twenty minutes later and said DeMarco was just leaving the prison. When DeMarco caught a cab, the florist told his cabdriver to follow.
DeMarco entered the lobby of the Hyatt and looked for the concierge’s desk.
In any prison movie—
The Great Escape, The Longest Yard, The Shawshank Redemption
—there’s always an inmate known as “the scrounger.” The scrounger was the guy who could get you anything, and DeMarco figured all the good prison scroungers had been New York hotel concierges before they got sent up the river.
You want tickets to a show, no sweat. Seats behind home plate at Yankee Stadium, piece of cake. A girl, well…
I don’t know nothin’ about no girls, pal, but for fifty bucks I’ll bet a blonde named Tiffany comes knockin’ on your door at ten
.
The concierge’s name tag said he was Tony, and he looked like a lot of the Tonys that DeMarco had known: curly black hair, longish nose, hirsute as a small ape. DeMarco put five one-hundred-dollar bills on the countertop that served as Tony’s desk. The concierge looked down at the money, then smiled at DeMarco. Tony had never worn braces.
“Yes,
sir
,” he said. “And what can I do for you?”
DeMarco gave Tony the date Derek Crosby had met with Sandy Whitmore, and said he wanted all the information on Crosby stored in the hotel’s computers: Crosby’s address, phone number, the license plate number for his car if he had parked at the hotel, and his credit card number. He particularly wanted the credit card number becauseCrosby’s credit card statement would prove that Crosby had stayed at the hotel, and DeMarco knew a way to get Crosby’s statement. He was afraid Tony might balk when he asked for the credit card number —but he didn’t. Apparently, five hundred bucks was more than sufficient to purchase Tony’s conscience.
DeMarco then showed Tony a picture of Sandra Whitmore, not the picture in the papers the day she was jailed for contempt, but one taken off the
Daily News
’s Web site in which she looked a little less like the unkept creature she currently was. “The main thing I want,” DeMarco said, “is the name of a person who can testify that this woman, Sandra Whitmore, was in the hotel the same day Crosby was here. Even better would be someone who can say they saw Crosby and the woman together. I know they had a drink in the bar, so start there.”
“You got a picture of this guy Crosby?” Tony asked.
“Not yet,” DeMarco said. He gave Tony the description of Crosby that Whitmore had given him.
“And if you can find somebody who can positively say Whitmore was in the hotel while Crosby stayed here,” DeMarco said, “that’s worth five hundred more to you and five hundred to whoever saw her.”
Tony studied Whitmore’s picture. “She looks familiar.”
“Familiar’s not good enough,” DeMarco said. “I need a witness— a go-to-court, swear-on-a-Bible witness. But what I don’t want is somebody willing to commit perjury.”
“Okay,” Tony said.
DeMarco could have simply placed an anonymous call to Langley and told the CIA that Crosby was Whitmore’s source and that Crosby had been in New York shortly before the story was published. But he figured it would be better if he could find someone who had actually seen Whitmore with Crosby because that way Crosby couldn’t deny having met the woman. But just placing Whitmore in the hotel on the same day Crosby was there might be good enough; that would at least give the CIA a starting point for breaking down whatever lies Crosby might tell his employer.
DeMarco looked down and saw a Manhattan magic trick had been performed: the five bills he had placed on the concierge’s lectern had disappeared and he had never seen Tony’s hands move.
“Give me until five,” Tony whispered out the side of his mouth. “That way, I’ll be able to talk to people on both this shift and the next one.”
The florist wondered why DeMarco had given the concierge
DeMarco entered the lobby of the Hyatt and looked for the concierge’s desk.
In any prison movie—
The Great Escape, The Longest Yard, The Shawshank Redemption
—there’s always an inmate known as “the scrounger.” The scrounger was the guy who could get you anything, and DeMarco figured all the good prison scroungers had been New York hotel concierges before they got sent up the river.
You want tickets to a show, no sweat. Seats behind home plate at Yankee Stadium, piece of cake. A girl, well…
I don’t know nothin’ about no girls, pal, but for fifty bucks I’ll bet a blonde named Tiffany comes knockin’ on your door at ten
.
The concierge’s name tag said he was Tony, and he looked like a lot of the Tonys that DeMarco had known: curly black hair, longish nose, hirsute as a small ape. DeMarco put five one-hundred-dollar bills on the countertop that served as Tony’s desk. The concierge looked down at the money, then smiled at DeMarco. Tony had never worn braces.
“Yes,
sir
,” he said. “And what can I do for you?”
DeMarco gave Tony the date Derek Crosby had met with Sandy Whitmore, and said he wanted all the information on Crosby stored in the hotel’s computers: Crosby’s address, phone number, the license plate number for his car if he had parked at the hotel, and his credit card number. He particularly wanted the credit card number becauseCrosby’s credit card statement would prove that Crosby had stayed at the hotel, and DeMarco knew a way to get Crosby’s statement. He was afraid Tony might balk when he asked for the credit card number —but he didn’t. Apparently, five hundred bucks was more than sufficient to purchase Tony’s conscience.
DeMarco then showed Tony a picture of Sandra Whitmore, not the picture in the papers the day she was jailed for contempt, but one taken off the
Daily News
’s Web site in which she looked a little less like the unkept creature she currently was. “The main thing I want,” DeMarco said, “is the name of a person who can testify that this woman, Sandra Whitmore, was in the hotel the same day Crosby was here. Even better would be someone who can say they saw Crosby and the woman together. I know they had a drink in the bar, so start there.”
“You got a picture of this guy Crosby?” Tony asked.
“Not yet,” DeMarco said. He gave Tony the description of Crosby that Whitmore had given him.
“And if you can find somebody who can positively say Whitmore was in the hotel while Crosby stayed here,” DeMarco said, “that’s worth five hundred more to you and five hundred to whoever saw her.”
Tony studied Whitmore’s picture. “She looks familiar.”
“Familiar’s not good enough,” DeMarco said. “I need a witness— a go-to-court, swear-on-a-Bible witness. But what I don’t want is somebody willing to commit perjury.”
“Okay,” Tony said.
DeMarco could have simply placed an anonymous call to Langley and told the CIA that Crosby was Whitmore’s source and that Crosby had been in New York shortly before the story was published. But he figured it would be better if he could find someone who had actually seen Whitmore with Crosby because that way Crosby couldn’t deny having met the woman. But just placing Whitmore in the hotel on the same day Crosby was there might be good enough; that would at least give the CIA a starting point for breaking down whatever lies Crosby might tell his employer.
DeMarco looked down and saw a Manhattan magic trick had been performed: the five bills he had placed on the concierge’s lectern had disappeared and he had never seen Tony’s hands move.
“Give me until five,” Tony whispered out the side of his mouth. “That way, I’ll be able to talk to people on both this shift and the next one.”
The florist wondered why DeMarco had given the concierge
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