Last Night

by Karen Ellis

  Time passes without his notice as the wall fills with crude cartoon people and thought bubbles attached by spindly threads.

  Depleted, he stands back and looks over his work. He’s a terrible artist, without a single drop of talent, and his depictions are too obvious—he can’t know what was going through his father’s mind when he abandoned them, if Mo ever felt remorse or guilt or sadness. If his father is the Wilson Ramsey, Crisp clearly didn’t inherit the artist’s gift any more than he understands the man’s choices.

  He wonders if the ferry back to the city has started running yet. About to pull the phone out of his pocket to check the clock, he remembers that the battery is dead. He finds the back porch and there is Laura, wearing overalls and leather gardening gloves, twisting wire into the shape of a gnarled tree limb. She seems to be building a kind of forest. A skein of Christmas tree lights drape over a shabby wicker chair in the corner.

  “Hey,” he says, “do you happen to have a phone charger?” Wishing he’d thought to ask this earlier.

  “Yup—but it’s an iPhone 5. That work for yours?”

  “No.”

  “Check one of the drawers in the pantry. I saw a bunch of chargers in there—maybe something’d fit. And remember not to touch the—”

  “—counter,” he finishes for her. “I won’t. Thanks.”

  “By the way, Gary—the real Gary—canceled. So this works out great.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “I’m gonna break for lunch soon,” she says. “You hungry?”

  “Lunch?” Didn’t they just have breakfast?

  Laura smiles. “You’re one of those. Not me. I never forget a meal.”

  She has to be kidding—it can’t be lunchtime already. His stomach is growling but he always gets hungry when he hasn’t slept. And he was surprised at how much he drew and wrote when he stepped back to survey his (awful, sophomoric) mural. But lunchtime?

  Several different kinds of chargers are jumbled together in a drawer along with random other household things you’d find in or near a kitchen: tape, screwdriver, twine, mangled twisty ties. The charger wires are hopelessly tangled, so once Crisp finds the one that fits the Galaxy, he has to try a variety of plugs before one works. An image of a battery containing a white lightning bolt appears on Dante’s phone. Crisp taps the screen but it’s too soon.

  Blue, he thinks out of nowhere, instead of red; the slash of occasional color in his mural should be blue. Seized by his first-ever artistic inspiration, he leaves the phone, returns to the supply cabinet, and selects a new paint marker, realizing, as he takes it in his hand, that he’ll now have the option of purple if he mixes the red and blue, intentionally or accidentally—this could be interesting. And if he adds black to the blue, the black-purple could achieve his conception of blauvet (blauvé)—the exact shade a bruised night sky is, or should be or could be. So much to think about, so many combinations to try.

  When he hears a series of bleeps emanating from the phone, he puts down the marker and returns to the pantry.

  Each missive in the flood of delayed texts shows a round icon of Rodrigo’s face contrived with menace, posing his hand like a gun. There are seven messages in all, each one nastier, more threatening, than the next—from Dante, obviously, having borrowed his lackey’s phone.

  Crisp drops the phone onto the dust mandala, smearing the intricate design. “Sorry,” he mutters to Laura (who can’t hear him), to the pantry counter (which doesn’t care), to his abandoned mural (under-realized), to himself (for slacking). He untethers the charger, jams the Galaxy into his back pocket, and runs out of the house as fast as his feet can carry him.

  He abandons Nolan Park and runs up Andes Road, Dante’s pugnacious threats ringing loud and clear.

  In the distance, a ferry like a small white toy moves away from the Manhattan skyline in the direction of Governors Island. He runs past low-slung brick barracks with white-painted doors. Past a flank of parked blue Citi Bikes. Past chain-link fences protecting newly seeded lawn.

  As soon as Soissons Landing comes into view, he sees a Manhattan-bound ferry just then pulling out. In the distance, another ferry chugs closer, a spattering of ant-like figures growing human as the vessel nears. He hurries, hoping to meet it before it docks and disembarks again in the constant back-and-forth of arrivals and departures.

  The road curves and a flare of red hat and jaunty walk comes into view and—Crisp would swear it—a sun-touched glint of gold teeth.

