by S. J. Rozan
I waved to Lydia, who had the Tabors corralled. She’d taken off her silk scarf and tied it onto her purse strap. Slipping the thin strap across her body to keep her hands free, she shepherded Sam, Peter, and Leslie over to join me and the guard. He led us to a staff door, pressed a code, and took us through scuffed back corridors, where signs read ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING and YIELD TO ART IN TRANSIT. We left by the door beside the huge, closed loading dock in the back.
Outside, we found ourselves facing the chain-link fence that cut the West Side Highway off from the loading dock. Our choices were left, which would take us around to the front of the museum, or right, past one of the neighborhood’s few remaining actual meatpacking plants and over to the club-filled party streets of the Meatpacking District. We started that way.
Not quite in time, though.
Maybe someone outside had caught sight of Sam through the front windows and guessed where we were going; or maybe the protestors had sentries back here; or maybe it was just another of Sam Tabor’s bad-luck breaks. We’d gone about ten steps when a woman’s voice shouted, “Hey, he’s back here!” Another took it up: “It’s him! It’s him! Oh my God, it’s him!” A man: “In the back!”
A few seconds earlier and we could’ve retreated inside; a few seconds later and we’d have been on the next block, out of sight. But the door had locked behind us and here we were.
People surged around the corner of the building. Voices yelled, “Killer!” and “Murderer!” Fists were shaken and fingers pointed. This antiviolence crowd was out for blood.
Sam looked around in drunken interest. I grabbed his arm. He tried to pull away.
“Get out of here,” I snapped to Peter and Leslie. “Lydia and I have this.”
“I’m staying with him,” Peter said.
“Like hell you are!” Leslie yelled over the rising roar. “So we can be photographed in this shitstorm? Smith can handle it.”
As though to illustrate her threat, Tony Oakhurst materialized, grinning, camera clicking everywhere. Cell phone flashes started going off, too, and chants arose: Sam, Sam, the killer man and Whitney, say no! Tabor must go!
“Beat it!” I said to Peter and Leslie.
Leslie manhandled Peter off to the right, where the museum butted up against the packing plant. She had to push him at times, but finally they disappeared around the three refrigerator trucks pulled up to the plant’s loading dock for the night. Good. It wasn’t that I gave a damn about their bad publicity. I just didn’t want to have to worry about them, too, when push came to shove—as it literally did a moment later, when the back of the crowd surged against the people at the front and someone stumbled into Lydia. She heaved him away, he fell against a woman, and the woman, cursing, threw a water bottle not at him but at us. It bounced off my shoulder.
“Come on,” I said to Lydia, and we retreated to the building wall, shoving Sam up against it. Lydia kicked off her shoes, becoming shorter and more lethal. We stood in front of Sam, a levee again. Laughing, Sam kept peeking out and ducking back behind us. I stepped forward and roared to the crowd, “Back off!”
A woman yelled, “You’re shielding a killer!”
“Should I move so you can kill him?”
I lost her answer as a guy with a combed Brooklyn beard stomped up and screamed in Lydia’s face. Big mistake; he should’ve screamed in mine. I’d have flung him away. Lydia kicked him in the balls so hard he keeled over and heaved.
“Oh my God, they’re beating people!”
“Animals!”
“Do something!”
I was hoping someone would call the cops to protect them from us animals. I could do it, and if things got any worse I would, but taking out my phone would show my gun and we didn’t need that kind of escalation. Sooner or later, the cops around the front of the building would figure out they’d lost half their flock.
Another wave of people came surging around the corner, and more missiles started flying. Water bottles, gravel, trash. Sam stuck his head out from behind me just in time to get hit in the face by a rock.
His response was electric. Like a rabbit bit by a snake, he leapt and took off. Lydia and I both tried to go after him. The crowd rushed us. The people with the bedsheet sign had made it around from the front and stormed forward, entangling everyone except their actual target, who raced away.
Smaller, more supple, and faster than I am, Lydia ducked down. She hoisted up the bottom of the bedsheet sign and scooted under it. Slicing through the crowd, she pushed a woman aside, kicked a man in the shins, and ran off, barefoot, after the jackrabbit Sam had become.
