by Lutz, John
Tobin stopped his rumination and did a double-take worthy of a daytime soap actor. He stared out the restaurant window.
Phil had pushed out through the revolving doors and was standing on the Waywind’s steps. He’d changed to tight-fitting faded jeans and white jogging shoes, but he still wore the many-pocketed jacket. In his right hand was a partly rolled-up brown paper bag; looked like an ordinary lunch bag.
Now what? Off to a second job? Maybe Phil was a school crossing guard.
As Tobin watched, Phil carefully rolled the bag even tighter, then slipped it into a side pocket of the jacket and worked a zipper. Then he swaggered down off the steps and began walking along the sidewalk.
Tobin stood up and dropped a five and some one-dollar bills on the table to pay for everything he’d drunk and the stale doughnut he’d forced down. He nodded good-bye to the slat-hipped waitress, who nodded back blank-faced and slack-jawed, as if she were bidding him a nonchalant farewell on her deathbed. He wondered how much he’d tipped her.
Another soap was coming on the TV behind the counter as Tobin left the restaurant and fell in behind Phil on the sidewalk, matching the speed of the bobbing blond head half a block ahead of him.
I’m following goddamn Mickey Rooney, Tobin thought. That’s exactly what he felt like he was doing. What he looked like he was doing, if anybody on the street noticed what was going on. Not that Phil looked quite enough like Rooney for someone to stop him and ask for an autograph. But in the flesh and to his fans, did Rooney look that much like Rooney? How many people would have thought he looked older, younger, taller, shorter? Tobin thought again of “Shadowtown.” What the fuck was real? Delia Lane in a hospital bed? Or Tobin tailing an oversized Andy Hardy down a crowded Manhattan street? A lot of people were confused about reality, and Tobin couldn’t blame them. Today he felt he was joining their numbers.
Phil was some walker. After about five blocks, Tobin’s heart was hammering and he was short of breath. He stayed with Phil, though, out of sight. This was his reality and he knew his stuff. He was sure Phil had no idea he was there.
The blond head kept bobbing along, swerving to avoid oncoming flows of pedestrians, crossing streets against the lights, keeping up a steady, rapid pace.
Phil walked down Broadway through the Village and turned right on Houston. Cut back to Bleecker and then wound around some side streets. Not as if he seriously thought someone was tailing him, but as if taking routine precautions in case some Village junkie or mugger might latch on and follow him.
A huge man wearing a black-leather jacket on whose back was lettered “Losers of a Dying World” did seem to take an interest in Phil, walked behind him for about a block, then peeled off to enter a used clothing shop. Get a new jacket, Tobin thought. Jesus, get a shampoo, take a bath. Cheer up. People paid a lot of rent to live in the Village. Tobin wondered why.
Phil finally stopped in front of an old brick building that housed a cheap used-book shop and, above that, what looked like run-down apartments. He glanced around, absently touched his fingertips to the pocket containing the rolled-up paper sack, and entered the book shop. Young asshole wasn’t even breathing hard. Tobin resented that.
He waited a few minutes, then moved closer to the shop. Through the dirty window he could see most of the narrow aisles of books. Phil wasn’t browsing, as far as Tobin could tell. The shop was very small, and seemed empty except for a thin young man with a mustache, leaning behind the counter and leafing through a magazine.
Back door? Evasive maneuver by Phil? That’d be just like the Mickey Rooney jerkoff.
Tobin considered sprinting around the block to look for Phil, but he realized that would probably prove futile. Besides, he wasn’t convinced Phil had left the shop.
A couple of guys in baggy pants and distressed-leather bomber jackets entered the place. They had white scarves wrapped around their necks. Looked as if they were going on a World War II mission over Germany, drop some bombs on the Huns.
Tobin waited. Ten minutes. The two young bombardiers hadn’t emerged from the shop. He moved in even closer and peered through the window again, couldn’t see them. The place ate customers.
