* * *
Joanna comes down at 6 o’clock to throw a pair of frozen dinners into the oven. She’s wearing navy slacks over a pale blue top, an outfit that not only complements her jewelry and her eyes, but the sheen in her inky-black hair. She keeps her back to me as she unwraps the dinners and sets the timer on the stove. “You want a drink?” she asks.
“I want,” I tell her, “to get so drunk I aspirate my own vomit.”
“Does that mean yes?”
“It means no.”
She fixes herself a stiff one, three fingers of Wild Turkey and a splash of ginger ale. “Are you gonna tell Uncle Mike about the letters?”
“He doesn’t know?” It’s the first time Joanna has ever surprised me. Before this moment, I’d always assumed that her brain and body were equally free of angles.
“Uh-uh.”
“Tell me why you wrote him, Joanna, if Uncle Mike didn’t ask you to. Make me understand.”
“I don’t know. Paulie sent me a couple of letters and, like, I was bored.”
“Then why’d Uncle Mike secure the house? If he didn’t know about the letters?”
“Uncle Mike knows about some of Paulie’s letters because I showed them to him.”
“But not all of them?”
“Not the ones that said about me writing back.”
“And if he finds out, he’ll make you wish you were still living with Paulie. That about right?”
Joanna’s crimson lips fold into a childish pout. The effect is nearly pornographic. “I’m not like you, Jill. You can’t expect other women to be like you.”
“Yeah? Well, answer me this, Joanna. How come Uncle Mike didn’t arrange for your protection before Paulie knocked on the door yesterday? How come he waited until after you took a beating? You think maybe he used you to set Paulie up? Or do you think he forgot to check his calendar?”
* * *
That night, long after Joanna has gone to bed, I’m lying awake on the living room couch. I’m not worried about Paulie getting past me. By the time he breaks through the door, I’ll be ready. No, it’s Joanna who keeps me awake, Joanna and Michael Xavier Kelly.
I slip into a T-shirt and jeans, then walk out onto the porch. The quiet eases over me, comfortable as an old sweater, the one you only wear in the house. A few fireflies, the first of the year, dance above the lawn, and I can smell, very faintly, the lilacs blooming in a neighbor’s yard. There are no nightclubs in College Point, no theaters, no after-hours bars. The locals are committed to work and church, to the small, neat yards that surround their small, carefully maintained homes. There’s not a lit window anywhere.
A few blocks away, MacNeil Park leans out into the East River. I ate more than a few meals in the park when I was stationed at the 109. I liked the sullen odor of the sea on summer nights and the slap of the waves against the bulkhead. The view, on the other hand, is less than spectacular. No glittering skyline. No ladder of bridges. Across the river, the South Bronx is a jumble of low-rise warehouses and isolated tenements. To the left, the many jails of Rikers Island rise into the night. They do glitter, those jails, because the lights are on 24/7. But they somehow lack the panache of Manhattan.
Suddenly I find myself wondering what, if anything, Joanna feels when she undresses for Uncle Mike. Does she pretend she’s somewhere else? With someone else? Uncle Mike is past sixty and Joanna’s still four years short of thirty.
Maybe, I think, I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe she basks in his approval. Maybe she can see it all in his eyes: admiration, gratitude, even worship. Maybe she likes what she sees.
But what I can’t imagine is Joanna being aroused in any way, and I know that sex is a chore that brings out the actress in her. I know that she squeals in the right places, urges him on, groans with delight, screams when he comes. And then she defends herself by saying, I can’t be like you, Jill.
So what am I gonna do? I’m as bad as Paulie now. I can’t get Joanna Kelly out of my mind.
I fall asleep somewhere in the early morning hours and wake up at 8 o’clock when Joanna comes down. She’s wearing a gray terry cloth robe and plaid, down-at-the-heels slippers. No makeup, no jewelry. Maybe this means she’s in a sober mood. For her sake, I hope so.
Without a word, I rise, head upstairs to the bathroom. When I come back down, Joanna’s sitting with her elbows on the table and her chin cupped in her palms. Her eyes flick toward me, then back to the tabletop. “What a mess,” she announces.