  There’s no time to make sure it’s Dante, not if he wants to get away.

  He sprints in the opposite direction.

  23

  The police boat pulls to a stop at a pier alongside the capacious ferry docked at Soissons Landing. Inbound passengers funnel down a gangway toward shore, where a line has formed for the reverse journey.

  Lex jumps off the boat and sprints forward, gaze raking both queues for Crisp, Dante, Rodrigo. Nothing, no one. Is he too early or too late? Is this the right place or the wrong place? The ring of menace in Dante’s threats shrinks time mercilessly, and now, now Lex can’t get his body or his brain to move fast enough or steer him in the right direction.

  He turns and hurries up the road that leads into the heart of the island, scanning every face as he passes Fort Jay and comes up on Nolan Park. He’s so prepared for disappointment that the red make america great again hat seems to reach him in a time delay.

  And then, all at once, Dante Green comes into sharp focus. The gun dealer is on his way from the inner island toward the ferry landing, radiating purpose as a group of camera-lashed tourists make room for him to pass. He looks like a man on a mission, on his way to do something—or having just done it.

  Lex pauses to issue an alert that the target of his arrest warrant is within his sights and to request backup. In moments, a squad car appears and discharges a pair of uniforms.

  Onlookers slow their pace, checking to see if what’s happening is worth sticking around for.

  Dante turns in the opposite direction, back toward the island’s center, but he doesn’t get far before a second squad car blocks the way.

  Bolting forward, Lex reaches for his ID. “Dante Green, I’m Detective Lex Cole, and you’re under arrest for the sale and distribution of illegal firearms.”

  “Say what?” Dante smoothly regroups as if he could trick a seasoned cop. Beneath the man’s white jacket sprinkled with crowns and diamonds, Lex perceives a shift of muscle, a new readiness to spring.

  Lex steps closer as a quartet of uniforms surround them. The tallest officer, a woman with broad cheekbones and a grimly set mouth, moves in to clap on the first cuff. Another cop, male, muscular, shaved head, grips Dante’s arm to stop him from pulling away. Cuffs secured, wrists cinched behind his back, Dante levers forward from the pressure. Lex feels a ripple of satisfaction—they’ve got him.

  The crowd has grown and clumped around them, phones aimed in a fusillade of camera flashes as the vigilante press corps begins its work of gathering and spreading the news before any of them has a chance to understand what it is.

  “This ain’t nothing but a misunderstanding.” Dante makes his pitch directly to a smartphone lens. “They got the wrong guy.”

  “Tone it down,” Lex hisses. “Unless you want to add kidnapping to the charges. How about murder?”

  Dante’s eyes narrow, and he’s sweating; Lex can smell it coming off him in waves. “What did you do with Crisp Crespo?” he demands. Fearing now that he’s too late.

  “I did nothing to that fucker—it’s what he did to me.”

  “Where is he?”

  Dante faces a camera lens and inflects his tone with outrage. “I want a lawyer! Don’t I have rights?”

  * * *

  A clock ticks against the wall of the 8-4’s small interrogation room, windowless except for a panel of one-way glass behind which no one is watching. Dante Green sits with his knees spread wide and his now front-cuffed hands tucked into his lap. Lex sits across from him a
nd waits a minute for Green to notice that he isn’t taking notes or recording the conversation, though he might.

  Green asks, “You gonna tell me why you picked me up?”

  “Technically, parole violation.”

  “What you mean ‘technically’? And what violation?”

  “The twenty-seven firearms in your refrigerator.”

  “You been in my house?”

  “Yup.”

  Green contemplates, apparently deciding that the search was warranted, because he asks, “What you on me for? It ain’t guns.”

  “You tell me.”

  “Like hell if—”

  “What else did we find at your place?”

  “My clothes. My bed.”

  “What else?”

  “I might’ve left a mess.”

  “Go on.”

  Green’s eyes grow hard.

  “Whose blood is on your floor, Dante?”

  The dealer lifts his shoulders to his ears and lets them fall heavily in a mocking shrug.

  “Where is he?” Lex asks.

  “Who?”

