“Maybe they didn’t release it yet. Don’t ask me his name, but it’s on file, along with his fingerprints and his pictures, full face and profile. Been on file a few years now.”
“You’ve got a sheet on him?”
“He was a troubled youth,” he said. “Remember Born To Kill? Slope gang based downtown, got a lot of press a few years ago for being more homicidal than the Viet Cong?”
“Weren’t they the ones who shot up a wedding party in Jersey?”
“Was it a wedding or a funeral? Whatever it was, it had all the old Mafia guys shaking their heads, wondering what the world was coming to. BTK was mostly running protection gangs in Chinatown, giving the tongs some grief, the usual first-generation crap. Reason you don’t hear about them anymore is they mostly wound up dead or in jail. Or both, like our friend from last night. He did three years upstate for robbery and assault, and then last night he was dead at the scene.” He leaned forward. “Somebody shot his lights out. Maybe you, with what you got right there inside your jacket.”
“It’s a .38,” I said. “Is that what you dug out of Mr. Dead at the Scene?”
“We left that little chore to the medical examiner. But no, he got punched out with three shots from a .45. When did you start carrying a gun?”
“When I saw the news this morning. I’ve got a carry permit, if that’s been worrying you.”
“Yeah, it’s a load off my mind.”
“What was his name?”
“Who, the dead shooter? They’ve all got the same name.”
“That must be handy,” I said. “You call out one name and they all come running.”
“You know what I mean. They all got names like you’d order in a restaurant if you could just figure out how to pronounce it. This one, his name started with NG, so even if I remembered it I wouldn’t know how to say it”
“If you get sick of being a cop, you can always go to work for the UN.”
“Or the State Department, teaching ’em how to be diplomatic. What the hell do you care about the name of some dead slope?”
“It was just an idle question.”
“Only it didn’t sound that idle. What are you holding out?”
“Not a thing.”
“Am I supposed to believe that?”
“Believe what you want.”
“You know,” he said, “you’re licensed by the state of New York. You can’t withhold evidence.”
“I don’t have any evidence to withhold. Any suspicions or theories I might have aren’t evidence, and I’m under no obligation to pass them on.”
“If you were there last night, what you saw is evidence.”
“I was in the bathroom,” I said deliberately, “and what I saw was my own face in the mirror, and I already told Wister—”
“I’m talking about Grogan’s. You son of a bitch, you knew I was talking about Grogan’s.”
“I already told you I left before there was anything to see.”
“You were home in your own kitchen.”
“That’s right.”
“Drinking coffee. That what you do when you can’t sleep? Drink coffee?”
“If only I’d checked in with you, you could have told me to make it warm milk instead.”
“You’re making a joke, but it’s the best thing in the world before you go to bed. Even better, sweeten it with a stiff shot of scotch. But I guess you’d leave the scotch out, wouldn’t you?”
“Probably.”
“Or maybe not. Maybe you chip around. Is that why you like hanging out with your gangster friend? Do you sneak drinks from time to time?”
“So far I haven’t.”
“Well, give yourself time. What did your other friend think of you hanging out in ginmills with cheap crooks? Your friend Jim. I bet he thought it was a great idea.”
“Is there a point to all this?”
“The point is I think you were there last night.”
“No matter what I say.”
“No matter what. You were at Grogan’s when the shit hit the fan, and you must have been standing right in front of it, which is why you’re so full of it right now. You know what he wants to do? George Wister? He wants to put out an order and have you picked up.”
“I suppose he can do that if he wants.”
“Nice of you to give him permission.”
“But he’s not going to learn anything he doesn’t already know.”
“Matt, Matt, Matt,” he said. “I thought we were friends.”
“So did I.”
“Except they say a cop can only be friends with another cop, and that’s not what you are anymore, is it?”
“I’m the same thing I’ve been for as long as we’ve known each other.”
“Seems to me you’ve changed. But maybe not.” He sat back in his seat. “Let’s wrap this up, okay? I don’t know how deep you’re into all of this, but the main reason I’m here now is to warn you off. Stay the hell away from Ballou.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Because he’s finished, Matt. Somebody came real close to doing the world a favor last night. He dodged the bullet, but he may not be that lucky next time. And you know there’s gonna be a next time.”
“Unless first-rate police work leads to the quick arrest of those responsible.”
“And how can we miss, with the cooperation we’re getting from the public? Not the point. Which is that he’s going down. He’s the focus of a major departmental investigation. If the next bomb or bullet doesn’t get him, all that means is he’ll do time.”
“He hasn’t yet.”
“He’s led a charmed life. Charmed lives don’t last forever.”
Neither did the other kind. I said, “He’s a friend in need, so I should drop him.”
“Like a hot rock. What he is is a friend in deep shit, and he earned every ounce of it, and you’ll go down with him if you stand too close. Jesus Christ, Matt, are you too thick to get that I’m trying to do you a favor? Am I wasting my breath here or what?”
I went home, entering as I’d left, via the service entrance. There were two new messages on the machine. One was from Ray Gruliow, saying that he’d spoken to Mark Rosenstein, and I was now officially engaged to investigate in the interests of Rosenstein’s client, one Michael Francis Ballou. The other was from Denis Hamill at the Daily News, hoping I could say something quotable for a column he was doing on the death of a great saloon. I called him back and told him Grogan’s wasn’t dead, it was only sleeping.
I called Ray Galindez at home after trying and failing to reach him at work. His wife, Bitsy, answered, and asked after Elaine, and brought me up to date on their kids. Then she said, “I suppose you want to talk to the boss,” and I held until Ray picked up.
