business here. He had friends and also enemies here. And probably Vinnie was right. Sunny’s enemies would be more helpful than his friends.
This block of Sixteenth was primarily residential. The conjoined redbrick houses had originally been single family but were now subdivided into flats. Most were nicely maintained. No gang graffiti. No burned-out crack houses. No rats scurrying around in the gutters. There also were no yards or porches. Each house had a front stoop that was three or four steps high. This allowed for small basement windows. A few of the houses had first-floor businesses. A bridal shop, a realtor, a tailor who was most likely a front for something.
I passed an older woman carrying a grocery bag, but that was it for foot traffic. Car traffic was almost as sparse. I reached the end of the block and crossed the street. I walked past two row houses, and a black SUV rolled down the street and parked in front of me. Two guys got out of the SUV and pulled guns. I turned to run and saw the black Lincoln Town Car idling at the curb behind me. Shorty and Moe got out and walked toward me. Moe had his gun drawn. Shorty was holding a stun gun.
I didn’t see any little businesses on this block. No open apartment building doors. No place to run for shelter. I could sprint across the street and start trying doors, but they’d be on me if the first door didn’t open. I grabbed my cellphone, pressed the speed dial for Ranger, and took off. I was across the street, attempting to get into a house with my phone still in my hand, when I felt the stun gun charge rip through me. After that it was all mental confusion and scrambled muscle connections.
The fog started to clear and I found myself in total darkness. I had a vague memory of being carried. I was in a cramped position, unable to straighten my legs. My hands were cuffed behind my back. I lay perfectly still, trying to clear my head, fighting the panic that was burning in my chest. I could feel motion and bumps. I was in the trunk of a car. The Lincoln, I thought.
I could scream, but that wasn’t going to do me any good while the car was moving. I was pressed against something hard and scratchy, and it was preventing me from maneuvering my legs into a position to kick anything.
The car came to a stop, and I started screaming. The lid to the trunk opened, and I saw daylight and Moe looking down at me.
“That screaming’s annoying,” Moe said. “If you don’t stop I’m going to zap you again.”
“Where are we?”
“We’re on the bridge. You’re going swimming.”
Shorty and another guy came around and helped Moe wrangle me out of the trunk. The job was made more difficult by the fact that a cinderblock was attached to my ankle by a long rope.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, looking down at the cinderblock. “Mob guys don’t actually do this.”
“Turns out, we do,” Moe said.
Cars were zipping by, drivers gawking. Some honked their horns and waved.
Moe waved back. “They think we’re making a movie or something.” He slammed the trunk closed. “We usually do this at night, but I got to go to an anniversary party for my in-laws.”
The SUV was parked behind the Lincoln. One guy was behind the wheel and the other guy was standing next to Shorty, taking it all in.
“Okay, here we go,” Moe said. “We’ll alley-oop her over the guardrail.”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
“That’s one of those questions that got an obvious answer,” Moe said. “You’re a pain in the ass, and you won’t go away. And you shot Sunny.”
“I didn’t shoot Sunny. Rita shot Sunny.”
“I wouldn’t find that hard to believe,” Moe said, “but we got our orders.”
The guy from the SUV gave a grunt and hefted the cinderblock.
“No! Help!” I yelled. “Helllllllp!”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Moe said to me. “Always the pain in the ass.”
“Help!” I screamed. “Somebody help me!”
Some cars slowed to look, but no one stopped.
“For crissake,” the SUV guy said. “Move her! I’m gonna pop a hemorrhoid holding this motherfucking cinderblock.”
Moe had me by one arm, and Shorty had me by the other. I was struggling against them, kicking out with the foot not tied to the cinderblock, but I was losing ground. They got me to the guardrail, and I could see the Delaware River dark and deep, swirling away from the bridge abutments.