  “Crisp Crespo.”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “You see him on Governors Island?”

  “Wish I did.”

  “So that’s a no.”

  “You asking or telling?”

  “You were looking for him—that’s why you were there.”

  “I got a right to a lawyer.”

  “You haven’t been processed yet,” Lex reminds him. “Technically.”

  “Fuck you. Sir.”

  “You want your lawyer? Sure. I’ll call the officer, get you processed, send you over to booking.”

  “Wait.”

  “Talk to me, Dante. Whose blood did we find on your floor? Who was in that suitcase? Where’s the body?”

  Green nods, understanding the offer: Talk, and measure the charge to fit the level of cooperation. “You after the boy—well, you got good reason. Crisp, he shows up at my crib with his girl, and then,” he pauses, appears to calculate something, says, “he plugs my man Jerome. Kills him. I lost a friend to that trigger-happy kid.”

  “What did they want from you?” Lex asks. “Why did they show up?”

  “Take one guess.”

  “You’re saying Crisp shot Jerome.”

  Green hesitates, nods.

  “Why?” Lex probes.

  “How the hell do I know? Kid picks up the gun and pulls the trigger—bam. Jerome down. Made that kid clean up his own mess.”

  Lex says, “Tell me about the girl.”

  “Some white bitch. A real princess.”

  “I’ve met her. She ran home to her parents this morning. She had a lot to say.”

  “Oh?”

  “Why’d you bring them up to your place? What was the plan?”

  “She didn’t tell you?” Green shakes his head. “I believe that. She doing some shopping, that’s what.”

  “You’re saying she wanted to buy a gun?”

  Green keeps his mouth shut, maybe wondering if the interview is being recorded after all. It isn’t. Until he’s processed, Lex can talk to him all he wants without a lawyer. After, he’s required to record the conversation, which wouldn’t be long enough to tape once a lawyer’s in the picture.

  Lex asks, “How’d she know to go to you?”

  “I got no idea.” The gun dealer breaks eye contact. Fusses with his bracelets.

  “Tell the truth—who wanted to buy? Crisp, the girl, or the boy? Which one?”

  Green’s head tilts from left to right. “What boy?”

  “The smaller boy who was with them.”

  “Yeah, well, he must’ve been pretty damn small ’cause I didn’t even see him.”

  Why is everyone pretending this boy doesn’t exist?

  Lex’s phone vibrates. “Excuse me a minute.”

  “Bring me a soda?” Green asks.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Standing in the hall beside the officer guarding the door, Lex checks his phone and finds alerts for two different lab reports that came in while he was busy with Green.

  He reads the blood report first.

  Most of the DNA on Dante’s floor matches in the system to Jerome Bailey, an ex-con with a long record. So Green told the truth about who got killed.

  And the blood on Glynnie’s shirt also belongs to Jerome, the pattern suggesting blowback from someone shot at close range but from an awkward angle. Blood spatter found on the Baby Browning also IDs to Jerome.

  Lex opens the ballistics report.

  A single partial fingerprint on the handle of the gun aligns closely enough with the right thumb posterior looping pattern found on prints taken from the home of Glynneth Dreyfus to make a 95 percent assertion of compatibility. In other words, the gun that killed Jerome was in Glynnie’s hand at some point, something Green left out of his story. No other prints were found on the gun.

  Lex detours to the soda machine and chooses a Welch’s grape soda for Dante because it looks disgusting and the man just lied to him. In the hall, before going in to Dante, he tells the officer, “I’ll need you to take him over to booking in a minute.”

  “Will do.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clenching the cold can in one hand, Lex waits until the door clicks locked behind him before putting the drink down on the table.

  “This shit ain’t no soda.”

  “It’s got bubbles so it’s soda.” Lex pops open the can and pushes it forward.

  Dante lifts it with both hands, takes a thirsty swig, grimaces. “Too sweet.”

  Lex says, “Now that that’s done, let’s get you processed.”

  “I talked to you,” Green argues.

  “You lied about who shot the gun, Dante. Why?”

  Green picks up the can and drains it. Drops it down so it bounces off the table and clatters along the floor.

