by Lutz, John
“Ready to order?” the waitress repeated, a little impatient now.
Ready to bust your flat ass, Tobin thought. But he said, “Make it a BLT and a Coke.”
“Only got Pepsi, we don’t carry Coke.”
“Of course,” Tobin said.
She smiled faintly at him, even knowing he was a cop; a measure of spirit left. He watched her walk away to place his order with the kitchen. Walked like a country girl from fucking Iowa or someplace, skipping imaginary furrows. Someone beyond the serving counter said something to her in Spanish. She turned away as if she hadn’t heard. Tobin wished he spoke Spanish. You needed every edge you could get in this cesspool of a city.
The BLT arrived and he settled down to wait.
Stakeouts were no fun for Tobin. They required patience and often resulted in a waste of time. He thought, guy like that Phil, he oughta have a beeper planted in him surgically so he could be located at all times. Tobin had read in some law-enforcement magazine or other—or had it been a speech by some Supreme Court justice?—that implanting little electronic homing devices in known criminals was a practical concept and medically feasible, and possibly an idea whose time had come. It would sure make Tobin’s work easier.
He pushed the sandwich away; the bacon was mostly warmed-up strips of animal fat, and who knew what animal? Then he lifted the large waxed cup of Pepsi so the straw was between his lips, and leisurely worked on the soda, hoping the carbonation wouldn’t give him heartburn like Smiley Manders had bitched about a little while ago. Tobin got enough of Manders’s complaining sometimes; damned guy oughta eat something other than pizzas and corned-beef sandwiches if he didn’t want stomach trouble.
Tobin put Manders out of his mind and sat sipping Pepsi and gazing out the window at people and traffic passing on the street. New York was a funny place. You’d see a bum go past in handout rags, then somebody wearing ten thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry along with new, cashmere clothes with some pansy designer’s label sewn in to make the price exorbitant. People eating out of trash cans outside expensive restaurants because they were starving, while inside the waiters treated customers rudely to make them think dining there was worth the price and a privilege because the sauces were prepared a certain way. Maybe it was a microcosm of what the world was coming to in the next ten, fifteen years. It wouldn’t surprise Tobin.
There was a blast of voices that quickly died, and he turned away from the window and saw that a TV mounted behind the counter was tuned to a soap opera. A rerun of “Shadowtown.”
Delia Lane was propped up in a hospital bed. Town cocksman Arthur Sales—Roger Maler—was sitting in a chair next to the bed, talking to her sincerely. Tobin couldn’t hear what they were saying and was glad. A doctor who looked about old enough to be playing quarterback on a high-school football team bustled in wearing a green scrub gown and a stethoscope. You just knew that beneath the scrub gown there was a stylishly cut suit and a tie, like the kid’s graduation getup, only more hip. The doctor and Roger exchanged a few solemn words, then Roger left, looking pissed and worried. The young doctor leaned over and kissed Delia on her forehead and nibbled on an exposed ear. Some bedside manner. The scene faded to a commercial for false fingernails. Tobin loved the reality of these shows.
Then he looked around at the customers engrossed in the world on the TV screen and realized that in this neighborhood, maybe in any neighborhood, reality was often no less improbable than “Shadowtown.”
“Wanna refill on that soda?” the waitress asked beside him, her head turned so she could catch “Shadowtown” when it came back on. She wanted to get her work out of the way during the nail commercial. The blonde on the TV screen took a swipe at the camera as if she were a cat, held up her long false nails, and said, “Now you can fight and scraaatch!”
“Sure,” Tobin said, sliding his empty cup over for her to take away.
Seeing “Shadowtown” reminded him of Oxman going to see Zachary Denton. That was a dumb-ass idea, but he knew there was no way to talk E.L. out of it. E.L. had no business questioning a suspect who’d been married to Jennifer and had knocked her around. Old Elliot Leroy was weak in the knees over that woman, had damn near ended his career a while back by crossing over to Jersey and chasing down a psychopath who’d threatened her. That was how they’d met, through a series of murders the nut had done over on West Ninety-eighth, including some of Jennifer’s neighbors. Tobin liked Jennifer and saw why Oxman did, too, but old Elliot Leroy had better keep his professional objectivity or he’d wind up stepping into deep shit for sure.
