her bag in her right hand, like a kid. DiMaggio watched her until she was out of sight. He told Rudy to find him a rental car place, he wanted to drive himself up to Connecticut in the morning.
“She seem like an actress to you?” DiMaggio said, and Rudy said, “Don’t they all?”
7
DiMaggio took the Fulton College exit off the Merritt Parkway. It put him on Route 7, which didn’t look like Connecticut at all to DiMaggio, just some kind of anywhere fast-food drag, Burger King and McDonald’s and Taco Bell and Roy Rogers, until everything finally settled down and he got into the town of Fulton, with its small-town movie-set library and all its beige designer brick. DiMaggio thought they just should have called it Town Beautiful.
It didn’t take long to go all the way through downtown Fulton. The directions said take a left when he could see the train station. DiMaggio did that and then went up a hill, past a pretty white-frame Congregational church, following signs to a town called Ridgefield, exactly the way Salter’s secretary said. He wasn’t even a mile out of town and already he felt like he was in the country, with elegant old houses set back from the road and huge fenced-in areas with horses. He took a right off the road to Ridgefield, went down a hill this time, and saw Fulton College spread out below him.
Salter’s secretary told him he couldn’t miss the huge stone arch that served as the front gate. You went through the arch, and thenabout a hundred yards down was a security booth. She said his name would be left with the guard there. She promised that the guard could direct him to the gym, all the way in the back of the campus.
It took him almost half an hour to get from the stone arch to the booth with the security guard. DiMaggio counted fifteen cars and vans ahead of him. Most of the vans had spaceship satellite dishes coming out of their tops. The guard was stopping everyone, DiMaggio could see him, busting balls, checking his list, then waving them through.
When DiMaggio got to the front of the line, the guy took him through the same drill, looking at the first page on his clipboard, flipping to the next page, running his finger down the long list, making a small check mark. DiMaggio figured him for about seventy in his blue-and-orange Knicks windbreaker. He was more of a greeter than a private cop. Maybe it was working at the college. He wore a denim shirt and some kind of flashy tie with what looked to be basketball players jumping all over it. His white hair was brushed back and curled down over the collar of the denim shirt.
“DiMaggio?” he said, turning it into a question, leaning forward to take a better look inside the car. DiMaggio just waited with the window down, looking past him at the campus, which looked beautiful, cut out of woods, hills, and sky. Some of the roofs had red tile on them, like Stanford. If you were going to steal, steal from the best.
The white-haired greeter said, “It’s a little crowded over there at the gym today, which is straight down to the end of this road and then to the right. My advice is to take the first space you see and then just walk from there or the Knicks’ll be all done and—”
The white-haired greeter stopped. A Cherokee, black, was pulling around DiMaggio’s rented Taurus, going up on the grass, spitting dirt and rocks, coming so close to DiMaggio on the passenger side he could feel his car move a little bit. The guard looked up and said, “Hey,” then seemed to recognize the black Jeep. He gave a sheepish wave, and the Jeep gunned its way past them.
DiMaggio said, “Who was that?”
“Right there? Right there was Mr. Adair and Mr. Collins. Themselves.” He smiled. “ ’Course this time of year, that’s not what they’re known as around here.”
DiMaggio could see a couple of the cars ahead of him start chasing after the Jeep. He said to the guard, “What are they known as around here?”
“The Dick
“She seem like an actress to you?” DiMaggio said, and Rudy said, “Don’t they all?”
7
DiMaggio took the Fulton College exit off the Merritt Parkway. It put him on Route 7, which didn’t look like Connecticut at all to DiMaggio, just some kind of anywhere fast-food drag, Burger King and McDonald’s and Taco Bell and Roy Rogers, until everything finally settled down and he got into the town of Fulton, with its small-town movie-set library and all its beige designer brick. DiMaggio thought they just should have called it Town Beautiful.
It didn’t take long to go all the way through downtown Fulton. The directions said take a left when he could see the train station. DiMaggio did that and then went up a hill, past a pretty white-frame Congregational church, following signs to a town called Ridgefield, exactly the way Salter’s secretary said. He wasn’t even a mile out of town and already he felt like he was in the country, with elegant old houses set back from the road and huge fenced-in areas with horses. He took a right off the road to Ridgefield, went down a hill this time, and saw Fulton College spread out below him.
Salter’s secretary told him he couldn’t miss the huge stone arch that served as the front gate. You went through the arch, and thenabout a hundred yards down was a security booth. She said his name would be left with the guard there. She promised that the guard could direct him to the gym, all the way in the back of the campus.
It took him almost half an hour to get from the stone arch to the booth with the security guard. DiMaggio counted fifteen cars and vans ahead of him. Most of the vans had spaceship satellite dishes coming out of their tops. The guard was stopping everyone, DiMaggio could see him, busting balls, checking his list, then waving them through.
When DiMaggio got to the front of the line, the guy took him through the same drill, looking at the first page on his clipboard, flipping to the next page, running his finger down the long list, making a small check mark. DiMaggio figured him for about seventy in his blue-and-orange Knicks windbreaker. He was more of a greeter than a private cop. Maybe it was working at the college. He wore a denim shirt and some kind of flashy tie with what looked to be basketball players jumping all over it. His white hair was brushed back and curled down over the collar of the denim shirt.
“DiMaggio?” he said, turning it into a question, leaning forward to take a better look inside the car. DiMaggio just waited with the window down, looking past him at the campus, which looked beautiful, cut out of woods, hills, and sky. Some of the roofs had red tile on them, like Stanford. If you were going to steal, steal from the best.
The white-haired greeter said, “It’s a little crowded over there at the gym today, which is straight down to the end of this road and then to the right. My advice is to take the first space you see and then just walk from there or the Knicks’ll be all done and—”
The white-haired greeter stopped. A Cherokee, black, was pulling around DiMaggio’s rented Taurus, going up on the grass, spitting dirt and rocks, coming so close to DiMaggio on the passenger side he could feel his car move a little bit. The guard looked up and said, “Hey,” then seemed to recognize the black Jeep. He gave a sheepish wave, and the Jeep gunned its way past them.
DiMaggio said, “Who was that?”
“Right there? Right there was Mr. Adair and Mr. Collins. Themselves.” He smiled. “ ’Course this time of year, that’s not what they’re known as around here.”
DiMaggio could see a couple of the cars ahead of him start chasing after the Jeep. He said to the guard, “What are they known as around here?”
“The Dick
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