2 Grand Delusion

by Matt Witten

  10

  "Thanks," I said, when my voice returned.

  "Yeah, yeah, I'm a damn idiot. Just don't tell the chief, he'll can my ass in a second. Be fifteen years' pension shot to shit, and I'm still not sure you didn't do it."

  "I'm sure."

  He grunted and turned right on Washington, toward the West Side and home. I started breathing a little more normally.

  "So who do you think did do it?" I asked. "If it wasn't me, that is." Personally, my money was still on Tony, but I kept that to myself.

  Instead of answering, Dave asked, "How about offering a reward?"

  I snorted. "You mean like O.J. did? Or JonBenet Ramsey's parents? If I offer a reward, it'll just make me look even guiltier."

  Dave nodded thoughtfully and chewed on his lips as we drove past the Grand Hotel. I noticed a couple of construction trucks and a big sign: currently under renovation. It sure hadn't taken them long to get started.

  Meanwhile Dave was silent for so long I wondered if he'd forgotten my question. But at last he said, "The truth? About who killed Pop? Could've been a lot of people."

  "Like who?"

  We turned onto Elm. The media types were still off at dinner. We parked in front of Dave's house, and he lit a cigarette. "I didn't know you smoked," I said.

  "I don't." He took a deep drag. "Look, do you know how many houses Pop owns—owned—on the West Side?"

  I added them up in my head. "Four?"

  "No. Seven. And three of them have crack dealers for tenants. Far as I can tell, there's no other dealers on the entire West Side. Interesting, huh?"

  It took a moment, but then I caught on. "So you're telling me the dealers who rented from Pop got a break? Like, bribing him for protection was part of the rent?"

  "No, I'm not telling you that. I'm a cop. I would never say something like that about a fellow cop." He flicked an ash into the tray. "You, on the other hand, can say anything you want."

  All my available brain cells raced into action. This would explain what Pop was doing at Zapper's house that night: collecting his payoff money.

  And it could explain some other things, too. My head swam with possibilities. Say Pop and Zapper got into an argument—maybe Zapper didn't have the money ready. Pop gets pissed, and pops Zapper one. Zapper screams. Pop pops him again.

  Just like me, Pop figures out that musclebound Zapper is really nothing but a scared punk. So he has fun with him. Only Pop makes a big mistake: He gets careless with his gun. Zapper grabs it—

  Dave was talking again. "Now Pop's other houses, well, one of them has three girls living there. With a wide variety of men stopping by for about thirty minutes at a time, if you catch my drift."

  "You're kidding. I didn't know Saratoga was big enough to have prostitutes."

  "They're the only ones I know of in the whole town."

  "Interesting. Another monopoly."

  "Right. And then Pop owned another house where trucks pull up at strange hours of the night and load and unload boxes."

  "So that makes five crooked houses so far."

  "Right again. As for houses six and seven, your guess is as good as mine. Who knows, they might even be kosher. Though I doubt it."

  "Can I bum a cigarette?" I asked.

  "I didn't know you smoked."

  "I don't." He gave me a cigarette and we went through the lighting ritual. I took a drag and felt the nicotine go to my head, reminding me of my younger days. Then I asked, "Have you done anything about all this?"

  His voice took on a mock-formal tone. "I reported all suspicious activities to the foot patrolman responsible for the area."

  "In other words, to Pop."

  "Correct. When he failed to act, I spoke to the lieutenant in charge of the Investigative Division."

  Lieutenant Foxwell. "What did he do?"

  "He also failed to act. So I went to the chief."

  We sat in the dark car smoking. "Let me guess. He didn't do shit."

  "No, he did do shit. He reprimanded me for making scattershot accusations of my fellow men in blue. Said I was obviously just jealous that Pop got the community patrol job and I didn't. Then he informed me my behavior was bad for department morale, and I better shut up and walk straight or I was history." Dave coughed. "I hate cigarettes," he said, and put his out in the ashtray.

  I put mine out, too. Babe Ruth—I mean, Leonardo—knew that cigarettes kill people, and if I took up smoking again, he'd freak. "So the chief and the lieutenant were getting a piece of Pop's action, huh?"