The waitress brought Tobin another Pepsi, along with a revised check. He nodded to her, sipped, then put the waxed cup down in surprise.
It never happened like this. It was too soon. And way too easy.
But there was Phil, still looking like Mickey Rooney, still wearing his jacket with all the pockets. He stood out on the steps of the Waywind, fired up a cigarette with a lighter, and glanced up and down the street. Not as if he was looking for anything in particular, just looking.
Tobin got out a five-dollar bill to leave on the table just as soon as Phil started walking, and he’d start following. He thanked whatever cop gods there were for bringing Phil to him so early so he wouldn’t have to develop calluses on his ass from sitting in this wooden booth. His heart was pumping away hard enough for him to be aware of it; this next part was going to be fun.
Phil went over and opened the regular, nonrevolving door of the Waywind, but he didn’t go all the way inside. He bent low and forward, as if straining, then dragged out a coiled hose. He coupled the hose to a spigot inside a metal panel alongside the entrance, then turned it on, adjusted the nozzle, and began squirting the sidewalk in front of the hotel. He paused while a couple of pedestrians walked past, then rinsed behind them as if they might have left dirty footprints.
Tobin’s expectations fell and he took back his thanks to the god of cops. Phil was apparently some kind of maintenance man at the hotel; that was how he knew Jardeen. Simple as that.
Still, he’d left Jardeen and gone to Egan’s place yesterday, hadn’t he? Well, Egan’s building. That had to mean something.
But Tobin knew it didn’t have to mean a thing. Maybe Phil knew somebody else in the building. Maybe he got together every once in a while with the super over there to play checkers or gin rummy. Maybe this, maybe that.
In a disgruntled mood, knowing he had endless time ahead of him in the hard booth, sipping Pepsi and dealing with the hophead waitress, Tobin settled back and folded his hands on the table. He watched Phil hose the dirt and cigarette butts off the sidewalk and into the gutter.
But a part of him was glad he’d made connections with Phil so soon. He hadn’t been a cop for five hundred years for nothing; he felt in his blue-dyed bones that watching Phil would eventually bring results.
Zachary Denton—10:00 A.M.
Zach was surprised when the receptionist phoned back and told him Jennifer was here to see him. He hadn’t expected to see her again, after the seeming finality of their last meeting. Unpredictable bitch in a lot of ways, he thought, and too predictable in others. But then, maybe that wasn’t so true anymore. It had been years since he’d lived with her and known her in a day-to-day relationship.
He sat at a desk in the office where he kept his art supplies, drafting board, set photos, and samples. Samples were important to Zach, especially fabric samples. A lot of set designers didn’t pay much attention to texture on television, thought it was flattened and lost between camera and screen, so why bother? Zach knew better; he often used rough textures that looked too bulky in reality, but transferred to the TV screen smoothly yet still with enough surface quality to give “Shadowtown” sets a kind of depth lacking on the sets of other soaps. That was a large part of the show’s success, Zach knew, though most viewers, and certainly Youngerman and Overbeck, were too stupid to realize it. But it made no difference to Zach what anybody thought, as long as the show continued to th
rive in the ratings and the money kept pumping in. And nobody could argue with the success of “Shadowtown.” Not lately, they couldn’t, what with the vampire commotion translated into dollars. Youngerman and Overbeck had a lot to be grateful for, if only they knew who to thank.
His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and Jennifer peeked in tentatively.
“Wasn’t sure I had the right office,” she said. She stepped in and glanced around while he looked at her. She was wearing well-tailored slacks that showed off her ass nicely, and a purple blouse that made her hair and eyes seem darker. Sexy, all right. Nobody had ever accused Zach of poor taste in women. Not when it came to their looks, anyway.
“It’s just an office where I can do impromptu workups when the situation demands,” Zach said, standing up and smiling at her. “What brings you here, Jennifer? Wait, that sounds like I’m not pleased to see you, and actually I am pleased.” He aimed at her what he knew was his warmest smile. “In fact, I’m very glad you came.”
