Red Hook

by Gabriel Cohen

  “This your case?” Jack asked.

  “Yes, it is. You rookies screwing up my crime scene?”

  “We’ll get out of your way.”

  Colby hitched up his pants. “Way I see it, the vic’s in bed, the perp comes in through the front door there, starts searching around. Vic wakes up, comes out, confronts the perp in the living room.” Colby pointed to the front of the house; his eye twitched. “Perp assaults him there—that’s probably where he gets the defense wounds, vic goes for the back door and the fire escape, doesn’t make it. The drawers in the bedroom are open; some stuff looks like it’s missing in there.” He pointed to the living room. “I think we got a B and E gone bad.”

  “Robbery, huh?” Jack rubbed the back of his neck and exchanged a look with Daskivitch.

  “Yeah. We found his pants upstairs. The pockets are turned out, wallet’s gone…what? What do you guys know?”

  “Let’s get some air,” Daskivitch told the detective. “I’ll fill you in.”

  Jack stayed in the kitchen, staring down at the barge captain’s abused body. A wave of nausea swept over him. He leaned against a counter and pressed a hand to his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the queasiness to disappear.

  Be professional, he told himself. Look at the whole picture. Find the evidence. He took another look at Ortslee curled up by the door and then—he couldn’t help it—he knelt down and lifted the little man up.

  Daskivitch walked through the door. “Did I leave my—?” He stopped in shock. “Jesus Christ—what are you doing!”

  Jack looked down at the frail body in his arms. “I don’t know,” he said weakly.

  Daskivitch turned to see if anyone was behind him. “Jack, you gotta put him down.”

  Groggy, he complied.

  “Fuck,” Daskivitch muttered. He wet some paper towels and wiped the blood off Jack’s hands. “Come on,” he said, and tugged Jack’s arm to lead him out the back door onto the fire escape.

  Jack sank down in the corner. The iron rails pressed into his back. He breathed deep of the night air, trying to free his nostrils of the scent of blood. Above the door, some sort of strange flying beetle was zittering around a bare light bulb. Down below, across a shadowy asphalt lot, a couple of cops leaned against a squad car, shooting the shit and laughing.

  Daskivitch paced back and forth, rubbing his chin. “Jesus, guy, what the hell were you thinking?”

  Jack didn’t answer.

  Daskivitch crouched down. “What is it with this one, Jack? Why is this case different for you?”

  Jack considered the question as if he were staring at a foreign object. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know, or you won’t say?”

  Jack sat silent for a moment, then raised his head. “We killed the barge guy, Gary. I killed him.”

  “What!”

  “I laughed at him. I ordered him to stay put.”

  Daskivitch turned to look down into the lot. “Maybe…maybe Colby was right. Maybe this was just a bad B and E. A fluke, you know? A coincidence.”

  Jack snorted. “How many burglars go around carrying knives?”

  “Maybe he found it in the kitchen.”

  “Come on, Gary. It was the same goddamn perp.”

  Daskivitch sighed and scratched the back of his head. “Maybe we screwed up. But it’s like my first partner on patrol taught me. You learn from it, then let it go. Right?”

  Above the door, the beetle kept smacking its head against the light. Jack smiled bitterly. “Let it go. Sure.”

  “You gonna be okay?”

  Jack shrugged.

  His partner stood up. “All right. “You better not go back in there. Why don’t you head down this back way? I’ll go inside and tell Colby you got an emergency call.”

  eighteen

  JACK JOLTED AWAKE IN the middle of the night. His heart was palpitating, constricted, and he was panting. He didn’t know if he was having his first asthma attack since boyhood, or his first heart attack. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and clutched the sheets, willing his breath to slow.

  After a few minutes it did, and the bands across his chest eased.

  Shaken, he got out of bed and drank a glass of water. Had he been having a nightmare? He couldn’t remember.

  He did remember Raymond Ortslee, crouched down by his back door, begging for help. Begging him for help.

  He turned on the TV and tried to focus on an infomercial for an abdominal exerciser. Then he turned off the TV and lay staring up into the dark.

  Daskivitch called in the early afternoon.

