But they won’t.
Nor will he, whose story it is more than anyone’s. I’ve never known a better storyteller, and he could make a meal of this one, but it’s not going to happen. He’ll never tell it.
And I was there, after all. For some of the beginning and much of the middle and most of the end. And it’s my story, too. Of course it is. How could it fail to be?
And I’m here to tell it. And, for some reason, I can’t not tell it.
So I guess it’s up to me.
Earlier that same night, a Wednesday, I’d gone to an AA meeting. Afterward I’d had a cup of coffee with Jim Faber and a couple of others, and when I got home Elaine said that Mick had called. “He said perhaps you could stop in,” she said. “He didn’t come right out and say it was urgent, but that was the impression I got.”
So I got my windbreaker from the closet and put it on, and halfway to Grogan’s I zipped it up. It was September, and a very transitional sort of September, with days like August and nights like October. Days to remind you of where you’d been, nights to make sure you knew where you were going.
I lived for something like twenty years in a room at the Hotel Northwestern, on the north side of Fifty-seventh Street a few doors east of Ninth Avenue. When I moved, finally, it was right across the street, to the Parc Vendôme, a large prewar building where Elaine and I have a spacious fourteenth-floor apartment with views south and west.
And I walked south and west, south to Fiftieth Street, west to Tenth Avenue. Grogan’s is on the southeast corner, an old Irish taproom of the sort that is getting harder and harder to find in Hell’s Kitchen, and indeed throughout New York. A floor of inch-square black and white tiles, a stamped tin ceiling, a long mahogany bar, a matching mirrored backbar. An office in the back, where Mick kept guns and cash and records, and sometimes napped on a long green leather couch. An alcove to the left of the office, with a dartboard at the end of it, under a stuffed sailfish. Doors on the right-hand wall of the alcove, leading to the restrooms.
I walked through the front door and took it all in, the mix of slackers and strivers and old lags at the bar, the handful of occupied tables. Burke behind the bar, giving me an expressionless nod of recognition, and Andy Buckley all by himself in the rear alcove, leaning forward, dart in hand. A man emerged from the restroom and Andy straightened up, either to pass the time of day with the fellow or to avoid hitting him with a dart. It seemed to me that the fellow looked familiar, and I tried to place the face, and then I caught sight of another face that drove the first one entirely out of my mind.
There’s no table service at Grogan’s, you have to fetch your own drinks from the bar, but there are tables, and about half of them were occupied, one by a trio of men in suits, the rest by couples. Mick Ballou is a notorious criminal and Grogan’s is his headquarters and a hangout for much of what’s left of the neighborhood tough guys, but the gentrification of Hell’s Kitchen into Clinton has made it an atmospheric watering hole for the neighborhood’s newer residents, a place to cool off with a beer after work, or to stop for a last drink after a night at the theater. It’s also an okay place to have a serious drink-eased conversation with your spouse. Or, in her case, with someone else’s.
She was dark and slender, with short hair framing a face that was not pretty, but occasionally beautiful. Her name was Lisa Holtzmann. When I met her she was married, and her husband was a guy I hadn’t liked and couldn’t say why. Then somebody shot him while he was making a telephone call, and she found a strongbox full of money in the closet and called me. I made sure she could keep the money, and I solved his murder, and somewhere along the way I went to bed with her.
I was still at the Northwestern when it started. Then Elaine and I took the Parc Vendôme apartment together, and after we’d been there for a year or so we got married. Throughout this period I went on spending time with Lisa. It was always I who called, asking her if she wanted company, and she was always agreeable, always happy to see me. Sometimes I’d go weeks and weeks without seeing her, and I’d begin to believe the affair had run its course. Then the day would come when I wanted the escape that her bed afforded, and I would call, and she would make me welcome.
As far as I’ve ever been able to tell, the whole business didn’t affect my relationship with Elaine at all. That’s what everybody always wants to think, but in this case I honestly think it’s true. It seemed to exist outside of space and time. It was sexual, of course, but it wasn’t about sex, any more than drinking was ever about the way the stuff tasted. In fact it was like drinking, or its role for me was like the role drinking had played. It was a place to go when I didn’t want to be where I was.