  Lex gets up, knocks twice on the door, and stands back while the officer leads Green from the room. When Lex is almost at the stairwell door, intending to head back upstairs, his phone vibrates with an incoming call.

  “Elsa!” he answers.

  “Your boy come back?” she asks.

  For a moment he thinks she means Adam, his boy, then realizes she wouldn’t refer to him that way. She means Crisp. “Nope. And the girl took off again, so now we’re back to looking for both of them.” He crosses the lobby, past the sign for the property clerk, and stands in the empty hall, where he can talk without bothering anyone or being bothered.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “They were into something messy last night. Looks like someone got killed—guy who worked with the two she mentioned.”

  “Glynnie didn’t say anything about that,” Elsa notes.

  “No she didn’t. It’s getting interesting. Just picked up the gun dealer.”

  “You’re busy. I’ll let you go.”

  Exhaustion overtakes him and he leans against the wall. “No, let’s chat a minute.”

  “You sound wiped out, Lex. When did you last sleep?”

  “I can handle it.”

  “How can I help?” she asks.

  “Thanks, Elsa.”

  “No—seriously. Talk to me.”

  The door to the property room swings open and the clerk steps out. Lex remembers him from before: Marty, with that same bored look in his young eyes. Lex nods hello. Marty returns the greeting, pulls the door locked behind him, and punches in a code: 4291. He moves a cigarette from behind his ear to between his lips and heads for the station house door.

  He tells Elsa, “My boy, Crisp, has an AWOL dad who might be part of this. I need to find him.”

  “You think Crisp is with him?”

  “Who knows? I’ve been doing my best to think like a teenager—my brain feels like scrambled eggs, so maybe I’m succeeding.” He can’t, won’t, tell her that this kind of enervation is exactly what scared him away from Vice, when, faced with a fat Ziploc of confiscated heroin, he k
new he’d succumb if he didn’t get out. That moment of surrender when you realize you’re losing the fight, and it’s step back now or you never will.

  “Lex, go home and catch a few hours. You can’t think straight; I can hear it in your voice. You’re probably not doing anyone any good.”

  “Maybe.” His eyes rest on the property room door.

  “Promise me you’ll go home and hit the sack for a bit.”

  “Thanks for calling, Elsa. I mean to have you out for that drink soon. I’ll get in touch.” As he slips his phone into his pocket, a powerful feeling takes hold.

  He glances around; no one’s there. Just out of curiosity, he tells himself, he approaches the door and keys in Marty’s code. A metallic pop tells him that the same one is used to both lock and unlock. He opens the door, prepared to greet whoever’s in there. “Someone needs to tell Marty he should set different codes to get in and out. I mean look how easy it was for me just now.” But the excuse is unnecessary because he’s alone.

  He steps up to the counter and pretends to wait for Marty. Then, just to test how easy it might be, he steps around the counter and into the stacks of shelves. If Marty returns now, Lex will say the door was unlocked, apologize for not following protocol, and explain that he’s in a rush to get something that belongs to his perp who was just booked—a gun he wants to drop at ATF for testing.

  Lex opens three boxes before he finds some loser’s confiscated stash: five large Ziplocs filled with tiny packets ready for sale on the street. He takes just one. Slips it into his pocket, returns the box to the shelf, and is out the door before Marty returns or anyone notices.

  * * *

  The pitched voice wrenches Lex’s focus off the monitor. He looks up: one of the detectives across the room is getting loud with someone on the other end of his call. Lex rubs his eyes, brain fuzzy. He wonders if he dozed a moment. He doesn’t need to check to know the packet’s there; slight as it is, it weighs inside his pocket like a boulder.

  While Saki, nearby at her desk, rewatches the collated security footage with intense concentration, Lex continues his review of Green’s parole reports since his latest release. The names of the gun dealer’s current sidekicks pop up regularly: Jerome Bailey, another parolee out after a twelve-year prison stint for aggravated rape, a middle-aged grizzled white guy with a necklace of blue tattoos; and Rodrigo Rivera, with a long history of petty crimes but only one arrest and less than a year inside, younger and brawnier, midnight dark, wide-faced, deadpan gaze.