  “Hey, bunk. Jeannie wanted me to ask what we can bring over.”

  Jack didn’t answer.

  “We’re still on for this evening, aren’t we?”

  He looked out his kitchen window. Down in the sunny backyard, his landlord was repairing the leg of a garden table.

  “Jack?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “I’m not sure I’m up for a party, after what happened the other day.”

  “You mean Ortslee?”

  “That shouldn’t have happened.”

  Daskivitch was silent for a moment. “Well,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do about it now, right?”

  “Yeah, there is. We can catch the bastards who did this.”

  “I’m with you. But today…come on. “You need to forget about it for just a few hours. You don’t want to bum Michelle out, do you?”

  Outside, Mr. Gardner flipped the table over and rocked it to make sure it was steady. He was always puttering around in the yard, pruning the roses or building a barbecue out of spare bricks or painting all of the lawn furniture a light purple that made it look like some kind of modern art. Looking down on him from above, Jack noticed that his white hair had a sea-green tinge in the back. The old man hitched up his pants and stood still for a moment, as if listening to some distant sound.

  Suddenly his cat scrabbled up over the chain-link fence and Mr. Gardner snapped out of his daydream. The cat raised its head and let out a tortured yowl. It was in heat, Jack realized. So much for self-sufficiency.

  “All right,” he said, finally. “Just bring a six-pack or something.”

  He had less than three hours to clean up and shop before his guests arrived.

  He mopped his kitchen floor, cleaned the toilet, polished the bathroom mirror. By the time he got around to scouring the kitchen sink, he was starting to feel better about the evening ahead. When he heard Mr. Gardner clumping up the basement stairs, he impulsively stuck his head out into the hall.

  “Hey, listen, Mr. G.—I’m having a couple of friends over for dinner this evening. Why don’t you come down and join us?”

  The old man hitched up his pants. “Oh, no. Thanks, but I wouldn’t wanna be a bother.”

  “No, really. You can help me with the barbecuing.”

  That did the trick. Mr. Gardner smiled shyly. “I don’t wanna be in the way.”

  “Come on down in a couple of hours.”

  Avenue M was the commercial strip that time forgot. There were no supermarkets or chain stores, just family businesses on the ground floor of two-story brick buildings. Outside the markets, old brown and yellow signs in 1950s script: Norwegian Schmaltz Herring Only $1.49 Lb; Homemade Rugalech, Challah, Babkas. Chinese Cuisine—Glatt Kosher. Other signs were in Hebrew so Jack could only guess what they said. Lotto banners swayed like party decorations in front of newsstands where Playboy would never be sold. The avenue still had men’s hat stores, for chrissakes.

  Outside Goldie’s Deli, he listened to the cheery, tinny melody of a five-cent mechanical pony being ridden by a little Hasidic boy. Along the sidewalks came a parade of ancient pensioners, slow-moving, dignified trolls.

  He hadn’t eaten anything all day. He stopped in to Goldie’s for a quick bite, ordered some fries from the Puerto Rican guy behind the counter. On his right sat a tiny, ancient, bent-over woman in a red designer suit. She launched into her o
wn order. “How much for the french-fried onions? Does the sandwich come with slaw?”

  He looked closer at this sparrow’s big jewelry and saw that it was fake. Her collar was stained. Despite her natty outfit, she wasn’t being stingy about the onion rings: she couldn’t afford them.

  Mr. Gardner in his empty apartment, this little lady making an afternoon out of her deli lunch—they gave him a chill. He’d seen shootings, decapitations, car crashes, all sorts of quick, violent ways to die. What scared him more was the thought of growing old and infirm alone.

  When his sandwich arrived, the woman turned to him and said with a sweet smile, “You’re young. I could never eat what you’re eating. Enjoy. It’s good to be young.”

  They got up to leave at the same time. He stood behind her patiently as she tottered toward the door, moving as if on tiny wheels.

  On the way home, guilty thoughts of Raymond Ortslee kept drifting into his head, but he did his best to brush them aside. This was an evening to relax. To get away from work. Let it go.