The coffeemaker emits a final burst of steam, then goes quiet. I fumble through the cabinets until I find cups and saucers, spoons, and sugar, then set the table. Joanna leans back in the chair and crosses her legs.
“You think about what I told you last night?” I ask as I fill the cups. “That Uncle Mike’s risking your life? Because one of these times, Paulie’s gonna come to kill you. It’s just pure luck that it didn’t happen the last time.”
“Well, that’s what I mean,” Joanna explains, “it’s gotta stop.”
“Maybe it’s gotta stop,” I say, letting the words drop like wet sponges into a dirty sink, “but I’m not gonna be the one to stop it.”
Joanna nods, as if at something she figured out a long time ago. “Tell me what to do.”
I reach down into my pocket for Uncle Mike’s throwaway and Joanna’s .32. I put the throwaway on the table, then eject the .32’s magazine and the round in the chamber. Finally, I hold up the .32.
“Did Uncle Mike give you this weapon?”
“Yeah, for protection.”
“He show you how to use it?”
She takes the .32 from my hand, grasping the butt with two fingers like the weapon is a shit-filled diaper she wants to be rid of in a hurry. “First, you push this thingy here . . .”
Suddenly, I’m tempted to reach across the table, grab a handful of Joanna’s hair, slam my fist into her mouth. Suddenly, I’m Paulie Malone.
“Jill?” Joanna’s lower jaw is hanging open. “It scares me when your face gets like that.”
“Yeah.” I force my shoulders down, take a deep breath. “I was just trying to demonstrate what happens when you get emotional.” I press the automatic’s grip into her palm, force her to grab the handle, flip the safety, curl her index finger through the trigger guard. “I scared you, right?”
“Yeah,” she admits.
“Good. Now point the gun at the center of my chest.”
“What?”
“Do it, Joanna. Point the gun at the center of my chest and pull the trigger.”
She wouldn’t be Joanna if her hand didn’t tremble, if she didn’t say in her precious little-girl voice, “Jill, I can’t.”
“You better. Because if you don’t, I’m gonna kick your Slinky ass from one end of the house to the other.”
Joanna’s pupils go flat, as if they’ve suddenly decided to absorb instead of reflect light. Her mouth tightens into a sneer and she yanks on the trigger.
Clack.
The principle established, I take the .32 back and hold it up for her inspection. “Now, this gun, it’s really small, Joanna. That’s good because it won’t jump out of your hand when you pull the trigger.” My goal is to keep it simple, and I wait until she nods her head. “But it’s bad, too, because one shot won’t necessarily stop a grown man. So what you have to do is center the gun on Paulie’s chest and keep pulling the trigger until it’s empty.”
“How will I know that? I mean, when it’s empty?”
I consider this for a moment, then say, “Put the gun in your mouth and give it one last pull. If you’re still alive, it’s empty.”
“Very funny.” Joanna glances down at her hands. Her mouth works for a moment, before she speaks. “You really think I can do this, Jill?”
“Tell you the truth, Joanna, I don’t see as you have a lot of choice. But you might wanna think about this: If Joanna Kelly shoots Paulie Malone, Uncle Mike’s never gonna be sure that at some point Joanna Kelly won’t shoot Uncle Mike. It’s an
edge you can use to your advantage.”
Joanna thinks it over, then says, “Now I know why they call you Crazy Jill.”
I ignore the comment. “Two things to remember. First, this gun with the tape on it? Put it somewhere close to Paulie’s hand. Second, call Uncle Mike. Not 911. Uncle Mike.”
She looks at me for a second, then mutters, “Uh-huh.”
“Now, I’m going outside to sit in the sun before it gets too hot. If Paulie shows up, I’m not gonna stop him. I’m not even gonna slow him down.”
Joanna’s tongue slides over her lips. She raises her hand and flicks her fingers in a little wave. As I open the door, she finds her voice. “Jill,” she says, breaking into a heartfelt smile, “I just want you to know. If I ever decided to go to bed with a woman, I’d pick you.”