When three more people entered, one of them an elderly woman, Tobin counted to ten, then went into the shop behind them. These were conservative-looking types, probably tourists.
The man behind the counter glanced at Tobin and Tobin smiled and nodded a polite hello. He began browsing while the three customers who’d entered before him quizzed the clerk about the latest Ludlum thriller. The woman couldn’t bring the title to mind. “I know it has three words in it,” she told the clerk.
Tobin gazed disinterestedly at the rows of books. The place had a section on natural foods, there were shelves of hetero and homosexual-oriented sex manuals, some used novels, diet books, home craft instruction books. Hey, there was a Ludlum, all right! Three words. Tobin thought about pointing it out to the elderly woman questioning the clerk, but he decided against it. Instead he roamed toward the back of the narrow shop, seeing no sign of Phil or of the two guys dressed for war in the air.
He did see a door. Possibly a way out the back of the shop.
The clerk was still busy with the tourists and the elusive Ludlum. Tobin rotated the knob on the door, pushed, and found the door unlocked.
It didn’t lead outside, but to a narrow stairwell that ran to a landing, then right-angled to climb to the upper floors. Unintelligible graffiti marked the walls, and the stale smell of urine was almost over-powering.
Tobin didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the stairwell and quietly closed the door behind him, hoping that if the clerk noticed him missing, he’d decide Tobin had left the shop during the mild confusion about Ludlum.
As silently as possible, Tobin crept up the stairs. The damned things creaked, so he stayed near the wall to keep give in the boards to a minimum. Light was provided by a filthy broken window on the landing, but the stairwell was still dim. Swirling dust rioted quietly in slanted sunbeams that found their way in but somehow provided little illumination a foot beyond them.
On the second floor Tobin paused and looked down a hall lined with doors, most of which were closed. The floor was dusty and littered, and showed no signs of recent passage by anyone. He moved to the nearest open door and peered inside.
The door led to a two-room apartment that was uninhabitable. Debris was piled in a corner, wallpaper hung in damp shreds, lathe showed where plaster had crumbled and fallen to form yellowed patterns on the floor. There were rat tracks in the dust.
The next opened door revealed two rooms similarly ruined. Apparently the building was due for rehab and had stood vacant except for the downstairs book shop for a long time. The place was going to be gentrified, and would soon rent for monthly fees that would keep the city’s undesirables out on the street and waiting for the occupants to emerge and become fair game.
There was a scuffing noise above Tobin’s head. Then what might have been the sound of a man’s voice. An icy finger probed Tobin’s spine. He remembered the “Shadowtown” vampire. “Myth,” he whispered softly, wanting to hear his own voice in the dim emptiness. “Myth and publicity and an overactive news media.” And murder. Don’t forget murder.
He went back into the hall, calculated where the apartment the noise had come from would be on the third floor, then walked stealthily toward the stairs.
The third floor was a duplication of the second. Tobin worked more cautiously here, though. He crept from door to door, pressing his ear to faded paint and dried-out wood. A voice inside him told him he was in danger, urged him to cut and run. Tobin had heard the voice before; he refused to listen.
Halfway down the hall, he heard a voice other than the one in his mind. It said, “The shit oughtn’t to be that expensive, you know.”
He crossed the hall to be closer to the source of the voice, and leaned against a closed door. There were faint sounds of motion inside, but no more voices.
What
the hell? Tobin thought, and actually stooped down and peeked through the keyhole. He felt like a character on “Shadowtown” himself now. He couldn’t remember ever peeking through a keyhole before in his long career on the department.
The view was limited. Keyhole-shaped. Tobin smiled. This reminded him of those countless camera shots through keyholes seen in movies and TV detective shows. A nice effect on film, but not very revealing in real life.
Or was it?
He moved to the side to take in a section of the other half of the room, and saw a pair of bare feet. A man was lying on the floor. Another was slouched in an old armchair. A third sat beneath the window with his head thrown back. He was staring fixedly at something on the ceiling. Tobin thought he recognized the void in his eyes.
