by Philip Cox
‘Nothing. He had just knocked me to the ground when this gentleman arrived. Then he ran off.’
‘Where’d he go?’ she asked.
Will pointed up the street. ‘In that direction.’
The woman stepped onto the sidewalk and screamed into the darkness. ‘Bastard!’ She looked down at Will and the man. ‘How far do you have to go, honey?’
The man started to talk, still breathless. ‘Only the next building. I had just parked my car over there and was walking home. He must have been waiting in that alley.’
‘Lying in wait for someone to mug,’ the woman said, hands on her hips. ‘Bastard,’ she repeated.
‘The funny thing is,’ he went on, ‘as he pushed me to the ground he said something about following him. I swear, I’d never seen him before.’
Will said nothing.
‘I’m gonna go indoors and call the cops,’ she said.
‘Don’t bother,’ said the man. ‘I didn’t see his face. Just smelt tobacco.’ He turned to Will. ‘Did you get his face?’
Will paused, feverishly thinking what to say. ‘I caught a brief glimpse of his face, though he was wearing a hood.’
‘Well?’ she asked.
A thought flashed through his mind that if the guy could be arrested for this, then his problems might be solved. ‘He was white. Twenties, I guess. Couple of days’ beard.’
The woman sniffed. ‘Tall? Short? Thin? Fat?’
Will took a breath. ‘Thin. Maybe skinny. Average height.’
‘Jesus,’ she said disdainfully. ‘You know how many guys there are in this neighbourhood answering that description?’
Will shrugged. ‘I can guess.’
‘Was he carrying?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Did he have a gun?’
Will shook his head. ‘No. No gun.’
‘Well, thank the Lord he didn’t have a gun.’ Looking up the street again, she repeated, ‘Bastards!’ She looked down at the two men. ‘You’d better get off home, honey. You got someone there?’
He shook his head as he and Will stood up. ‘No.’
‘It’s okay,’ Will said softly. ‘I’ll see him home.’
She nodded. ‘You’re an angel,’ she said to Will. ‘You take care now, honey,’ she said to the man. ‘Bastards,’ she muttered to herself one more time as she went back inside.
Will’s phone vibrated and rang again. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you home.’
‘I’ll be okay. Don’t you need to get that?’
‘I know who it is. I’ll call back presently.’
‘You from around here?’ the man asked as they walked together up the street.
‘No,’ replied Will. ‘No. I’m from the Village. I was visiting a friend and was on my way home.’
The man seemed surprised. ‘Buddy, you’re going the wrong way if you’re headed back to Manhattan. The subway’s in that direction.’
Will looked around, confused. ‘Oh, yes. All these streets look the same in the dark.’
‘We’re here now,’ said the man stopping outside the next building. He pointed in the other direction. ‘You need to go back that way, take a left down there at 182nd. Next block is Grand Concourse; the subway station’s there.’
‘Right. Thanks. I’ll leave you here, then?’
‘You want to come in for a drink, or a coffee? My way of saying thanks?’
‘I won’t, but thanks for the offer all the same. I really need to get back.’
‘As you wish.’ The man held out his hand. ‘Well, safe trip back. And thanks again…?’
‘Will.’
‘George. Good to know you, Will.’
‘Take it easy, George,’ Will replied and left George climbing up his own steps. He crossed back over Creston and began walking down to 182nd. After a few steps he paused and looked back up the street. No sign of George. No sign of the guy in the hood.
He took out his phone and dialled Chrissy. He would need to give her some kind of explanation and texting would take too long. He knew the conversation would be a difficult one, so thought it best to get it over with.
The line was busy.
TWENTY-THREE
Earlier that evening, Chrissy had thrown her phone down on the sofa. It was gone nine thirty, and Will was not responding to her texts or calls. The last she had heard from him was that he had been delayed. What the hell did that mean? Will was normally scrupulous about keeping her informed about his ETA home, and if he would be later than expected. He was not the sort of guy to stop off at a bar on the way home, so where had he gotten to? Louise was asleep; there had been no sounds coming from Jake’s room for some time, so he had probably gone to sleep too. It was so unlike Will not to get home in time to say good night to them, or at least to Louise. If he was going to be home that late, then he would say good night to her over the phone.
Strangely, Chrissy felt guilty. Guilty because she knew she should be feeling worried, but instead she felt angry at him. Maybe slightly worried, but angry as he was keeping her waiting. Being inconsiderate.
She picked up her phone. One person might know where Will was. She speed dialled a number.
‘Hey Chrissy,’ came Dan’s voice. ‘What’s up?’
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m at home. With Jia,’ he added.
‘Is Will with you?’
‘Will? No. Just the two of us. Nice and cosy.’
‘He’s not gotten home yet. When did he leave work?’
‘Don’t remember the exact time. Just before I did, and I’ve been home ages.’
‘He sent me a text a while ago, saying he had been held up, and would be home later. What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s seeing another woman.’
‘Dan, that’s not funny. I’m worried.’
‘Sorry.’
Chrissy could hear muffled voices in the background. Dan was explaining what was going on to Jia. ‘Does he have a separate work cell?’