* * *
I expect Paulie to charge up the walk, but when he comes through the gate he’s limping noticeably and his swollen mouth is the color and texture of chocolate cookie dough. Still, his features are twisted with rage and the sledgehammer he grips with his right hand makes his intentions abundantly clear.
By the time he sees me, Paulie’s halfway to the door. He stops abruptly and throws out his chest as though offering a larger target. But when I circle him, heading for the gate, he becomes confused. He glances toward the front door.
“Whadaya doin’?”
“I’m going home, Paulie.” I want to add something about him maybe doing the same thing, but I find that at the moment I don’t care what happens to him. Or to Joanna. I step through the gate, turn right, and start walking. Maybe, I think, I can get away before it happens, though I’m still short of the neighbor’s yard when Paulie crashes the sledgehammer into the front door. A moment later, I hear him shout, his tone still defiant, “What are you gonna do, Joanna? What are you gonna do with that gun? You gonna kill me?”
I count the gunshots, one through nine. They come faster toward the end. Paulie cries out once, early on, a short choking moan that ends almost before it begins. Then silence and, very faintly, the acrid stink of cordite through the open door.
Bye-bye, Paulie.
* * *
I drive to a gas station on College Point Boulevard, pull up at a pay phone at the back. There’s somebody using it, but I don’t mind. I nod to the jerk on the phone when he flashes an apologetic smile. I even thank him when he finally hangs up.
I take my time getting out of the car, searching my pockets for a quarter. I feel there’s no hurry, that Joanna will shut her mouth until Uncle Mike arrives, that Uncle Mike has no choice except to keep me out of it. I punch Joey Kruger’s number into the keypad, wait as it rings three, four, five times. I know Joey’s been working the late tour for the last week and he’s most likely still asleep. I realize, too, that I have no idea what I want Joey to say when he eventually answers. I have no idea until he finally says it.
“Baby,” he whispers, his voice dulled by sleep, “when are you coming over? I’ve been dreaming about your ass all night.”
LAST STOP, DITMARS
BY TORI CARRINGTON
Ditmars
Rule #37 in the P.I. handbook: Never eat where blood’s been spilled.
“I want you to find my husband’s killer.”
I knew what words the woman would say even before she said them. I knew the instant she spotted me, said goodbye to the man she was talking to at the counter of the Acropolis Diner, and headed straight for my table. She was dressed all in black, her mascara smeared because she’d been crying. I figured that since she was only two days into her new role as widow, she was entitled.
I sat back in the booth, considering her where she had taken the seat across from me. I’d also known what she was going to say because I knew her. And had known her husband. Mihalis Abramopoulos had owned and operated the Acropolis Diner on Ditmars Boulevard in Astoria, Queens, for the past thirty years. Ever since he’d come over from Greece in the early ’70s. Not unlike many of Astoria’s Greek population that had been trying to escape military coups and martial law and were looking for a safe environment in which to raise their kids. Hey, my parents had done it in the ’60s, before the colonels had staged a military junta in Greece and taken over control of a country that was still trying to get its shit together after the civil war. I’d been seventeen at the time, but I’m told I still speak like I’d just arrived on the last plane over the Atlantic. Usually after I’ve had one too many glasses of Johnnie Walker Black and was trying to figure out the mystery of my life rather than one of the many cases on my desk back at the agency.
But I’m getting ahead of myself here. My name’s Spyros Metropolis and along with my silent partner, Lenny Nash, I run Spyros Metropolis Private Detective Agency, which is located on Steinway Street halfway between Broadway and Ditmars. While most of my family gravitated toward the Broadway end of Astoria, I preferred Ditmars. Mostly because my family gravitated toward Broadway. I didn’t live in the rooms above the agency, partly because they’d need extensive restoration to make them livable. Mostly because I preferred to keep my business life separate from my personal life.
I eyed the widow across from me. So much for that philosophy.
Then again, being a twice-divorced P.I. with alimony and child support payments, where else was I to take my meals if not a diner?
