Play It Again

by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

  The guy was wearing a bow tie and a white apron.

  R.J. looked around him, totally floored. He was in a bar.

  Somehow he’d walked into the place without realizing where he was and bellied right up to the bar, still oblivious.

  But his feet were giving him a message. He wanted a drink. He looked at his hands and saw they were shaking just a little.

  He looked past the bartender to the cool, clean line of bottles, like a platoon of crack soldiers standing at attention on the parade ground.

  His mouth was watering. His head was buzzing, and he could feel all the cells in his body calling out to the gleaming parade of bottles.

  He wanted a drink.

  Oh, God, how he wanted a drink.

  “Hey, you want a drink, or what?” the bartender said, tapping one hand on the bar.

  R.J. took a deep breath. His head whirled.

  “Yes. I want a drink,” he said and swallowed.

  The bartender nodded.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Nothing.” R.J. turned and walked on unsteady legs for the door. He could hear the bartender mutter, “Well, fuck you.” But he made it out the door anyway, without screaming, without collapsing into a puddle on the floor, without diving back toward the bar and begging for a shot of oblivion.

  On the sidewalk he stood still for a few minutes, just breathing. The air was cold and felt half clean, as if rain was coming behind the breeze.

  He’d almost started drinking again. Not that he couldn’t handle it. He’d always handled it before.

  But this time felt different. Could he really handle it this time, the same as he’d done in the past, if he had a few? R.J. didn’t know the answer to that, but he didn’t feel like pushing his luck. He suspected the answer was no.

  When he had stopped shaking and no longer felt dizzy, R.J. turned his steps crosstown. He was hungry as hell by the time he got back to his apartment.

  “Where have you been?” Casey greeted him. “Your dinner’s cold.”

  “I’ll eat it anyway,” R.J. said. “What is it?”

  “Meat,” she said.

  He sat at the table in the kitchen and wolfed down a small steak, a stone-cold potato, and a salad with a lot of strange things in it.

  “Jicama,” Casey said, leaning in the doorway and watching him pull out a strip of some weird, crunchy vegetable.

  “What’s that?”

  “Just eat it, it’s good.”

  He ate it. It was good—crisp, clean, and sweet-tasting. He ate all of it, and every scrap of steak, including the fat, and the cold potato. He was surprised at how hungry he was.

  When he was done he got up to make coffee. Casey was still leaning in the doorway.

  “That was very good,” he told her. “Thanks.”

  “Your friend Hookshot called,” she said.

  He stopped dead. “He called? Hookshot called? On the telephone?”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Yes. Hookshot hates telephones. He never uses them if he can avoid it.”

  Casey shook her head. “You have odd friends.”

  “When did he call? What did he say?”

  “He’s got something for you. He wouldn’t say what.”

  “He’s found something,” R.J. said. “Something to do with the killer. He wouldn’t use the phone if it wasn’t important.”

  He could feel the adrenaline throbbing through him. It gave him a half-sick edge. He wanted to hit somebody, and the meal that had been sitting so pleasantly in his stomach a minute before felt like it had turned to lead. He hurried for the door, grabbing at a coat.

  “Hey,” said Casey. “Why don’t you just call him?”

  “He won’t answer. I told you, Hookshot hates telephones.”

  He made it to midtown in fifteen minutes. Hookshot called out from behind his screen of hanging papers and magazines. “Damn, R.J., where you been?”

  “I came as soon as I heard, Hookshot. What’ve you got?”

  Hookshot shook his head. “Make me use the goddamned TEL-o-phone, man, and you know I hate that shit.”

  “I’m sorry, all right?”

  Hookshot leaned out to his left. A twelve-year-old kid was sitting on a skateboard with his back to the kiosk. He wore baggy sweats and a helmet.

  “Benny!” Hookshot yelled, and the kid looked up.

  “Yeah?”

  “Get your raggedy ass over here, man.”

  Benny stood up, clutching his skateboard with one hand and pulling at the seat of his pants with the other.