‘No, neither of us does.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘He’s nearly two hours overdue. I’m going to call the police. Something must have happened to him on the way home.’
‘Maybe you should -’ Dan was stopped mid-sentence as Jia took his phone from him.
‘Chrissy, honey,’ Jia asked, ‘is this true? Will’s not gotten home?’
‘No, he hasn’t. He should have been back nearly two hours ago. Jia, I’m really worried. He’s never done this before.’
‘Chrissy, if it was me and Dan hadn’t gotten back, I would call the police by now.’
‘What will they do? Call the hospitals? Oh my God…’
‘Chrissy, calm down. You don’t know that yet. Hang up here, take a deep breath and call the police. If you need one of us to look after Jake and Louise, just let us know. No, I’m going to come round now.’
‘It’s all right, thanks. Well, at the moment it is. Let me give him till… another half hour, and then I’ll call the police. Then… wait up: there’s a text coming through.’ Chrissy could see from the little toolbar on her phone who was sending her the text. ‘It’s from Will. Look, I’ll call you back once I’ve read what he says.’
‘See?’ Jia said. ‘I told you not to worry. He’s on his way home now. Give him hell when he gets back.’
‘Give him hell?’ Chrissy replied. ‘I’ll damn well kill him.’
*****
Typical, Will thought. She keeps calling or texting, but when I call back, the line’s busy. He sent a quick text: finally on way back from bronx, long story, tell you when I get back, put the phone away, and walked south down Creston. He had mixed feelings: he felt frustrated at getting this far and losing the guy who must come from this neighbourhood. Relieved that he was not the one who was assaulted. It was obvious poor George was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then there was the guilt, and plenty of it. Guilt that somebody else suffered as a result of what Will was doing; guilt
about what he was putting his family through; Chrissy must be worried sick.
As he reached the corner of Creston and 182nd, Will paused one last time and looked up the street. No sign of anyone. He wondered where the man in the hood was: did he actually live on Creston and was safe indoors, at home? Or had he disappeared into the darkness of the streets ahead - 183rd, 185th, whatever was up there?
Or was he, still hiding in the many dark doorways, still watching and following Will?
He recalled something the woman up the street had said: thank the Lord he didn’t have a gun.
That was something Will had not factored in: he had not even considered the possibility that he might have been armed. He did not own a firearm himself, but he was aware that in New York City, possession of a handgun without a permit is a felony, but that was rarely a deterrent.
Despite the warm night, Will shivered and hurried back to the subway station.
TWENTY-FOUR
Chrissy was already in bed when Will finally arrived home. The downstairs lights were on, but the rooms empty. He could hear the television in their bedroom playing some chat show. Will did a tour of downstairs, checking and double checking the doors and windows. He switched on the back yard light and peeped out of the window. The yard was clear. He switched off the lights, took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. Before he faced Chrissy, he looked in on Jake and Louise: both were asleep.
As soon as he stepped into the bedroom Chrissy threw the TV remote at him. She remained sitting up in bed, arms folded, staring at the television.
Will picked up the remote. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘You know what. Where the hell have you been? We’ve all been worried sick.’
‘Both of them? What did you tell them?’
‘I don’t mean them. Louise was already asleep when you said you’d be late, and Jake - well, he’s been in his room all evening. He doesn’t even know you were late.’
‘Who do you mean then?’
‘I had to call Dan and Jia. I had no idea where you were.’
‘So why call them?’
‘I thought Dan might know where you had gone.’
‘He wouldn’t have known.’
‘He didn’t. Jia even offered to come round here to sit with me.’
‘Why?’
‘Think about it. You might have been lying in some ER somewhere. Next time you decide to go bar hopping after work, do me the courtesy of letting me know.’
‘I haven’t been bar hopping.’
‘So where’d you go?’ She waved her hand dismissively and returned her gaze to the television. ‘Forget it: I don’t care.’
Will sat down on the bed. ‘Just listen to where I’ve been.’
He started to relay the tale, from spotting the guy in the hood outside the house, to his meeting with George up in the Bronx. As he related that evening’s events, Chrissy’s stare gradually moved from Jimmy Fallon to Will, as she listened open-mouthed. Once he had finished she shook her head and sat back, arms folded.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she said. ‘You always were in the 40-watt club, but this just about takes the cake.’
Will took a deep breath, preparing himself for the onslaught.
‘Let me get this straight,’ she continued, turning the television volume down. ‘You get home, you see the same man, or who you think is the same man who murdered some poor schmuck in the men’s room, waiting outside our house. Where your children are sleeping. Rather than call 911, you decide to follow him, to chase him. You follow him all the way up to the Bronx. You want to tell me how well you know the Bronx?’
Will shook his head. ‘Not well, I admit.’
‘You follow this killer on the subway to a part of the city you don’t know. In the dark. What were you expecting to find?’
‘Well,’ he stammered, ‘where the guy came from.’
‘And what were you going to do then? Make a citizen’s arrest? Jesus!’
‘Once I found out where he lived, I was going to call the cops.’
‘But instead you got some other guy hurt.’
‘He wasn’t hurt; he was just shaken up, that’s all.’
‘That’s not the point, Will.’