“Oughtn’t to be that expensive,” a man’s voice said again. “Gettin’ to be a fuck deal. But who you gonna complain to?”
“Squeezing the supply,” another voice said.
“No bargain, my friend.”
“Ain’t any of my business.”
“Your business shit!”
Tobin focused his gaze on the end of a table, barely within his vision. There was a candle on it, not burning. And a spoon. A flexible thin rubber hose. A couple of bottles. Paraphernalia for free-basing. This was a shooting gallery, a safe place where hard-core addicts went to shoot up and not worry about interference from police or friends or family. A kind of Moose Lodge for the bad guys.
One of the men who’d been talking walked into Tobin’s vision. He was Marv Egan. Tobin figured the other talker was Phil.
And there was the link between Egan and Jardeen. Phil was a narcotics courier, and Egan and Jardeen were addicts. That might explain the momentary interest in Phil by the black-jacketed big guy. Probably Phil was known to carry drugs, and would have been a vulnerable mark without the protection he no doubt enjoyed from higher-ups in the operation’s chain.
A creaking noise made Tobin’s heart jump. Somebody was trudging up the stairs.
Tobin straightened up halfway and ducked into the vacant room across the hall. It smelled like shit, literally, and came furnished with crumpled newspapers and empty cans and bottles. There was a yellowed poster of Farah Fawcett Majors on one wall with obscenities scrawled on it, some of them violent. Went with the show-biz territory, Tobin thought. Didn’t Lana Spence know that?
He eased the door shut and listened as someone walked along the hall and entered the shooting gallery to join that lively and inspired group. The people over there were past the lofty and beneficial stages of their habits. They were into the hell of desperate need and dependence. Now they could only delude themselves that they were riding the beast that owned them, instead of it being the other way around.
Tobin nudged a dusty wine bottle out of his way with his toe, then crossed the room to the window. No need to open it; there was no glass in the frame.
He wedged his thick body through the window and out onto the metal fire escape.
He drew a deep breath, then plunged down the steel stairs, causing a clamor and then a loud squeal when he rode the metal drop-ladder to the alley.
A voice shouted, “Whoozat out there? Hey!”
Hit the pavement running! Tobin told himself.
And he did. His right knee bumped an empty metal trash can, sending it toppling and rolling, its lid spinning like a thrown hubcap. It didn’t slow him down at all.
He was back out on the street and jogging away from the place within seconds. The trash-can lid was still warbling and clanging behind him as it settled onto the pavement. His tie flopped against his chest and his holstered gun jounced beneath his arm.
It didn’t bother him that he’d made noise, as long as he got away unseen. This was a neighborhood full of bums and burglars who prowled the buildings. He didn’t want anybody thinking cop.
He was sure he hadn’t been seen.
Jennifer Crane—1:00 P.M.
Jennifer shivered. Oxman had been so calm, but at the same time so fierce. She’d never seen him quite like that. His hate for Zach had blazed through those quiet eyes, like something burning deep within murky water. She could see that even Zach had been a little frightened, after his initial show of bravado.
Zach had made the mistake of advancing on Oxman after Ox had interrupted them at the “Shadowtown” studios, scowling at him with intended menace. It had been foolish of him, after his mocking tone when he’d agreed to cooperate with the police.
Ox hadn’t felt menaced. Not at all. It was almost as if he were glad Zach was moving in on him and might try to get physical. In an apparently friendly fashion he’d rested his hand on Zach’s bony shoulder and continued asking his questions. All so routine. Then Jennifer had noticed the grimace of quiet pain on Zach’s face, seen that he was twisting, trying to pull his lean body away from Ox without loss of dignity or admission of agony. The tips of Ox’s fingers were white where they were digging into Zach’s shoulder.
Jennifer didn’t even know what Ox was asking Zach. It simply didn’t register. Something about a man named Egan, she thought. And some other men whose names she didn’t recognize. It was about the vampire murders—what else? And Lana Spence’s name was mentioned.