  "I would never say something like that about a fellow cop—"

  "Yeah, I get the picture. But then who do you think killed Pop? Was it Zapper? Or some other sleazy tenant?"

  "That's one possibility." Something about the way Dave said this made me stare sharply at him. His face had twisted into a sarcastic grimace with curled lips and bitter eyes. I didn't get it. What was that look saying? What was I missing?

  Then his face changed again. It filled with fear.

  "Dave—"

  "Shh! Under here!" he barked out, and threw a coat on top of me. I wondered if he'd gone loony toons all of a sudden, but as I started to remove the coat I spied a cop car approaching on my right. I ducked back under the coat and slumped down as low as I could while the car pulled up alongside.

  Dave rolled down his window. "How's it going, big guy?" he asked.

  "Just cruising," the other cop said, with a familiar, hateful drawl. It was Manny Cole, the cop with the busted nose who had almost gouged my eyeballs out. "They let that cop-killing bastard out of jail today."

  "Yeah, I heard," Dave answered.

  "Fucking pathetic. We're gonna keep an eye on him, drive by his house a hundred times a day. We catch him intimidating witnesses, drinking beer on his porch, hell, we even catch him jaywalking, we'll throw his sorry ass back in jail, keep him there this time."

  "Sounds good. I'll look out the front window of my house, see if I can nail him at something."

  There was a hard edge in Cole's voice as he said, "Good man. I told the chief we could count on you."

  "Damn straight."

  "Yeah, I told him, I don't care what color the man's skin is, he's still a team player."

  "We're all wearing blue, my man."

  Finally Cole drove on. When he turned left and disappeared, Dave said, "Get out of the car."

  I opened the door, then paused. "Look, what did you mean before by 'That's one possibility'? What are you hiding from me?"

  "Get out already. He might turn around and come back."

  Good point. I jumped out of the car and headed across the street. Then Dave called out, "Listen, Jacob."

  I turned. "Yeah?"

  "Just so we're clear. If we ever get in a situation where it's my ass or yours . . ."

  I nodded. "It's mine. Thanks for the tip," I said, and walked back to my house.

  When I came in the front door, Andrea looked like she didn't know whether to hug me or wring my neck.

  "I thought you were just going on a little walk! You've been gone more than an hour!" she snapped. The boys were quarreling loudly in the other room about who got to play with their favorite Donatello action figure. "We've been waiting dinner for you. The kids are starving. Where the hell were you?"

  "I was just stretching my legs and airing my brain. After all that time in jail, I needed it."

  She glowered at me. "You're lying, aren't you?"

  I was the picture of innocence. "What do you mean?"

  "You were out somewhere playing Colombo!"

  "Hey—"

  "Look, the last time you played this game, you almost got yourself killed! Don't be stupid, let Malcolm do his job! Isn't it bad enough that you . . ."

  She paused. And it hit me like a five-ton weight: Maybe what she wanted to say was, Isn't it bad enough that you killed Pop?!

  "Isn't it bad enough that you beat up Pop in the first place?" she said.

  I took a deep breath, as the five tons fell awa
y from me. I wondered, should I tell my faithful wife what was really going on?

  No—there was nothing she could do to stop me, and it would just make her worry even harder.

  I touched her arm and looked earnestly into her eyes. "Andrea, I just needed to go for a walk. That's all. You don't know what it's like, being caged up for two whole days."

  She fell for it. Immediately contrite, she threw her arms around me. "I'm sorry, honey. Wait 'til you see dinner. I made you salmon, artichokes, and fresh cornbread."

  I felt like a jerk for making Andrea believe my lies. But all I said was "Mmm."

  And there, at least, I was being truthful. Dinner was mmm in the first degree. After the kids got food into them, they were on their best behavior, and we had a pleasant evening playing with Ninja Turtles, drawing Ninja Turtles, and wrestling like Ninja Turtles.

  My sons' fascination with the Turtles could be wearying. But on the positive side, I had to admit those pizza-loving amphibians were definitely cool—much cooler than all the other protectors of the universe that have come along since then. You can tell just from the names. I mean, who would you rather have saving the world: "X-Men," "Power Rangers," "Beetle Borgs," or "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles"? Clearly there's no contest. Turtle power forever!

