Chapter Six (Part Two)
I stride to my car and drive to O’Reilly’s building, killing the engine once I have the building in sight. I haven’t really planned what I’m going to do, but it doesn’t worry me. My slate is cleared until I figure out what the hell is going on here, and I think O’Reilly will be my way in. Like most pompous, arrogant pricks, he’ll most likely fold once a little pressure is put upon him. I shift in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position. I fish out a red scarf from my glove compartment and tie it around my hair, then slip on my Ray Bans. I know that a stakeout isn’t anything like they show it on television or in the movies; it’s mostly tedious work. Hours of waiting with little return, unless the action is prodded in an artificial way. Since I am not known for my patience, I decide to do a little manufacturing. First, out of idle curiosity, I call the number DiCalvo had given me. I’m sure it’s a false number, so I’m not surprised to hear, ‘The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected’. Next, I call O’Reilly’s office number after using my scrambler so he can’t identify my phone. It occurs to me that I should purchase burners if I’m going to keep making anonymous phone calls.
“Caleb O’Reilly, how may I help you?” His voice is smooth and just a step away from oily. I can visualize the smug smile on his face which makes me itch to kick in his teeth. I raise my voice and make it as breathy as possible.
“Mr. O’Reilly? I’m an acquaintance of Mr. DiCalvo’s, if you know who I mean.” I pause, gratified to hear a hissing on the other end of the line.
“How did you, who are you, I mean, why are you calling me?” He’s disconcerted, but he hasn’t hung up yet.
“Mr. DiCalvo would like to meet you at his office this very minute. He has an urgent matter to discuss. About Angel. Don’t try to call him as his phone may be bugged.” I hang up the phone. This is the tricky part, whether O’Reilly will fall for it or not. I don’t doubt he’ll call DiCalvo—in fact, I’m counting on it. I turn on my car and wait to see what happens. Not five minutes later, O’Reilly is hustling from the building towards a silver Lexus. How disappointingly clichéd. He zooms off without looking around, so it’s a piece of cake to follow him. Pretty soon, we are in downtown near the Embarcadero BART station. To my surprise, he parks near Stacey’s bookstore and walks to the McDonald’s there. I trail him casually, my cell phone glued to my ear so it appears that I’m just one of the throngs going to or from work. I am still wearing the scarf and sunglasses, so I’m confident that I’m unrecognizable.
DiCalvo is already there, which means he’s closer to downtown than is O’Reilly up in North Beach, which isn’t saying much. DiCalvo looks just as I remember him, but worse for the wear. His leg is jittering under the table, and his eyes flit from spot to spot. I quickly order a Diet Coke and a Quarter Pounder so I won’t look suspicious, then I slide into a chair a few tables away from DiCalvo. O’Reilly has gotten stuck in a slower line so he’s not at the table yet. I study DiCalvo without his noticing me, and it’s all I can do not to punch him out. No matter how much I want to do him grievous bodily harm, what I want more is answers. I won’t get those by muscling the punk, especially as O’Reilly is making his way towards the table as well. The two of them are like Mutt and Jeff with one being a nervous wreck and a slob to boot while the other one is swathed in sartorial splendor and has a regal bearing.
“What the fuck are we doing here?” DiCalvo blurts out. “Who’s the bitch who called you?”
“Don’t know. Not the oriental chick. Not her voice.” O’Reilly looks down at his Big Mac in disdain. “Really, I don’t know why we have to meet here.”
“I like the food,” DiCalvo mumbles, biting into a hamburger. “It’s good for what ails you.”
“Whatever,” O’Reilly says dismissively. “Whoever it was mentioned Angel. Perhaps it was the real problem woman.”
“She knows better,” DiCalvo says. “She fucking knows better now. The only calling she should be doing is for a fucking pizza delivery. Bitch. Why couldn’t she have been like the other bitches?”
“Because he slipped this time,” O’Reilly says coolly. “He’s not infallible, you know. Especially when he starts thinking with his dick.”