‘I know. I -’
‘What if he had been injured, or worse? What if this guy you followed had been armed? What if this passerby had gotten shot? Would you have wanted that on your conscience? Because it would have been your fault, Will.’
All the time Chrissy was talking, Will sat on the bed, listening and nodding. ‘I know. I -’
‘And what if you had been shot, killed? Where would that have left us? Louise without a father at five.’
Will took a deep breath and rubbed his face. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
Chrissy’s tone mellowed slightly. ‘You just didn’t think. You never do. I keep telling you, time and time again, not to get involved in other people’s shit.’
‘But it’s not other people’s.’
‘It isn’t now. It’s our shit now. This guy knows where we live, he knows you know what he looks like. Where does that leave us all now? Why in the name of God didn’t you call 911? Maybe the police could have gotten the guy out there, on the street.’
Will remained contrite. ‘I’ll call the police in the morning. At least they know what part of the city to look for them, and I can give them a better description than the one they have right now.’
Chrissy switched off the television and turned on her side, her back to Will. ‘Make sure you do. If you don’t, I will.’
Will sighed and stood up. He went back downstairs and checked the doors and windows again. Made sure that the outside lights front and back were still on. He pulled a yellow post-it from the pad in the kitchen, scribbled intruder alarm, and stuck it on the coffee machine. Checked everywhere one more time, looking out of a window this time. Once had got back upstairs, he checked in on Louise and Jake and their bedroom windows, and went to the bathroom, checking the window there too.
Back in the bedroom, he quietly undressed for bed. Chrissy had already switched off her bedside lamp; Will got in next to her and switched off his. Chrissy stirred slightly as he settled down. Will turned on his side so he faced Chrissy’s back. He moved a few inches closer so they were touching. As soon as they made contact he hardened against her. Feeling him, Chrissy fidgeted away.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she mumbled. ‘Putz.’
Will edged away and turned onto his other side. He lay in the dark, thinking. She was right: it was a dumb thing to do. He should have just called the cops. He might have ended up the same way as poor George, or worse. First thing in the morning, he would call those two detectives. What were their names? Roberts and Alvarez. At least now they would have a better description and know which neighbourhood to search. They might even know the guy already.
He massaged his pillow and settled down in a foetal position, arms around his chest. He closed his eyes. Chrissy was right: he was a putz.
TWENTY-FIVE
Detective Eric Alvarez was combing his hair in their bedroom when he heard his wife in the kitchen. Or rather, when he heard the sound of crockery breaking. He quickly finished off and hurried to her aid.
‘You okay, babe?’ he asked, crouching down to pick up the broken pieces of cup.
‘I could have managed,’ his wife said indignantly. She had been leaning down to pick up the pieces; now Eric was on the scene she sat back in her wheelchair.
Alvarez stood up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said sadly, dropping the crockery into the trashcan. ‘It’s just…’
She wheeled the chair around him and over to the sink. ‘I can manage, you know.’
‘I know. Sorry.’ He leaned against the stove. ‘What have you got on today?’
‘Not much. Have some work to finish off from yesterday. Alexis is coming round for coffee then she’s taking me to the mall. What time do you expect to be back?’
‘About six, I guess, unless anything unexpected crops up.�
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‘Pasta okay for dinner?’
‘Mm. Great. My favourite, you know that,’ he replied. He paused a beat, kissed his wife on the forehead. ‘Have to go now. Have a good day, mi cariño.’
‘You too,’ she said back, steering her wheelchair after him as he walked over to the door. She sat in the open doorway, watching him as he walked over to the car, and got in. She was still watching as he backed off the driveway and into the road, waving one more time as he pulled away.
Alvarez returned the wave and smiled as he moved off: a sincere and happy smile, but one tinged with sadness. He and Elena had been together six years now, married for four of them. Both were as deeply in love with each other as they had been when they first met, but Eric’s sadness was for how things might have been different. It never seemed to bother her, at least not outwardly, and she rarely spoke of it; when she did, it was in a matter of fact fashion. But Eric just could not believe or accept how one person could be cursed with so much bad fortune. When he did try to discuss it with Elena, she would always say that the good fortune she had by meeting him would always outweigh the bad luck fate had had in store for her.
Eric was her second husband. Her first worked in the financial district - he could never understand exactly what the guy actually did - for a company based on the 95th floor of the North Tower. He was in the office when the Boeing 767-223ER of American Airlines Flight 11 slammed into the building. Elena was three months pregnant at the time; she lost the baby three months later. Subsequently she was told she could never have children. Happiness of a sort seemed to return when she and Eric got together; until she was hit by a van three blocks from home. The driver was DUI and received a fifteen year sentence. That was two years ago, and she had been in the wheelchair ever since. The insurance settlement paid for them to relocate from their third floor condo in Manhattan to their single storey house in Newark, with the hand rails and bars and ramps out front and back. Eric never ceased to be amazed and full of admiration for the stoic way she handled things: in the early days, she told Eric to leave her, to go find a woman who could walk and have children. He of course refused; he could never do that. He had never strayed either; he just accepted his lot, and was prepared to wait until the driver got out of jail…