I hoped her tae kwon do calluses would be enough. In case they weren’t, I scooped up her shoes. Brandishing them like a crazy man, I roared and bellowed and kept the crowd busy so they wouldn’t notice who was missing. It wasn’t fun—two more water bottles clonked me; this was a well-hydrated mob—but I didn’t have to keep it up for long. Cops finally came charging around from the front of the building. They waded in, pushing, shoving, yelling at everyone to calm down. I dropped my arms and pressed back against the wall.
Cops lofted billy clubs but didn’t bring them down on heads. Command must have figured the threat would be enough for these arts folks, and they were right. People on the perimeter started to melt away. As the crowd got smaller, the shoving eased off. The yelling continued, but now it was focused on the cops, not me. I slunk low, crab-walked against the building, swung up onto the meat plant loading dock, and squeezed between the plant’s roll-down doorway and the first truck. I inched along until I was past the third, then jumped down and broke into a run as, behind me, voices shouted about free speech, police violence, power, and the patriarchy.
13
Once I’d gone a few blocks and the yelling had faded, I stopped and checked my phone. Nothing. No point in calling Lydia. If she’d found Sam, she’d have let me know. I tried Sam’s number. He didn’t answer. That probably meant he was still running. If he found a place to stop, he might not call me, but chances were he’d answer if he saw I was calling him. If he had his phone with him. If it was on.
So, assuming he was still in motion, where would he go?
He’d keep moving until he couldn’t hear the sounds of the crowd anymore. Then he’d fall into the first bar he found.
Or try to. Here in the Meatpacking District, the cobblestone streets that had seen a century of meat wagons, teamsters, and slabs of beef now saw Google staff, venture capitalists, and fashionistas. The old bars had faded away, replaced by new ones with velvet ropes and bouncers. No way Sam would have gotten in any of these doors even if he hadn’t been disheveled, bruised or maybe even bleeding, and already drunk.
But a couple of blocks east of here, there were still some old-fashioned watering holes. Did Sam know that? Did Lydia? I texted them both to call me. It also occurred to me to phone Tony Oakhurst, who, as Sam’s drinking buddy, might have some idea where he’d go. Oakhurst didn’t pick up so I left a voice mail, and also a text. Looking for Sam, call me. If he was still busy documenting the antiviolence melee, he might not check his phone for a while, but it seemed worth a try.
As I started working my way east and north, my phone rang: Peter. I debated, but he might be able to help. “Smith.”
“What the hell’s going on? Where are you guys? Is Sam okay?”
“He bolted. You have any idea where he might go?”
“You mean you lost him? What the fuck, Smith?”
“Any ideas?”
“I can’t believe this. Those people are after his head! How could you lose him?”
“Let me know if he shows up or gets in touch,” I said, and cut the call. I had no faith that Sam would have the wherewithal to get in a cab, or on the subway, and navigate to Peter’s Park Slope town house, but I didn’t want to hear that question from Peter again. I was already hearing it from myself.
I made quick trips in and out of a few bars, showing Sam’s photo, getting nothing. As I came out of one on 1
5th off 8th, I got a text from Lydia: Lost him. 16th and 7th.
I texted, Stay put, and sprinted over. I spotted her on the corner, leaning on a wall. Her dress was rumpled, her hair damp with sweat, and her panty hose were shredded on her bare, grimy feet.
“If you tell me I look like a hooker, I’ll slug you,” she said as I jogged up.
“I wouldn’t be the first?” I handed over her shoes.
“You wouldn’t be the fifth. Bare feet bring all the perverts out. Stand still.” She hung onto me with one hand and, hopping around, tugged the panty hose off and slipped the shoes on. “Though honestly, it’s more comfortable than wearing these. Sam turned up this block, but when I got to the corner, he was gone.”
I looked up and down the avenue. “I’m thinking he’ll be desperate for a drink,” I told Lydia. “Hoping, actually. That would mean he’s probably in a bar here somewhere.”
“All right,” Lydia said. “We’d better start looking.”
“You don’t want to go home and change or something?”
She smiled. “I don’t know if I want to kiss you for that or pop you one. I love that you’re worried about me, but we have a client in trouble. Let’s go.”