  He and Michelle exchanged shy smiles. She wore a short skirt and a blue and white striped T-shirt that showed off her figure. Over her shoulder, Daskivitch winked. Jeannie stuck out her hand. They’d all come together in Daskivitch’s car. He would have expected his partner’s wife to be a tall blonde with teased hair and big boobs, but Jeannie was a surprise, a small lively redhead. She said she worked as a fund-raiser for breast cancer research. Jack’s respect for his partner went up another notch.

  Daskivitch wore Bermuda shorts and a nice polo shirt, but with his athletic socks and hi-top Converse sneakers, he still looked like a giant kid.

  Jack led everyone into the backyard. Round slate flagstones made a walkway across the small lawn to Mr. Gardner’s new barbecue, where the old man stood squirting lighter fluid on the charcoal. A pair of tongs rested on a side table, which he had constructed by resting a marble slab on two porcelain toilet tanks. Dusky roses trailed up the chain-link fence at the back of the yard.

  Jack made the introductions.

  “Oh, hey, how ya doin’?” Mr. G. said heartily.

  While Michelle complimented him on the roses, Daskivitch turned to Jack. “Hey, did you hear what happened to Billy Kehoe over at the Eight-four?”

  “Don’t start with the cop talk,” Jeannie said. “You promised.”

  Daskivitch raised his hands in surrender. “You’re right. I’ll shut up. We’re here to relax.”

  The sky was blue as it could be; the air was dry and cool. Next door, a neighbor’s birch tree shimmied in the breeze. Mr. Gardner went inside to his workshop to search out more barbecue implements.

  “This is lovely,” Jeannie said. “Would you mind if I used your bathroom?”

  “I’ll go with you,” Michelle said.

  “Look out,” said Daskivitch. “The women are plotting.” He watched his wife and her friend go inside. He turned to Jack and bit his lip. “Listen, are you okay? You seemed pretty freaked out the other night.”

  Jack scratched his nose. “Sorry about that. I guess I’ve been kind of tired lately.”

  Embarrassed, Daskivitch looked up at the house. He brightened. “She’s nice, huh?”

  “Michelle?”

  “No. Mother Teresa.”

  “Yeah, she is. “Your wife seems nice too.”

  “So how’d the big first date go?”

  “It was all right.” Jack grinned, despite himself.

  “You sly doggee.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Jack said. “We had a nice time.” He opened a couple of the beers his partner had brought. “Listen, I hate to bring up work, but did you ask anyone at the DOT if someone called looking for Ortslee?”

  “I couldn’t find anyone over there who remembers anything. You know what it’s like, the bureaucracy…”

  “What about the shoeprint from Ortslee’s living room?”

  “Crime Scene ran it down. It belonged to some jerkoff EMS guy who answered the first call.”

  “Shit.”

  The women returned.

  “That’s the cleanest bachelor’s apartment I’ve ever seen,” Jeannie said.

  “How would you know?” Daskivitch asked.

  Jeannie rolled her eyes and grinned.

  While Jack brought out plates and silverware, his landlord kept everybody entertained. Mr. Gardner seemed like a different man. He showed off his fig tree, which he pruned carefully every fall and wrapped tenderly for the winter. He gave a tour of his flower beds—“aside from my name, I’m not really much of a gardener,” he joked—held everybody spellbound with an account of his landing on Guadalcanal in World War II, and flirted with Michelle. Jack even felt a twinge of jealousy, until he reminded himself that the man was eighty-six.

  They finished Daskivitch’s six-pack of Heineken, and then Mr. Gardner went back into the house and came out with a six of Old Milwaukee. Jack brought out a bowl of chips and some onion dip; Mr. Gardner went upstairs and came out with a plate of Velveeta on Ritz.

  After they finished the beers, Jack brought out a bottle of California white wine. Mr. Gardner surprised him by bringing out an ancient French bottle of red, some of the best wine he’d ever tasted.

  The light dimmed and they all looked up as a little cloud slipped in front of the sun. “What are you gonna do?” said Mr. Gardner with a shrug. “You can’t fight City Hall.”

  Jack sat on a picnic bench next to Michelle. He noticed that her shoulders slumped a little, and her teeth were a bit crooked. He liked her a lot. He watched her eat, watched the way her short skirt rode up over her thighs. Daskivitch and Jeannie grinned at him across the table, and he grinned back.

