I lit a cigarette before getting out of the car. A man emerged from the doorway, blinking in the late afternoon sunshine. I couldn't explain why I was watching the house. I didn't expect to find any evidence or suspects. I guess I just wanted to see myself here. To walk through the door that'd been haunting my dreams. I took a deep drag on the cigarette, exhaled and step out onto the street. Six or seven young males— they look too full of hate to be called boys—were leaning on a car parked near the doorway. They frowned at me and stared as if their eyes were lumps of cold glass. One of them, he couldn't be more than ten, threw a cigarette down and spat. I'd be mad too if this was my home, this dirty, dangerous block where no one cares. I'd probably hate everything.
But just then, it was mostly me they hated, and they weren't interested in my pity. They read through my jeans and my Phillies T-shirt. They knew I was a cop.
I entered the doorway. This time it wasn't a dream. After stopping a moment in front of the elevator, I walked toward the staircase. The smell of piss hit my nose, and a visual memory of that night—the fat guy lying there—flashed through my mind. I climbed a flight and a half and crouched down at the spot below the second floor landing, to contemplate the dirty, smudged steps. It was hard to tell which one of the dark stains in the concrete was from my blood. An old man walked out of a second floor apartment. He shuffled over to the elevator. Maybe he had called the police. This shuffling old man could have saved my life.
I stayed there for a while, hunched over my dried blood—or maybe it was just an old pool of piss. Nothing happened. I think I was expecting to discover something, or at least trigger some kind of emotional reaction, but all I felt was a slight tremble in my weary thighs. I still wasn't up to full strength. I stood, clumsily, and slowly walked downstairs. Did I get what I was looking for? Did I find some answer? I don't even know what the question was.
One of the kids was leaning over my car. He was probably only about sixteen, but he was big, with weight lifter's muscles bulging on his bare back. And he was doing something to my windshield wiper. He ignored me and continued trying to work my wiper blade loose. I had no gun. I acted like I didn't see him as I got into the car and opened the glove compartment. Now I had a gun and I liked it. I glanced to my left and saw the rest of the crew, still leaning against the car across the street and watching to see what would happen. With my right hand on the steering wheel, I leaned my head out the driver's side window and let my left arm hang straight down toward the ground.
"Hey son, why don't you clean it off and check the oil while you're there?"
He cursed and I slowly lifted my left arm up, so the gun I was holding was pointed at his chest. He smirked at the weapon, then looked at my eyes. Something he saw there made him freeze. The wiper snapped back against the windshield.
I gave the gang across the street one more quick look, then floored it. The guy had good reflexes and he jumped away in time to avoid being hit. I heard his startled cry then an angry curse as I barreled down the block.
It was only later, when I could no longer see the guy in the mirror and I was stuck in traffic on Main, that I began to wonder why I hadn't been afraid. I didn't experience the usual creeping anxiety, the heart-stopping fear. It didn't even bother me that I was dealing with a kid. The only feeling I had was the certainty that I would shoot.
CHAPTER 6
Noise: Music, feminine laughter, masculine shouting, all louder than necessary, all in competition. The men's shouts show that they're in charge, and they can do what they like—at least here in this club near the corner of Market Street. The women's laughter advertises that they are available to those who know their language. It makes it clear that they are women—at least here near the corner of Market they are.
One of these women might be Gladys Ferrow. She has several arrests for prostitution. She is thirty-six, younger than Celia. According to her file, she used to frequent this dive.
Arany stops at the door for a moment as his eyes get used to the semi-darkness and his ears adjust to the waves of noise. Then he walks quickly up to the bar. He doesn't want to stand there calling unnecessary attention to himself.
"Bourbon," he says. He shoves his hand into his pocket.
The bartender glances at him, turns away and takes down a bottle.
"How do you take it?"
"With two fingers whiskey, two fingers soda, ice …" he took his hand out of his pocket, showing a loosely crumpled twenty in his fist "and an answer."
"I just serve drinks."
"I want a special drink, that's all. I can pay."
The bartender puts back the bottle and grabs another one. He tips it upside down and lets the whiskey fall into a double shot glass until it's just about to overflow, then deftly dumps the shot into a glass containing a couple lumps of ice.
"Get lost, Nick," he says, looking behind Arany's left shoulder. "We're having a chat, this gentleman and me."
While he squirts soda into the glass, the bartender casually tosses a drink coaster so that it lands right in front of Arany. Then he puts the drink down and wipes the bar clean at the same time.
Arany nods in deference to the snappy service.
"Thanks. For handling Nick, that is."
The bartender shrugs. "The question?"
"Gladys Ferrow." Arany sips his drink, rests his elbow on the bar and half turns around to look the room over. The regulars ignore him, Arany can't decide which one might be Nick.