“I know which I want to do,” I said, and kissed her.
She smiled. “Good choice. Now, like I said, let’s go.”
We started after Sam, Lydia heading south, me north. Our plan was to each cover at least ten blocks, including weaving up and down the side streets for a block in each direction.
I got nowhere. From Lydia’s telephone silence, I knew she was doing about as well. I showed Sam’s picture on my phone to bartenders and bouncers—in these places, peacekeepers more than gatekeepers. Two of the bartenders knew him, but no one could tell me they’d seen him tonight. “Doesn’t mean he hasn’t been here,” one bartender said. “But if he was, I didn’t notice.”
On a normal day, that would be Sam, forgettable; but with two drinks already in him and an air of diving for cover, he’d have stood out to any good bartender, if only as someone to keep a wary eye on. Still, I asked, “Can I take a look?”
“Knock yourself out.”
I didn’t find Sam, so I left my card and a ten-dollar bill, as I had in each bar, asking the bartender to call me if Sam came in. I was pushing through the door out to the street when Lydia called.
“Found him?” I asked.
“No. But something interesting. That photographer friend of Sam’s. Tony Oakhurst? I saw him down the block, going into a place I’d just come out of, a place where the bartender knew Sam. He looked like a man on a mission, so I stopped and waited. He came out a minute later, skipped the next place I’d tried, and turned up the side street.”
“You think he’s doing what we’re doing.”
“And I think he knows where to look.”
“Stay on him. Where are you?”
She told me. I pocketed the phone and ran.
Two texts later, I caught up with Lydia on 13th and 6th, outside a place called Bar Six. “Oakhurst went in a couple of minutes ago,” she said. “He didn’t come out, so I went in, just as far as the bar. He and Sam are in the back.”
“Good,” I said. “Come on.”
I held the door for Lydia and followed her in. The place was dim, but not a dive. A neighborhood bistro: photos on the walls, their reflections in the mirror behind the bar on the left, a long banquette on the right, small tables in the back, mellow conversation-buzz in the air. As we walked through, Lydia got the up-and-down from the barflies, and then I did, too. A couple of them were probably wondering if I was responsible for her raggedy look, and if she needed help. A couple of the others were more likely considering whether it would be worth it to try to cut me out and get in on the action themselves. Without question, Lydia registered all of it the same as I did. She continued to the back as though strolling alone on the beach.
At a table in the rear, Oakhurst and Sam were laughing over something. Sam’s upper lip was speckled with tiny drops of dried blood; his nose was purple and swelling, with a cut on the left side. As we approached, they both looked up.
“Hey,” said Oakhurst, swinging his hightops off a chair. “What’s shaking? Come on, you guys, sit down.”
“Did you get my call?” I asked Oakhurst, still standing. “Sam? Did you?”
Sam shrugged. He took out his phone, looked at the screen, and nodded.
Oakhurst gave me a grin. “I wasn’t sure Sam wanted you to find him. I thought I’d wait and ask.”
“Did you ask?”
“Not yet. Hey, Sam, you want these guys to find you?”
“Yeah, sure, why not?” Sam looked at Lydia. “What happened to you?”
“A client made trouble for me.”
“That’s not very nice of them.”
“Come on, Sam,” I said. “Time to go.”
He looked at me like he didn’t know what I meant. “Me and Tony are hanging out.”
“Not tonight. Let’s go.”
“Hey,” Oakhurst said. “Come on, you guys, sit down, have one with us.”
“Another time. Sam, get up or I’ll haul you out of here.”
“Don’t do that. I don’t want you to do that.”
“Then let’s go. Night’s over.”
He lit up as though he’d just thought of an unanswerable argument and pointed to his glass. “I’m not finished.”
“Finish.”
Lydia gave me a glance when I said that, but I was figuring Sam plastered and reeling would be easier to handle than Sam balking and belligerent.
“I’m not finished, either,” Oakhurst said. “It’s okay, Smith. I’ll get him home.”
“No, you won’t. Sam?”
Sam just sat staring at me, so I moved in, clamped his arm, lifted him from his seat. He staggered and snatched at his glass.
“Hey!” barked Oakhurst, also standing. “Leave the guy alone.”
“Yeah!” said Sam.