“My condolences, Kiria Abramopoulos.”
Hermioni blanched, possibly tired of like sentiments even though her husband wouldn’t be lowered into the ground until the day after next, when the M.E. officially released the body. “Can you do it? Find my husband’s killer? I’ll pay your going rate.”
Probably she didn’t know what my going rate was. Probably she would change her mind if I told her. “Kiria Abramopoulos, I’m sure the police will find your husband’s killer.”
And I had every confidence that they would. Not because I was a big fan of the NYPD, but because I used to count myself as one of them.
“The police have their hands full with the blackout. Mikey’s death is a low priority.”
The blackout. Over 100,000 Queens residents had gone without power for almost two weeks, predominantly in the Astoria area. LaGuardia Airport had been closed down, parts of the subway, and even Rikers Island’s jails had to rely on backup power for the duration. Many businesses were forced to close their doors. But the diner had remained open, Mike relying on propane burners and a grill set up out back to offer a short menu of items, and a generator to operate a couple of fans and a cooler.
The blackout had coincided with a heatwave that left residents scrambling to find someplace with air-conditioning or sweating it out. And all my good shirts bore sweat stains to prove it.
Then the night before last, the lights came back on. Revealing Mike Abramopoulos lying on his diner floor in a pool of his own blood. The floor I was looking at filled now with white orthopedic shoes as Petra, the young Albanian waitress I’d come to know since she hired on eight months ago, approached to top off my coffee cup. I noticed her smooth alabaster arms as she poured, as well as her other fine parts; she was a very attractive kid. She asked if Hermioni wanted coffee. The widow waved the girl away.
There had been a rash of restaurant robberies in the Astoria area of late, perhaps blackout-driven, perhaps not. Chances are, Mike was a random victim. Greeks worked hard for their money and were loathe to give it up. Especially to a masked man who would make in two minutes what it had taken the Greek all day to earn. It was the principle of the thing.
It was also what tended to get Greek business owners into heaps of trouble.
Hermioni covered my hand with hers where mine held my coffee cup, a damp Kleenex between her skin and mine. I grimaced and pulled my arm back and pretended to fix the right cuff of my white long-sleeved shirt that I had rolled up to my elbows. My wardrobe was limited to white shirts, plain ties, and dark slacks in the summer, and varied little in the winter except for the addition of a black trenchcoat and hat. My appearance had never been a priority for me b
eyond staying neat. I’d been cursed with a Greek nose that my brother said you could see turning a corner at least half a minute before I did. And the march of time on my hairline couldn’t be stopped with a lifetime supply of minoxidil.
“Please, Spyros. I . . . need to know who killed my husband. I need justice.”
Dishes and silverware clanked where Stamatis, the busboy, cleared the table behind Hermioni. The widow slanted him a glance that told him he could have picked a better time. I agreed. Stamatis ignored us both.
I drew my attention back to Hermioni. “Did Mike have any enemies?”
“No, no.” She smiled feebly. “Aside from me, of course.” An attempt at humor. “But you know I could never do that to him.”
Did I? Over the course of my career, I’d seen a lot of things I’d originally thought were impossible. Learning that Hermioni did away with Mike so she could take over the diner and move in with an Ethiopian half her age would rate somewhere on the less-shocking end.
“So you’ll take the case then?”
I told her my going rate.
I had to give the old gal credit. She didn’t even blink.
“I’ll bring the retainer by the agency this afternoon,” she told me.
My intention had been to scare her away. Instead, I’d just let her in the front door.
* * *
Murder cases didn’t make up a large percentage of my caseload. Mostly because they were best left to the boys in blue and it wasn’t a good idea to get in their way when you were a P.I. But those I had worked had taken a great deal of detective work that rarely included any fancy crime lab results. Fact was, a lot of evidence was contaminated and untraceable. And the results on most of the potential evidence they collected was slow in coming. New York’s forensics labs were so backed up that a suspect on a case stamped low priority could have skipped to a foreign country and started a new family by the time the authorities caught up with him.
New York City Noir Page 100