  “I’m here, all right?”

  Hookshot nodded at R.J. “Tell this dude what you saw.”

  “What for?”

  Hookshot sighed and raised an eyebrow at R.J.

  “Yeah, I get it,” R.J. said, and he pulled out a five-dollar bill. He smoothed it so the kid could see it. “What’d you see, kid?”

  Benny eyed the fiver, then looked at Hookshot, who shrugged. Benny shrugged and turned back to R.J. with an expression of pathetic patience.

  “You know St. Mark’s?”

  “The church?”

  Benny stared at R.J. with disbelief. “No, the synagogue. Course it’s a fucking church.”

  Hookshot leaned out and cuffed Benny—not hard, but the kid got the message.

  “All right, shit, so St. Mark’s the church, okay?”

  “Okay. What about it?”

  Benny shrugged. “So I’m going by there—this is last night you unnerstan. It’s like nine o’clock. And I see the guy coming out, okay?”

  He held out his hand for the five-dollar bill. R.J. pulled it away. “Not so fast, kid. You saw what guy?”

  Benny sighed again and gave him the look that asked, Who is this dope? “The guy in the picture, who’d you think, it was Donald Fucking Trump?”

  R.J. looked at Hookshot. “Does he mean the composite picture?”

  “That’s right.”

  R.J. turned back to the kid. “Are you sure it was him?”

  Sigh. “Course I’m sure. What, I look stupid?”

  “Benny’s a wiseass,” Hookshot said. “But if he says he saw him, you best believe he saw him.”

  R.J. put the five-dollar bill back in his pocket.

  “Hey!” said Benny.

  But R.J. pulled his hand out again, this time with a ten-dollar bill.

  “More like it,” said Benny.

  CHAPTER 27

  St. Mark’s was one of the few old East Side churches that hadn’t been torn down to make room for high-rise co-ops. It looked squat, old and dirty, but it had a steeple and all the other working parts.

  It also had a small rectory attached on the back side. There was a light on in the window when R.J. got there, so he knocked on the door with a clear conscience.

  After a couple of moments the door swung wide and R.J., wearing a meek face so he wouldn’t scare any church mice, suddenly found himself looking straight up.

  “Can I help you?” boomed the man. He was at least 6’5” and looked like he’d been lifting weights most of his life.

  “Jesus,” said R.J. without thinking.

  “No, but I can take a message. What can I do for you?”

  “Uh…” began R.J. “I’m looking for the, uh, preacher here?”

  “That’s me,” the man bellowed. “Come on in.” He stepped aside and R.J. stumbled in.

  R.J. followed into a study lined with books. He caught a couple of titles, like The Living Bible and Historical Jesus. The giant stepped around behind a massive wooden desk and sat in a swivel chair. The chair groaned.

  “Sit down. I’m Jim Mudge,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  R.J. collected his wits.

  “My name is R.J. Brooks,” he began, reaching one of his business cards across the desk to Reverend Mudge.

  “I know who you are,” Mudge said. “I’ve seen you on the evening news lately.” But he took the card anyway.

  “Well, then I can cut to the chase. I hav
e reason to believe that my mother’s killer was here at the church last night.”

  Reverend Mudge nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “He was seen leaving the church around nine o’clock. I wonder if you can tell me what he might have been doing here.”

  Mudge leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his neck. The fabric of his shirt strained and looked like it might shred. “I know exactly what he was doing here last night,” Mudge said. “But beyond that I can’t help you.”

  R.J. shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “Last night was the weekly meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous,” Mudge said. “Do you know anything about how AA works?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Well then you know that the whole program depends on anonymity. I can’t give you any names at all.”

  “But you’re in charge of the church here, you must know the guy that runs the meetings.”

  He nodded. “That’s right. But I can’t tell you his name.”

  “Why not?”

  “That would violate the confidentiality of the meetings.”

  “That’s understandable, but—”

  Mudge cut him off. “And even if I were to talk to the guy who leads the meetings, I don’t think he’s likely to give you much more.”