Shortly after we were married—on our honeymoon, as a matter of fact—Elaine gave me to understand that she knew I was seeing somebody and that she didn’t care. She didn’t say this in so many words. What she said was that marriage didn’t have to change anything, that we could go on being the people we were. But the implication was unmistakable. Perhaps all the years she’d spent as a call girl had given her a unique perspective on the ways of men, married or not.
I went on seeing Lisa after we were married, though less frequently. And then it ended, with neither a bang nor a whimper. I was there one afternoon, in her eagle’s nest twenty-some stories up in a new building on Fifty-seventh and Tenth. We were drinking coffee, and she told me, hesitantly, that she had started seeing someone, that it wasn’t serious yet but might be.
And then we went to bed, and it was as it always was, nothing special, really, but good enough. All the while, though, I kept finding myself wondering what the hell I was doing there. I didn’t think it was sinful, I didn’t think it was wrong, I didn’t think I was hurting anybody, not Elaine, not Lisa, not myself. But it seemed to me that it was somehow inappropriate.
I said, without making too much of it, that I probably wouldn’t call for a while, that I’d give her some space. And she said, just as offhandedly, that she thought that was probably a good idea for now.
And I never called her again.
I’d seen her a couple of times. Once on the street, on her way home with a cartful of groceries from D’Agostino’s. Hi. How are you? Not so bad. And you? Oh, about the same. Keeping busy. Me too. You’re looking well. Thanks. So are you. Well. Well, it’s good to see you. Same here. Take care. You too. And once with Elaine, across a crowded room at Armstrong’s. Isn’t that Lisa Holtzmann? Yes. I think it is. She’s with somebody. Did she remarry? I don’t know. She had a bad run of luck, didn’t she? The miscarriage, and then losing her husband. Do you want to say hello? Oh, I don’t know. She looks all wrapped up in the guy she’s with, and we knew her when she was married. Another time . . .
But there hadn’t been another time. And here she was, in Grogan’s.
I was on my way to the bar, but just then she looked up, and our eyes met. Hers brightened. “Matt,” she said, and motioned me over. “This is Florian.”
He looked too ordinary for the name. He was around forty, with light brown hair going thin on top, horn-rimmed glasses, a blue blazer over a denim shirt and striped tie. He had a wedding ring, I noted, and she did not.
He said hello and I said hello and she said it was good to see me, and I went over to the bar and let Burke fill a glass with Coke for me. “He should be back in a minute,” he said. “He said you’d be coming by.”
“He was right,” I said, or something like that, not really paying attention to what I was saying, taking a sip of the Coke and not paying attention to that either, and looking over the brim of my glass at the table I’d just left. Neither of them was looking my way. They were holding hands now, I noticed, or rather he was holding her hand. Florian and Lisa, Lisa and Florian.
Ages since I’d been with her. Years, really.
“Andy’s in back,” Burke said.
I nodded and pushed away from the bar. I saw something out of the corner of my eye, and turned, and my eyes locked with those of the man I’d seen comin
g out of the bathroom. He had a wide wedge-shaped face, prominent eyebrows, a broad forehead, a long narrow nose, a full-lipped mouth. I knew him, and at the same time I didn’t have a clue who the hell he was.
He gave me the least little nod, but I couldn’t say whether it was a nod of recognition or a simple acknowledgment of our eyes having met. Then he turned back to the bar and I walked on past him to where Andy Buckley was toeing the line and leaning way over it, aiming a dart at the board.
“The big fellow stepped out,” he said. “Care to throw a dart or two while you wait?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “It just makes me feel inadequate.”
“I didn’t do things made me feel inadequate, I’d never get out of bed.”
“What about darts? What about driving a car?”