The bartender shrugs his narrow shoulders again.
Arany sighs and empties his glass.
"She's in her forties. Seen better days. Kind of droopy tits and a big ass …" he thinks a minute. "She has bad teeth."
The bartender half shrugs and makes a sweeping gesture with one hand that indicates the room behind Arany.
"Take your pick. I'm not sure about their teeth, though."
Arany looks confused for a second, then begins to laugh. He shakes his head and hands over the twenty. "You win."
The bartender takes the note and studies it like he's never seen one before. He suddenly grins at Arany, but instead of making the man more appealing, the smile actually detracts from his looks. His teeth are uglier than Gladys Ferrow's.
"You'd probably do better in the Rumball. Five blocks down and to the right."
The money disappears—and so does the smile.
"But I'd watch out if I was you. That hole doesn't have the kind of family atmosphere you find here."
Arany drives by the Rumball once without slowing down, because he isn't sure where he is. The second time around he rolls past slowly, watching the whores, pimps, drunks, drug addicts and other characters on this crowded and uninviting block.
On his third lap he parks across the street from the bar. He doesn't feel like going in. He feels like smoking. He lights a cigarette, the second one today, rolls the window down a couple of inches and blows the smoke through the crack.
Dusk is settling on the city, and it's dark enough to make the Rumball's neon light stand out: A pink outline of a nude woman lying on her side; then the sign blinks, the outline changes and the woman is leaning against her elbow, half propped up, and winking an eye.
Arany blows smoke toward the neon woman through the opening of the window. He is seized again by a strange weakness. He feels giddy and sees the neon woman quivering. He runs his hand across his forehead. He thinks the neon girl smiled at him. Then he sees Celia. He sees her face. He sees her long thighs, or the way he's imagined them God knows how many times while looking at her thick, conservative skirts. Dr. Allesandro, the woman who loves her aging husband, who loves a genius.
He staggers as he gets out and has to lean against the car for a moment to get himself straight. I'll get a shot tomorrow he thinks, and just thinking about it makes him feel calmer. He walks toward the entrance of the club and is confronted by a hefty young bouncer wearing a blazer and a turtleneck. The man's hair is cropped short, which makes his head look like it comes to a point. He sta
nds with his feet far apart, his hands hanging at his sides and his broad shoulders in the relaxed posture of an experienced fighter.
Arany imagines himself giving this man a vicious kick to the groin. He remembers from his lessons at the Academy that this move is more difficult than most people think, so he has never been tempted to try it. He has to be careful to not telegraph his intentions, even with his eyes. Then he wonders why he was so eager to kick the man and tries to calm himself.
He forces his feet to stay still, only moving one hand to flash his badge. "I'm looking for a guy," he says.
"He's not here."
Arany feels the urge to kick growing stronger. "His name is Ferrow. One ear is missing."
"Sorry, friend. We don't let anybody in with only one ear. A house rule, you know."
Shadows move behind Arany. And he kicks. He kicks with a practiced, sly motion, his instep striking the bouncer's groin with brutal effectiveness. Without waiting for the bouncer's reaction, Arany spins around. The gun is in his hand, as if thrown there by the centrifugal force of his turning body. Arany is now facing two other pumped-up young giants. They stand there, staring at the weapon as if they'd seen one before.
The bouncer who was now half behind and half to the right of Arany hasn't moved. Arany is wondering if the kick had been too weak, but the man bends double at last with a frightening whine.
"Police," says Arany. His voice sounds amazingly calm—even to himself. The bouncer falls down like a rag doll and lies there, a big, moaning heap on the pavement. Arany walks around him, pushes aside the thick curtains and enters the club. Dim, multicolored lights provide the only illumination in the oblong room. There are three rows of tables separating Arany from the bar, which is at the far end of the room and has a huge mirror behind it. The barmaid looks surprisingly young, fresh and pretty from where Arany stands. He walks along the narrow corridor behind the middle row of tables so he can see everyone. He walks with a gun in his right hand and with his badge lifted high up in his left. Maybe these things will give him some kind of protection, even in this place.
Gladys Ferrow was in bed with Frost when Carl broke the door in. Arany can clearly remember every wrinkle on her body, which was on the way to becoming fat. He can picture her face, which isn't pretty anymore, or maybe never had been. He's staring at her in his mind. Then he's staring at her in the bar. She wears an exotic and daring red suit, half of it mesh, to reveal her skin. It's the kind of attire that a much younger, much slimmer woman might be able to get away with. And there's the bag in front of her on the table, doubtless it contains the folding knife and the can of mace.
She's alone. Maybe waiting for somebody, maybe expecting Frost, or some other Prince Charming. But it's Arany who arrives instead. Poor Gladys Ferrow: It's always the wrong man.