  “Reverend—we’re talking about murder here.”

  Mudge nodded. “I understand that.”

  “I don’t think you do. This guy is a serial killer. He’s killed at least a dozen people and he’s going to kill more if I don’t stop him. These are not clean hits, Reverend. This is a sick guy. He tortures them. He dresses things up to look pretty. And when he’s done it’s so pretty that hard-core cops who think they’ve seen it all are chucking their lunch all over the floor.”

  “Mr. Brooks—”

  “This is the guy who killed my mother, Reverend. And he’s going to kill again, that’s a fact. He’s out there laughing at me, and laughing at the cops, and laughing at you for protecting him, and I would knock down Mother Teresa, run over Albert Schweitzer, and shoot the Pope to get at this guy. Do you understand me now?”

  When R.J. was finished he was surprised to find that he was on his feet, knuckles on the big desk, and leaning in only inches from Mudge’s face.

  R.J. took a deep breath and straightened.

  “Sorry, padre,” he said and sat down again.

  Mudge was chewing on his lip and breathing a little harder. “I’ll call Frank,” he said and reached for the telephone.

  R.J. leaned back in his chair and concentrated on breathing for a minute. Jesus, he thought. I sort of came unglued there. But hell, if it works…

  “Hello, Frank? Jim Mudge… Fine, listen, I’ve got a small problem for you, do you have a minute?”

  * * *

  The deli was on the corner of Lex & Third. It had been there as long as R.J. remembered, and probably a lot longer.

  When R.J. walked in forty minutes later, Frank was waiting for him in a booth at the back of the room, directly across from a display case stuffed with pastrami.

  Frank was a wiry guy in his sixties with thin gray hair he kept slick and a set of little cheater glasses on his nose. He had that look of quiet strength, the strength of endurance, that R.J. had come to associate with long-time AA members.

  They shook hands and R.J. slid into the booth opposite Frank. When he was settled, he saw that Frank had been sizing him up in his mild way.

  “How long have you been sober, R.J.?” Frank asked.

  R.J. was startled. “Jesus, it shows?”

  Frank smiled and gave his head a half shake. “Only to me. I’ve been doing this for a long time now. I just see little things that add up, and I take a guess. Just a guess, but I’m usually right.”

  “Uh-huh. I’d be more interested in what you might have guessed about a guy who was at your meeting last night.”

  R.J. slid out one of the photocopies of the composite picture. But before he could hand it across the table Frank held up a hand.

  “I’m not sure I can do that,” he said. “We have pretty strict rules. We have to. That’s the only way this thing can work, Mr. Brooks, and it has worked for seventy years now.”

  “I can appreciate that. My mother only got to work for a little more than sixty years, Frank. Then she was murdered by this guy here.” He held up the picture. “Was he at your meeting last night?”

  Frank studied R.J., refusing to look at the picture. “Have you been to an AA meeting, R.J.?”

  “I sat in on a couple.”

  “Then you know that even if I wanted to—and I don’t want to—I couldn’t tell you anybody’s name.”

  “Sure, I know. Bill W. Frank S. Psycho Killer P. I don’t give a shit about any of that, Frank. All I want is to know if this guy was at the meeting and if you think he’ll be back. And if you won’t tell me, I guess I’ll just go across the street to Kelley’s and have a drink.”

  Frank looked at him for a moment longer. Then he smiled. “All right, R.J. You don’t have to threaten me.” He shifted his eyes to the picture and frowned. “Oh,” he said. And then he clammed up.

  R.J. almost jumped over the table at him. “You know him?”

  Frank shrugged. “I don’t know him. He was at the meeting last night, first time. I’m pretty sure it was him. He didn’t look exactly like this picture here, but pretty close. I think it was him. He gave quite a speech.”

  “Will he be back?”

  “I don’t know. I never know. We always close with that, you know, asking everyone to come back. But this guy? Who knows. I don’t think he was from around here.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen him before. And the way he spoke—”

  “What do you mean?”