She shuffled her feet uneasily. He had the feeling she was experiencing strong emotions she hadn’t felt in a long time. He could sense the power of this little get-together shifting to him, like in the old days. Still, he wasn’t sure what she wanted.
She said, “I came here because … Well, I just don’t think we should leave things the way they are, Zach. We were married once, even if it went sour. I guess we owe each other more than bad feelings. More than each of us trying to pretend the other doesn’t exist.”
He shrugged, putting his lanky arms and shoulders into it. “Sure, what’ll it cost us to forgive and forget?” Shot the smile again. “Or, for that matter, forgive and remember?”
She tried a return smile, almost made it. “We owe each other more than trying to live without thinking about our time together. There shouldn’t be doors in our minds we shy away from opening.”
“That’d be unhealthy, all right.”
“I don’t want to live that way.”
“Yeah, well, me either.” Where the hell was this conversation going? Sounded like dialogue from yesterday’s show.
“We oughta know a little bit about each other’s lives,” she said. “Granted. What can it hurt, huh?”
Jennifer drew a deep breath and did manage to smile. She struck a pose as if she were poised and comfortable rather than painfully ill at ease. “So how’s life with you?” she asked.
“It’s good. I like my work. And everything’s going well, except for all the bullshit about murder and the show. But, you know, even that’s improving the ratings.”
“Yeah, I suppose it is.”
“An ill wind and all that, huh?” Zach said.
“What do you think about the murders? I mean, the latest one?”
“That Brokton creep? Listen, between you, me and the bedpost, he deserved it. Now, the old watchman McGreery was another matter. I mean, nice enough old guy with a wife, finally reached the point where he could take life easy, and zap, some punk dressed like Dracula kills him for kicks. That’s not how life’s supposed to treat people.”
“I thought you weren’t sure about how the man running away was dressed.”
“All in black, in what looked like a cloak, as I told your friend Oxman. So much stuff in the papers and on the tube about vampires and the show, I guess maybe I remember it that way now more than I would have. If that makes any more sense than this whole rotten mess.”
“I know what you mean.” She played with the pearl necklace dangling between her breasts. He remembered those breasts, firm and surprisingly large for her frame. “Zach, is there anybody in your life?”
Aha! “Yeah, sure. But not like you were, Jen.”
She tried to hide her pleasure at his remark but couldn’t. The game was on, all right.
He moved out from behind the desk to stand near her. Watched her grow uncomfortable in his nearness. What was she thinking? He was beginning to get a vague idea. Maybe Oxman wasn’t treating her right, not rough enough. Women got used to a certain way when they were young and couldn’t shake it; didn’t Oxman know that? “How are you and the cop getting along?”
“Okay—good.”
“That’s fine. I wanna see you happy.”
“And I want that for you, Zach. I suppose I want that for both of us, and for it to end there, without us having to think about one another.”
As if he thought about her every day. “I know what you mean, Jen. I feel the same way. But the truth is, sometimes somebody gets under your skin and stays there and there’s not much can be done about it.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Except maybe act on it, huh?” He gave an exploratory squeeze and she winced and backed away. But not far away. She wasn’t sure. He wondered about her sex life with Oxman. Did he roughhouse her at all, tie her up or anything? She’d liked that kind of sex for a while, pretending she was just going along with Zach. Then he got too rough with her and she turned bitchy. Got fucking pregnant and caused him to lose his temper. Women were all alike, really. Eventually messed up everything. He smiled at her, contrasting gentleness with the tough act. She was confused; he could see that. Fine with him.
“Listen, Zach—”
But he reached for her again, pulled her to him and pressed her to his body hard. Jesus, she felt so familiar, so warm and soft! She was getting him going, all right. He felt his erection grow and press into her stomach, and she felt it, too.
Her eyes widened, full of innocence. It was going to be the surprised act. Well, he wasn’t surprised.
She tried to pull away from him, but he had her arms pinned. “Dammit, Zach, you’ve got the wrong idea!”
He laughed and tried to insert his tongue in her ear. “Do I, Jen? Or do you just think I do?”
“Zach, please! Don’t do this!”
“Do you like to beg, Jen?”