  “I’ll go around the corner and get some more beers,” Daskivitch said.

  “Do we really need it?” Jeannie said.

  “I don’t know if we need it, but we’d like it.”

  “Wait,” said Mr. Gardner, a bit loud after many drinks. “Wait.” He jumped up, grabbed an empty bowl off the table, and went into the house. He returned a moment later with some beautiful strawberries.

  Jack lit a couple of candles; they flickered in the settling dark. Earlier in the party, Mr. Gardner had gathered a few of his roses and stuck them in a beer bottle. Now Michelle plucked some petals and floated them in a stone birdbath.

  The table was covered with empty bottles and cans. Jack refilled Michelle’s glass, and she leaned back against his shoulder. He could hardly believe his luck. He smelled a sweet, subtle perfume, and he could have sworn that it was her natural scent. He realized that he hadn’t thought about Raymond Ortslee or Tomas Berrios for several hours.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” said Mr. Gardner. He looked across the table at Jack. “To good food and good conversation,” he said. “And to beautiful women in our backyard.” They clinked glasses all around. Mr. Gardner stood to raise his glass and nearly fell over backward. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he shouted. “What are you gonna do? You can’t fight City Hall.”

  The candlelight glimmered on the birdbath. Mr. Gardner staggered inside to go to the bathroom.

  “Help me carry some plates in, honey,” Jeannie said to her husband.

  “Where’s that bottle opener?” Daskivitch said, fumbling around the table.

  “Gary.”

  She must have pinched her husband under the table, because suddenly he blurted, “Oh. Right.” They gathered up some dishes and carried them into the house.

  Jack reached up to brush a wisp of hair away from Michelle’s face. She let her head drop back and he stroked her cool cheek. Tentative, he pressed his lips against her neck. She twisted around and suddenly they were kissing there in the night.

  “Where is everybody?” Mr. Gardner called out, his stocky figure emerging from the back of the house.

  Jack groaned.

  “I found a couple more beers,” Mr. Gardner called out, clunking them down on the picnic table.

  Daskivitch and his wife returned. “Sorry, but we have to hi
t the road,” he said.

  “Thanks for a lovely night,” Jeannie said.

  If Jack had been sober, he probably wouldn’t have said it, but he leaned forward and pressed his face into Michelle’s hair. “Don’t go,” he whispered. “I’ll drive you back in the morning.”

  He had no idea what she would have said if she was sober, but she wasn’t. She nodded yes. “I’ll get home on my own,” she told Jeannie and Daskivitch.

  They stood up.

  “Where’s everybody going?” said Mr. Gardner.

  “Don’t worry,” Jack said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He and Michelle walked Daskivitch and his wife out to their car.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Jeannie asked Michelle. Checking to make sure that she wasn’t being taken advantage of, Jack supposed.

  “I’m fine,” Michelle answered. As if to demonstrate, she slipped her arm around Jack’s waist.

  “Well, all right, then,” Jeannie said. She seemed a little taken aback, but Jack figured she and Michelle could sort it out later.

  “You okay to drive?” he asked his partner.

  “Jeannie’s gonna drive. I was drinking for both of us.” Daskivitch winked at him.

  They got in their car and left.

  Mr. Gardner was fumbling around the picnic table in the dark, gathering up the dirty plates.

  “It’s okay,” Jack said. “We’ll take care of it.” For once, leaving some dirty dishes for a while didn’t bother him.

  “You sure?” Mr. Gardner mumbled. “I c’n help.” He took a step and tripped over a lawn chair. Jack bent down to find him splayed across the lawn.

  “Is he okay?” Michelle whispered.

  Jack wasn’t sure. He was thinking about old people and broken hips, but Mr. Gardner sat up and laughed. “Just like Buster Keaton,” he said.

  “Let me help you upstairs,” Jack said.

  “M’okay.” Mr. Gardner got to his feet and set off down the garden path, but he looked like he was about to buckle. He made it up the stairs under his own steam, but Jack followed one step behind to catch him if he fell. “M’okay,” he said. “Really.”