  It was a surprisingly peaceful night, largely because Andrea had changed our phone number and kept it unlisted to ward off Hollywood agents, media mugwumps, and other undesirables. I decided not to let my father and siblings know our new number until tomorrow or the next day. Hopefully, by then I'd have the energy to talk to them.

  We let the kids stay up late, so when Andrea and I finally hit the sack I was dog tired. I hadn't slept much in jail, and I wasn't really in the mood for lovemaking, I just wanted to be held.

  Or so I thought. After a few minutes of being held, I started feeling differently. We made love for a long time, first with great gentleness but then fiercely, as though we were trying to break through all the anger and guilt that had arisen between us.

  I didn't want it to ever end. I wanted to be inside Andrea, safe and loved, for the rest of my life.

  But that was impossible, of course. After we finished making whoopee, despite my wild raw emotions I fell asleep instantly.

  And woke up with a start at four a.m.

  No, for once it wasn't the neighbors waking me up, or gunshots either. It was a nightmare, about being stuck in a deep muddy swamp and thrashing around like crazy but sinking lower and lower into the goo. I called out desperately to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to save me.

  Sure enough, a giant Turtle did rise up out of the muck, but he looked suspiciously like Chief Walsh, with gray eyes and distinguished silver hair above his green Turtle nose. He saw me sinking into the goo and laughed. Then his face transformed into a regular snapping turtle without any hair, but with teeth as big as an alligator's. He snapped his iron jaws at me, making a deep BOOM sound like someone beating a drum. I flailed my arms wildly, struggling to escape the mud, but I just got stuck even worse. All I could do was watch in terror as the snapping turtle crawled closer, working his huge jaws and BOOM BOOM BOOMING until he was just inches away and I woke up, damp with sweat, and realized it was my own fiercely beating heart I'd been listening to.

  I lay in bed for a while with my nerves all jangled up until I figured out there'd be no more sleep for me tonight. Then I put on my jacket and headed outside. It was still dark. Good—I didn't want any cruising cops or news hounds to spot me.

  It was freezing cold, the coldest it had been since last March, so I stuffed my hands in my pockets as I walked briskly toward Tony's house. In the moonlight, I saw the rusty nails on his porch and stepped around them.

  Was the crack-fueled orgy still going on, or was everyone postcoital and mellow? Only one way to find out. I tried the door but it was still locked. So I lifted up the window, hopped over the sill into the putrid-smelling living room—

  And immediately tripped over Tony's mom's nude body.

  Damn! Why does it always have to be me finding the dead bodies?

  I bent over her but didn't hear any breathing. I put my hand on her neck but didn't feel any pulse. I gave her a little kick in the gut.

  "Ugh," she said, then went back to sleep.

  Thank God. I left her lying there and did reconnaissance in the rest of the house, stepping softly in case Eye Patch and Gunman were still in residence. But I didn't see them. No Tony, either.

  I went back to the living room and shook Tony's mom on the shoulder, averting my eyes from her emaciated-looking breasts. She didn't move, so I shook harder; still nothing. Then I went back to my old standby and kicked her gently in the gut. She went back to her old standby, saying "Ugh" and falling back asleep. But this time she threw in a new twist: While she was sleeping, she puked on the rug.

  Call me heartless if you want, but I kicked her yet again. At last she opened her eyes slightly.

  "Where's Tony?" I asked.

  "Hell should I know?" she mumbled, and fell back asleep. I slapped her face. Her eyes reopened, a tad wider this time, but still zonked-looking.

  I put my face close to hers, hoping she wouldn't throw up again. "When did you last see him?"

  "Who?"

  "Tony."

  "Why you want him?" A hint of craftiness crept into her hollow eyes. Now that she was opening her mouth more, her breath almost knocked me out—a fascinating combo of puke, potato chips, and rotten teeth. "You a fucking pervert?"

  How sweet. She was actually showing some protective maternal instincts. Would wonders never cease?

  I tried to act very matter of fact, as if reasoning with a drugged-out, depraved sicko was no big deal to me. "Mrs. Martinelli," I said, moving even closer, but wrinkling my nose so I wouldn't breathe in too much of her decay, "your son is in big trouble."