She worked an arm free and tried to hit him. He grabbed her wrist. Her free hand darted up and slapped his face. Not hard, but hard enough to cause him to release her. She backpedaled away from him like a lightweight boxer. Zach raised his fingertips toward the sting in his cheek. His eyes were watering. He was beginning to get mad. What was this cunt doing, waltzing in here putting on the moves— definitely putting on the moves—and then turning him away? She had to know what was going on—nobody could be that fucking dumb! Without thinking about it, he took a step toward her. She got pale with fright and seemed rooted to the spot, couldn’t do anything but wait for him in her fear. He liked that; he could feel his erection start to return.
“I know you must prefer it the old way sometimes,” he said, moving in on her.
“Oh, goddammit, Zach!” He could see the resignation, the denied desire, in her eyes, which she couldn’t avert from his own.
“Tell me that’s what you want. Go ahead, tell me!”
“No! That isn’t why I came here, Zach!”
“Sure it isn’t.”
There were two loud knocks, then the door opened.
Zach froze and swallowed. He wasn’t concerned about an erection now.
Oxman stood in the doorway. He’d looked surprised for only an instant, then he recovered and his cop’s mask was back on tight. He might have been staring at something inanimate all of a sudden. His flat eyes went from Jennifer to Zach, taking it all in. Everything. The bastard missed nothing! Zach felt a little spiral of fear, along with his anger at having his scene with Jennifer ended when it was going so well. She’d been backing herself into a corner, probably on purpose.
Well, she’d come around again. She’d been well on her way to where he wanted to take her. She’d want to go the whole distance. He remembered now; she was like that. So many of them were that way.
“Interrupting?” Oxman asked.
“No,” Jennifer said, recovering neatly herself. “I just dropped by to iron out some personal matters with Zach. We’ve finished talking.”
Zach was aware of Oxman staring at his right cheek, where Jennifer had slapped him. The stinging sensation
was gone but the flesh would still be reddened, Zach knew. He’d had experience in such things. The cop was boiling inside behind those calm eyes; Zach was sure of it. He was also sure Oxman knew nothing—at least, he didn’t know enough.
“I’ve got a few things to say to Denton myself,” Oxman said.
Zach didn’t like the way he said it. Fucking cop was putting on the Clint Eastwood act. That could be bad, but so what? All cops had limits and stayed inside them. Had to stay.
“Always glad to try and help the law with whatever it can’t handle alone,” Zach said, knowing he was making things worse but not caring, letting his anger at being interrupted with Jennifer carry him past his fear.
Zach made up his mind not to take any shit off this hard-on Dirty Harry today. None at all. A sacred vow. A guy could take so much and then no more.
That was how Zach felt, and that was it.
No matter what.
Art Tobin—1:20 P.M.
Tobin had drunk his fill of Pepsi. He worked on his third cup of nasty coffee and kept an eye on the Waywind Hotel entrance. Several people who looked about as down-and-almost-out as Lance Jardeen came and went through the revolving doors. It wasn’t the sort of hotel a jewel thief was likely to choose as hunting grounds. The guests and tenants were strictly cubic-zirconia types, if they had any jewelry left unpawned.
Tobin added more cream to the coffee to cut some of its bitterness. His legs were getting stiff and his ass felt as if it had grown into the hard wooden-booth bench. If he stood up suddenly, the whole damn bench would come with him. He’d have to drag part of the booth around for life.
My mind’s slipping, he thought. Too much sitting here. Too much “Shadowtown.” He thought about “Shadowtown” and some of the other soaps he’d watched the past few years. Real worlds—or virtually real—to millions of faithful viewers. Now and then a real-life personality would guest on a soap, playing him or herself. Tobin remembered seeing Gerald Ford on one of the daytime dramas. What the hell? Ford was real, so why not the rest of the package? Then there was the guy who did cold-tablet commercials on TV, claiming not to be a doctor but to be someone who played a doctor in one of the soaps. People believed the man, bought the pills. Must, or the advertisers wouldn’t keep trotting him out in front of the camera. Real? What was real? Why not “Shadowtown”? Why not vampires? Ox wouldn’t believe anything he couldn’t see and touch or figure with mathematical certitude. You couldn’t kill a guy like Ox with voodoo, but voodoo killed nonetheless.