  Frank gave R.J. another half smile. “It’s another little thing I do. I listen to people talk for a couple of minutes and I can generally guess where they came from. The region, in some cases the city.”

  “So where was this guy from?”

  Frank shook his head. “Hard to say. Not New York, probably.”

  “‘Probably’? This is some hobby, Frank. The best you can do is ‘not New York, probably’?”

  Frank nodded. “I know. But certain people have worked at their speech, tried to make it neutral. Sometimes to get rid of an accent or a speech impediment. A lot of theater actors sound like this guy. The ones with training, you know. From the good drama schools.”

  R.J. leaned back in his seat. There it was again, the theater business. He felt a vein throb in his temple.

  This was the guy. He was sure of it.

  “Frank,” he said, tapping the picture, “I think he might come back. He likes to show off, and if he thinks he’s fooling you he’ll do it again, rub your nose in it.”

  “I can’t stop him from coming back, R.J. I won’t.”

  “I’m not asking you to. I’m just letting you know, if he does come back, I’m going to be there waiting for him.”

  Frank looked troubled. “I’m not sure I approve of that. I’m sorry—I wish I could help you, but…”

  “You want to help me, just forget you ever saw me and run your meetings. I’ll be there.”

  “I don’t know about that, R.J. You being there, I mean.”

  R.J. laughed and stood up. “You can’t stop me, Frank. Remember? My name is R.J. I’m an alcoholic.”

  CHAPTER 28

  It wasn’t much of a victory. Frank was a decent guy, trying to do the right thing. Still, it was about the only win R.J. had had lately, and he felt his blood moving faster.

  R.J. was getting the smell of the killer. Casey was right that he was an actor; he was sure of it now. R.J. felt closer to finding him than he had before, and the feeling was a good one.

  In fact, R.J. felt so good he decided to take the subway home. The train was only about half full at this hour. But as they rattled uptown a large black man in a beret stormed into the car.

  “Hey!�
� he shouted. Nobody looked at him.

  “You people are lucky! You riding my train! Ain’t nobody fuck with you on my train! I got a black belt in Tie-crown-doo! Y’all are safe now!” And then he took off his beret and moved down the train, shoving the greasy cap under the nose of every single passenger.

  Most of them fumbled some change into the hat. When he came to R.J., he paused. R.J. looked up at him, smiling.

  “You a transit cop?” the man asked.

  “No,” R.J. said.

  “Then why you looking at me like that, man?”

  “I’m a masochist. I was hoping to get robbed and beaten, and you just spoiled my whole day.”

  “Shit,” the man said as he moved away. “I hate this goddamn city.”

  As R.J. walked the last three blocks from the train he felt his glow wearing off. So he was closer. Big deal. He had been so far from finding the guy that closer was meaningless. Besides, what did he know that he hadn’t known before? That the killer talked nice? So the last thing his mother had heard would have been good diction. That was a help.

  He was fucking it up. She had worried about him in her journal, and she’d been right to worry. He was at a dead end in finding this killer because he was in a dead-end life: rotten past, dismal future, and not enough brains and balls to do anything about it.

  If he had any smarts at all he would talk to Casey. Maybe even talk about the future with her. Let her know how he felt about her, how she was tearing him up inside. If he’d done that with his mother things would have been different. Maybe they would have gotten along. Maybe she’d still be alive.

  And maybe, R.J. thought bitterly, if I flap my arms hard enough I can fly to the moon.

  By the time he got back to his apartment he had ridden the mood swing all the way through the cycle and he was feeling pretty bad. As he opened the door and saw Casey he felt better briefly—a quick shot of adrenaline: She looked great, and she was waiting for him.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Guy crap out on you?”

  “No,” he said. “Hookshot doesn’t crap out. One of his kids ID’d the picture. Guy was at an AA meeting at St. Mark’s last night. AA leader says it was him.”

  “That’s great. So what’s with the face?”

  “What do you mean?”