She recognizes the cop, her face shows fear, confusion then resignation. She stands up, her glance lingering on the three empty glasses on the table.
Arany pockets his badge and produces some money. He throws the bills uncounted onto the table and reaches his hand hesitantly toward her.
He doesn't have to touch her. She walks obediently in front of him, through the door and past the bouncer, who has struggled to his feet and is bent over by the entrance. A small crowd has gathered around the big man, but they just give Arany some dark looks as he passes.
Arany opens the car door, and lets her in. He wonders where he's going. He isn't sure, but he knows it's too late to turn back.
CHAPTER 7
Looking at the judge—his long black robe, bushy gray eyebrows and big nose— Celia can't help thinking of a second-rate circus clown. It's ridiculous that their fate is in the hands of this rheumatic, doddering man. But as crazy as that seems, it's even more frightening to think about the jury. She has to clear her mind, stay calm.
The prosecutor is gently questioning a psychologist, one of his witnesses. The doctor shows no esprit de corps toward Celia, his colleague. On the contrary, he looks the image of professional indignation, with his severe face, golden-framed glasses and simple dark suit.
"If I understand correctly," the prosecutor is saying, "your expert opinion is that Dr. Allesandro had no sound professional reason to continue her sessions with Detective Arany?"
A little cough. The glasses come off. He fiddles with them and puts them on again.
"On the basis of the materials at my disposal I should say yes. She had no reason at all."
"Thank you."
The two men look at each other and appear pleased with themselves.
She feels tension radiating from Arany and answers it with a glance from the corner of her eyes. Be cool, love. We can't talk about the shots.
They won't have to talk about the shots. His lawyer will find another expert with a contrary opinion, someone to say their sessions had been necessary. There is no way the prosecutor can prove they were having an affair in those early days—that they had been lovers all along and planned her husband's death together. How can he prove it, it's so far from the truth? They hadn't even been sure of their own emotions back then, and both had thought it impossible that the other should feel attracted.
CHAPTER 8
"I don't understand," mumbled Arany, shaking his head like a defeated old man. The palsied movement looked grotesque from someone with his young face and muscular build.
He sat stiffly on the edge of the deep, comfortable armchair. I could see he was tense, still afraid of something. But I couldn't guess what it could be.
I didn't take notes. Some patients like me to keep writing while they speak. It gives them the impression that I take their problems seriously, that they're getting their money's worth. Arany wasn't like that, he was the kind of man who could only open up to a trusted friend, or a lover. He needed a human touch, a feeling of intimacy that veils the professional relationship.
I secretly pushed the button on my micro-cassette recorder, leaned my elbows on my desk and let my chin rest in my palms. I looked into his eyes, my voice was sweet. Maybe too sweet.
"What is it that you don't understand?"
He thought for a moment, trying to decide how best to put it. I imagined what it would be like when Martin heard this tape. He'd sit by the recorder, giving the machine all his attention and playing it over, at least twenty times, including this silence. I would leave by the fourth time. I'd run to the bedroom, throw myself on the bed and cry. Martin wouldn't even notice me missing. He'd ignore the world, listening only to this earnest voice. And I'd hear it too, even though I'd try to get away from it.
"First time it happened was when the kid was playing around with my windshield wipers. I would have shot him—over a lousy windshield. That makes no sense. It's just …hell, you're the doctor. You explain it."
If I could have acted without thinking, I would have held him, I would have tried to comfort him. Thank God, there was a desk between us, like a fortress protecting me from foolish behavior.
"You weren't really going to shoot the boy."
I tried to sound reassuring. I was back in my counselor's role and I suddenly realized that I was very eager to hear what he said next. I no longer felt sorry for him. My professional curiosity had swept away my sympathy.
"Yes. I would have." He shook his head in that old man's way again. For some reason it made me nervous. "And you want to know the worst part? I would have aimed at his face. I would have blown his head apart. Do you understand what I'm saying? I couldn't kill to save Carl, but I would have had no problem killing this time— for no reason at all."
Without realizing what I was doing, I left a short pause before the next question, to emphasize its importance. The silence from the tape player would drive Martin crazy when I let him listen. He'd jump to his feet and bend over the recorder, willing it to say something, then relax and straighten up a bit when he heard my voice.
"What would you feel if you had done it?"
Arany answered without hesitation. "I would be repulsed by myself. I already
am …I don't understand this …I'm afraid of myself."
That's a point, we'll discuss later, I thought. For the moment, I didn't want him to get too emotional or self-analytical. I needed straight historical reporting. I needed him to remember, accurately, what he was feeling before, when the anger first hit.
"And in front of the bar? Would you have shot those men?"
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