Then Oxman had released Zach, and even thanked him for cooperating. Detective Oxman, the professional. Still in the routine; the protective routine that shielded from emotion. In this case, dangerous emotion. Dangerous to Ox and to Zach. Zach seemed to know it.
“Want a ride home?” Oxman had asked Jennifer in his strangely level voice.
She’d shaken her head no. She was frightened of him just then, afraid of what they might say to each other if they left together. There was something poised in delicate balance and they both realized it.
“I’ve got some shopping to do,” she’d said, and watched him nod and walk from the room without a glance at Zach. There was nothing in Ox’s face to suggest what she knew he must be feeling.
“Smart-ass bastard,” Zach said to the closed door, when Ox was gone.
“He was polite,” Jennifer said.
“Yeah, he was that.” Zach grinned and rubbed his shoulder where Ox had applied pressure. “The law likes to shove people around, polite or not.”
“I’ll be leaving,” Jennifer said. She stepped toward the door.
“Jen?”
She stopped and turned, making sure she could get to the doorknob before Zach could reach her. “We’ve been through it all, Zach.”
“Yeah? I thought we were starting to reach an understanding before Dick Tracy came in.”
“No, we weren’t. Let’s you and I let it rest.”
“For how long?” He moved closer. Or did he merely lean his long body in her direction?
“Forever.”
He turned his best smile on her, the one that prompted memories good and bad. He edged nearer. “You don’t really feel that way, Jen. I know what it is you like.”
“You don’t know, Zach. Never did.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Hey, you and I understand each other, Jen.”
“I understand us, Zach; you don’t.” She looked into his eyes and realized she was smiling sadly. “Good-bye, Zach.”
But when she moved to leave he was suddenly next to her; he’d measured distance, caught her a few feet from the door.
And he had her by the shoulders and was shaking her; she was aware of her hair flying, whipping and webbing across her face and eyes. She tried to speak but her teeth knocked together. She knew how ridiculous she’d sound if she did manage to say something, so she clenched her jaws. “Goddamn cop!” Zach was saying, playing out on her his frustration with Oxman. Jennifer knew how that worked. She was afraid she’d lose consciousness. She opened her mouth to scream and only bit her tongue.
“Goddamn cop and cop’s whore!” Zach hissed. She felt spittle fly into her face.
And suddenly he released her.
She stood dizzily, leaning with her shoulder and hip against the clos
ed door.
“You’re a devious bitch and always were,” Zach was saying. His voice sounded muffled, as if he were speaking through a thick blanket. But he was calmer now. “Always were …”
The room leveled out and the dizziness passed. She felt nauseated; she knew her mouth had the slackness of someone about to vomit.
Zach smiled down at her. He raised a finger and flipped her lower lip so it made a tiny slurping sound. “Or maybe you like rough stuff the way you used to, huh?”
“Damn you,” she said slowly and with soft deliberation. “I hate you, you bastard.” She swallowed something thick and bitter. “I mean I fucking hate you!”
He slapped her, sending a shock of pain through her jaw and jolting her head around. But that seemed to clear her mind.
“I’m leaving, Zach. And I’ll scream like you never heard if you try to stop me.”
He wasn’t smiling. “Stop you? Who’s trying to stop you? Go! Get out! Go to your crummy cop you’re shacked up with! He use his handcuffs on you, Jen? I bet you like that, don’t you?”
She opened the door, then stopped and turned back to face him. “How do you know we live together?” she said.
He wiped his arm across his forehead, and his expression changed; the long face took on a blank look of feigned nonchalance. He obviously didn’t like her knowing he’d been interested enough to check on her.
“I been told,” he said. “I don’t remember by who. Go to your cop. Marry him, why don’t you? Mr. and Mrs. Mediocre. That’s where you belong.”
Jennifer went out and slammed the door behind her. Slammed it on her past.