  She gave me a perplexed look, and I reminded myself to speak in short, simple sentences. "Someone may be trying to hurt him. He may have witnessed a murder." And he may have committed a murder, I thought, but didn't say it out loud. "I need to know where he is. I want to help him." And myself.

  Tony's mom lay there for a while opening and closing her jaw. I thought she was trying to say something, but then vomit came forth and spilled on her chin.

  I looked around in the darkness for something to clean her off with. I found an old one-eared stuffed bunny rabbit, and used the ear to wipe her. Some of the puke had dribbled off of her chin onto the top of her breast. I gingerly wiped that, too.

  She opened her mouth again. I stepped back, expecting more puke. But this time she said, "Cemetery."

  "Cemetery?!" Jesus, was the kid dead? Had he died while I was in jail, and no one even told me?!

  "Sleeps there . . . sometimes," Mrs. Martinelli said weakly, using every last bit of her strength getting those three words out.

  I eyed her in disgust. How could she let her young son go sleep in the cemetery while she sat around getting high?

  She seemed to know what I was thinking, and she looked up at me from the floor. It was a look that if you painted it everyone would say it was brilliant, and it would be displayed prominently in some big-city museum—but nobody would ever in a million years want it on their living room wall. Her look was composed of equal parts guilt, fear, exhaustion, and an overwhelming sorrow. Like she knew she was a shitty mother and a shitty person to boot, and she hated it, but she also knew she could never change it.

  Then she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  I tore the puke-covered ear off the bunny and threw it in the overflowing garbage can. I found a towel on top of the refrigerator that was only partly dirty, and draped it over Mrs. Martinelli's thin breasts.

  Then I stepped out the door and headed for the cemetery.

  11

  The historic Gideon Putnam Burial Ground is Saratoga Springs's oldest cemetery. If it were located on the East Side, it would be a major tourist attraction. Since it's not, it isn't.

  But even though the city sp
ends virtually no money on upkeep—or maybe because of that—the cemetery has a wonderful disheveled charm. When you push aside the overgrown weeds and read the crumbling gravestones, the names instantly transport you back to an earlier time: "Hosea Samuel Prescott" . . . "Hester Eliza Budd." My personal favorite is "Edward Augustus Rutledge," a Baptist minister who shot himself at the Adirondack Springs Hotel in 1846. Now he's buried across the street from Rite-Aid.

  Sometimes I cut through the cemetery on my way to town in the morning. If it's before eight o'clock I usually come across a derelict or two curled up asleep, using a gravestone for shelter from the wind. By eight-thirty or nine, you can generally find the derelicts sitting propped up against the stones, having their first cigarette of the day, or their first drink. I guess these were the same folks who would be sleeping at the Grand Hotel, once it got renovated.

  Right now it was a little before five, still dark, and even colder than before. The wind knifed right through my denim jacket. I walked from one corner of the cemetery to the other without spotting Tony or anyone else. I guess the derelicts had felt the weather turning last night, and found shelter indoors.

  The wind was attacking the trees, and leaves were committing hari-kari all around me. Shivering, I crisscrossed the cemetery twice more with no luck. The sky was slowly lightening. It looked like Tony's mom was wrong—the only people here were the dead ones.

  Unless . . .

  Old Gideon Putnam himself was buried atop the highest hill in the cemetery, in a large family plot surrounded by a ten-foot-high stone wall. There was a locked gate that I'd tried to get through once and found impossible. But had Tony, petty criminal that he was, somehow found a way to break in?

  I walked up the hill and peered through the gate. I didn't see anyone, but maybe Tony was huddled against a wall out of view. I rattled, pushed, and pulled the gate, then gave up on that and circumnavigated the wall in search of a decent foothold. But there were none; the wall was made of smooth stone, and impregnable. No way Tony could have climbed in. I took one last look through the gate and started to leave.

  But then the wind let up for a moment and I heard a tiny noise coming from inside the Putnam family plot, a repetitive click click click. It was so faint that at first I wasn't even sure I was hearing it. Click click click. What was that, anyway? Just a trapped leaf flicking against a tombstone, or something else?