I started tugging Sam through the bar. Lydia briefly stayed behind, staring down Oakhurst as I marched Sam out.
Oakhurst’s “Well, shit!” echoed as we moved toward the door, but he didn’t try to stop us.
14
Lydia joined us outside and I hailed a cab. Once Sam was lodged firmly between me and Lydia, I told the driver, “Two stops.” I gave him Lydia’s Chinatown address and Sam’s, in Greenpoint.
After a block or two, Sam looked around. “Where are we going?” He seemed to have already forgotten he was pissed at me for pulling him out of the bar.
“We’re going to drop Lydia off. Then I’m taking you home.”
“Who’s Lydia?”
“Next to you.”
He turned to Lydia, regarded her, and nodded. “Hi. I’m Sam.”
“Hi.” Behind Sam’s head, Lydia spoke to me. “You understand home isn’t where I’d intended to spend the night?”
“Shit. You’re killing me.”
“I told my mother it would be an all-night job. She squinted at me.”
“I’m going to shoot myself.”
Sam threw me a swift, wide-eyed look.
“He’s just joking.” Lydia patted Sam’s hand.
“I’m sorry,” I told Lydia. “You have no idea how sorry I am.” I checked on Sam. He was leaning forward, staring out the front window. I dropped my voice. “But if there ever was a stress night, this is it. I want to be with Sam every minute, so if a woman gets killed in New York tonight, he can’t claim he did it.” I took half a second to consider accomplishing the same thing by locking Sam in a closet at my place before I gave an apologetic palms-up.
“You want me to come?” Lydia asked.
“Desperately. But Sam lives in a studio. With a very small couch.” I grinned. “And you need a shower and a change of clothes. I don’t think he really has to be watched all night. He just needs to be reassured in the morning. Take this night and put it in your mother’s memory bank, so next time you tell her you’re on an all-night jo
b, she won’t be suspicious.”
“Yes, she will. But I get it.” Lydia sighed theatrically. “It’s kind of like babysitting, but I get it.” She patted Sam’s hand again. Sam turned to her, smiled, and patted hers back.
After we’d dropped Lydia in Chinatown and Sam and I were on our way to Greenpoint, I checked my phone. Peter had called three more times. I called him back.
“Smith! What the hell? What’s going on? Jesus! Why didn’t you pick up? Why didn’t you call?”
“Everything’s fine. Sam and I are headed to Brooklyn. I’m going to stay with him tonight.”
“Fine? That’s all, ‘everything’s fine’? What the hell happened? Where was he?”
“In a bar with Tony Oakhurst. Where are you?”
“I’m home, so what? Oakhurst, shit. Is Sam all right? Let me talk to him.”
I passed the phone to Sam. “It’s Peter.”
“Hi!” Sam said enthusiastically. “What’s shaking?… Yeah, sure I’m okay, I feel great… In a cab… I don’t know, wait.” Sam turned to me. “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
Back to the phone: “Home… No, no, I don’t want to go to your house, Leslie won’t like it… But she’ll come home and she’ll get pissed off… No. No! Smith, tell him.” He thrust the phone at me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked Peter.
“I wanted him to come here but he won’t.”
“I told you, I’ll spend the night at his place.”
“No disrespect, Smith, but you lost him once already. Bring him here.”
“Not if he doesn’t want to go. No disrespect, Peter, but I’m working for Sam, not for you. Sam? Peter says he’d rather you stayed with him tonight.”
“No! No-no-no-no-no.” Sam’s hands curled into fists and his head began to shake violently.
“Stop,” I said, grabbing his arm before he could make himself sick and throw up in the cab. “Peter, he doesn’t want to do it. We’ll be in Greenpoint. Talk to you in the morning.”
The cab rolled over the Manhattan Bridge and into Brooklyn, dropping us at Sam’s address—a converted attached two-family, now six apartments with, most likely, an absentee landlord who didn’t care much whom he rented to as long as they had first month, last month, and security deposit. Sam managed to make it down the four steps from the sidewalk to his door under the stairs, but I had to take his keys from him or we’d never have gotten in. Once we did, he fumbled for the light, flipped it on, and stood, letting out a huge sigh of relief.