“Jesus, that’s the worst of it. Voice in my head goes, ‘Look at you, you bum. Thirty-eight years old and all you can do is drive and throw darts. You call that a life, you bum, you?’”
He tossed the dart, and it landed in the bull’s-eye. “Well,” he said, “if all you can do is throw darts, you might as well be good at it.”
He got the darts from the board, and when he came back I said, “There’s a guy at the bar, or was, a minute ago. Where the hell did he go?”
“Who are we talking about?”
I moved to where I could see the faces in the back-bar mirror. I couldn’t find the one I was looking for. “Guy about your age,” I said. “Maybe a little younger. Wide forehead tapering to a pointed chin.” And I went on describing the face I’d seen while Andy frowned and shook his head.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “He’s not there now?”
“I don’t see him.”
“You don’t mean Mr. Dougherty, do you? Because he’s right there and—”
“I know Mr. Dougherty, and he’s got to be what, ninety years old? This guy is—”
“My age or younger, right, you told me that and I forgot. I got to tell you, every time I turn around there’s more of ’em that are younger.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Anyway, I don’t see the guy, and the description doesn’t ring a bell. What about him?”
“He must have slipped out,” 1 said. “The little man who wasn’t there. Except he was there, and I think you talked to him.”
“At the bar? I been back here the past half hour.”
“He came out of the john,” I said, “just about the time I walked in the door. And he looked familiar to me then, and I thought he said something to you, or maybe you were just waiting for him to get out of the way so you didn’t stick a dart in his ear.”
“I’m beginning to wish I did. Then at least we’d know who he was. ‘Oh, yeah, I know who you mean. He’s the asshole wearing a dart for an earring.’”
“You don’t remember talking to anybody?”
He shook his head. “Not to say I didn’t, Matt. All night long guys are in and out of the men’s room, and I’m here tossing darts, and sometimes they’ll take a minute to pass the time of day. I’ll talk to ’em without paying any attention to ’em, unless I get the sense that they might like to play a game for a dollar or two. And tonight I wouldn’t even do that, on account of we’re out of here the minute he shows, and what do you know? Here he is now.”
He is a big man, is Mick Ballou, and he looks to have been rough-hewn from granite, like Stone Age sculpture. His eyes are a surprisingly vivid green, and there is more than a hint of danger in them. This night he was wearing gray slacks and a blue sport shirt, but he might as well have been wearing his late father’s butcher apron, its white surface marked with bloodstains old and new.
“You came,” he said. “Good man. Andy’ll bring the car round. You wouldn’t mind a ride on a fine September night, would you now?”
Mick had a quick drink at the bar, and then we went out and got into the dark blue Cadillac and drove away from what a reporter had called “the headquarters of his criminal empire.” The phrase, Elaine once pointed out, was infelicitous, because Mick’s whole style wasn’t remotely imperial. It was feudal. He was the king of the castle, holding sway by the sheer force of his physical presence, rewarding the faithful and drowning rivals in the moat.
And he was, I’ve always realized, an unlikely friend for a former policeman turned private investigator. The years have left his hands as bloodstained as his apron. But I seem to be able to recognize this without judging him, or distancing myself from him. I’m not sure whether this represents emotional maturity on my part, or mere willful obtuseness. I’m not sure it matters, either.
I have quite a few friends, but not many close ones. The cops I worked with years ago are retired by now, and I’ve long since lost touch with them. My saloon friendships wound down when I quit drinking and stopped hanging around bars, and my AA friendships, for all their depth and solidity, center on a shared commitment to sobriety. We support one another, we trust one another, we know astonishingly intimate things about one another—but we’re not necessarily close.
Elaine is my closest friend and by far the most important person in my life. But I do have a handful of men with whom I have bonded, each in a different and profound way. Jim Faber, my AA sponsor. TJ, who lives in my old hotel room and serves as my assistant when he’s not clerking in Elaine’s shop. Ray Gruliow, the radical lawyer. Joe Durkin, a detective at Midtown North, and my last real hook in the Department. Chance Coulter, who once trafficked in women and now deals instead in African art. Danny Boy Bell, whose own stock-in-trade is information.
And Mick Ballou.
They don’t run to type, these friends of mine, not as far as I can see. By and large, they wouldn’t have much fondness for one another. But they are my friends. I don’t judge them, or the friendships I have with them. I can’t afford
I thought about this while Andy drove and Mick and I sat side by side in the big back seat. We talked a little about the new Japanese pitcher for the Yankees, and how he’d been disappointing after a promising start. But neither of us had a great deal to say on the subject, and mostly we sat in silence as we rode along.
We took the Lincoln Tunnel to New Jersey, then Route 3 west. After that I didn’t pay much attention to the route. We found our way through a sort of suburban industrial sprawl, winding up in front of a massive one-story concrete-block structure perched behind a twelve-foot woven wire fence topped with concertina wire. rooms 4 rent, a sign announced, which was hard to credit, as I’d never seen a more unlikely rooming house. A second sign explained the first: e-z storage / your extra room at low monthly rates.
Andy drove slowly past the yard, turned at the first driveway, coasted past the place a second time. “All peace and quiet,” he said, pulling up in front of the locked gate. Mick got out and opened the big padlock with a key, then swung the gate inward. Andy drove the Cadillac in and Mick secured the gate behind us, then got into the car.
“They lock up at ten,” he explained, “but they give you a key to the lock. You’ve got twenty-four-hour access, with no attendant on hand from ten at night to six in the morning.”
“That could be convenient.”
“Why I picked it,” he said.
We circled the building. There was a roll-up steel door every fifteen feet or so, each of them closed and padlocked. Andy pulled up in front of one and cut the engine. We got out, and Mick fitted another key into this lock and turned it, then gripped the handle and raised the door.
It was dark within, but information was coming my way before the door was all the way up. I sniffed the air like a dog with his head out the car window, sorting the rich mixture of scents that came my way.
There was the smell of death, of course, of lifeless flesh spoiling in a warm unventilated space. With it was the smell of blood, a smell I’ve often heard described as coppery, but it has always reminded me more of the taste of iron in the mouth. An ironic smell, if you like. There was the burnt smell of cordite, and another burnt smell as well. Sing
ed hair, for a guess. And, as unlikely background music for all these sour notes, I breathed in the rich nostalgic bouquet of whiskey. It smelled like bourbon, and good bourbon at that.
Then the light came on, a single overhead bulb, and showed me what my nose had led me to expect. Two men, both wearing jeans and sneakers, one in a forest green work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the other in a royal blue polo shirt, lay sprawled just a few feet left of the center of a room some eighteen feet square and ten feet high.
I walked over and had a look at them, two men in their late twenties or early thirties. I recognized the one in the polo shirt, although I couldn’t remember his name, if in fact I’d ever heard it. I’d seen him at Grogan’s. He was a fairly recent arrival from Belfast, and he had the accent, with his sentences turning up the slightest bit at their ends, almost like questions.
He’d been shot through the hand, and in the torso, just below the breastbone. He’d been shot again, and conclusively, just behind the left ear. That shot had been fired at close range, the blast singeing the hair around the wound. So it had indeed been singed hair that I smelled.
The other man, the one in the dark green work shirt, had bled abundantly from a bullet wound in the throat. He lay on his back, with the blood pooled around him. Again, there’d been a coup de grace, a close-range shot into the middle of the forehead. It was hard to see the need for it. The throat wound would have been enough to kill him, and, judging from the blood loss, he may well have been dead before the second shot was fired.
I said, “Who killed them?”
“Ah,” Mick said. “Aren’t you the detective?”
Andy waited outside with the car, guarding our privacy, and Mick lowered the steel door to screen us from any chance passerby. “I wanted you to see them exactly as I found them,” he said. “I didn’t care to walk away and leave them like this. But how could I tell what clues I might be disturbing? What do I know of clues?”
Everybody Dies (Matthew Scudder) Page 2