“I need your professional services,” I said, “but it has to be off the record.”
“No problem. Who’ll I be working with?”
“Just me. I saw a guy the other day, and I wish I had a picture of him.”
“That’ll be great,” he said. “You’re easy to work with. Some people are just too eager to please you. ‘Yeah, that’s good, that looks like him’—except it doesn’t, but they don’t want to hurt your feelings. When do you want to do this? I’d say tonight, but we got this evening planned with Bitsy’s sister and her dork of a husband. Do me a favor and tell me it’s so urgent I’ve got to cancel.”
“It’s not that urgent.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. In that case, is tomorrow okay? These days they’ve got me in Bushwick.”
“I know, I tried you there first.”
“Yeah, ordinarily I’d be working but I took a personal day. My older boy had a soccer game and I wanted to be there. I’ll tell you, watching him play, I think he’ll have to be an artist like his old man.”
“There’s worse things.”
“I guess. You want me to come by your place tomorrow? I’m off at four and the station house is right next to the subway. I could be there easy by
five.”
“Maybe it would be better if I came to you.”
“You sure? Because that’s great as far as I’m concerned. Saves me a train ride. You want to come by the job? I got more time on my hands there than I know what to do with.”
“It might be a little too public.”
“Right, you wanted this off the record. So maybe that’s not such a hot idea. That was quite a thing happened in your part of town last night.”
“Terrible,” I agreed. “Look, would it be an intrusion if I came to your house? You’re off at four, so say five o’clock? Would that be all right?”
“That’d be fine. I know Bitsy’d love to see you. In fact why don’t you bring Elaine with you? I’ve got some new work I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to bring in and show to her. Come around five and you’ll stay and have dinner with us.”
“I think, it’ll just be me,” I said, “and I don’t think I’ll have time for dinner.”
I tried TJ across the street, and when he didn’t answer I called his beeper number. I had the TV on when he called back, and I muted it while the machine picked up and told him to leave his message at the tone. “I know you there,” he said, “on account of you just beeped me, so—”
“So you must be a detective,” I said, “to figure that out. Where are you?”
“You a detective too. Can’t you tell?”
He must have held the phone toward the crowd, because the background noise picked up in volume. “O’Hare Airport,” I said.
“Morning Star restaurant.”
“Well, I was close.”
“An’ I was slow callin’ back, ‘count of I had to wait on a lady to get off the phone. She had me goin’ for a minute. What she did, she put in her quarter and dialed her number and then she just didn’t say anything. Just stood there with the phone to her ear. I wanted to tell her, like, if they ain’t answered by now ain’t nobody home. How many times you gonna let it ring?”
“She was listening to her messages.”
“Yeah, well, I doped that out, but it took me a minute. What I been doin’, I thought I might learn something on the street but they just sayin’ the same shit they sayin’ on the TV news. You been over to Grogan’s?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t be wastin’ your time. Ain’t nothin’ to see. It’s the same as we saw on TV, with the plywood panels up. And there’s yellow crime scene tape over the plywood and on the doors, and notices posted sayin’ to keep away.”
“Which might not be a bad idea.”
“Fine with me. Ain’t nothin’ there worth a second look. All I did was ask a few questions. I wore a button-down shirt and carried a clipboard, so they figured I had the right.”
“From here on in,” I said, “maybe you should stick to the kind of questions you can ask electronically.”
“Like cyber questions? There still be things got to be done the old way. You got to ask a street question to get a street answer.”
“I asked some coffee shop questions myself,” I said. “The shooter at Grogan’s was Vietnamese out of Born To Kill. He did time on a robbery and assault charge, and his name starts with NG.”
“If that don’t stand for No Good, it’s probably Nguyen.”
“It could be,” I said, “or it could be something else. I don’t know if it’s his first name or his last name, and I’m not a hundred percent sure of the NG.”
“Lot you don’t know.”
“Seems to be more every day.”
“Far as first name or last, Asian names is hard to figure that way. Like the last name’ll come first. Like Mao Zedong, Mao’s his family name. But if you was on first-name terms with the dude, which’d be hard even if he wasn’t dead, you’d call him Mao.”
“That’s fascinating.”
“But it might be different for Vietnamese. And two letters is all we got of his name, first or last.”
“A little social engineering might get you the rest of it.”
“Might.”
“And then if there was a way to find out where he went to prison, and who he met there . . .”
“Hard to do at your desk,” he said. “Prisons and government agencies and like that, they got secure systems. Hard to hack your way in, and if you do you leave a trail and they can trace it back and see who came callin’. You say he was in Born To Kill?”
“So I’m told.”
“Means I best be changin’ my clothes, Mose. Blue button-down’s too lame and too tame for where I be goin’.”
“Be careful.”
“Got to,” he said. “What the dude said, ain’t it?”
“What dude would that be?”
“One lived in the woods and didn’t pay his taxes. Musta been before Lyme disease, when you could still get by with that shit. You know the dude I talkin’ about. Said to watch out for jobs you got to dress up for.”
“Thoreau.”
“Yeah, that’s him. I be dressin’ down, not up, but it comes to the same.”
I said, “You know, it’s not video games out there. They use real bullets.”
“You mean the players don’t come back to life when you put in another quarter?”
“And I promised Elaine I wouldn’t get you killed.”
“You did? You promised her that?”
“Why is that so funny?”
“Well, see,” he said, “she made me promise I wouldn’t let nothin’ happen to you. How we both supposed to keep our word?”
We ate at home. Elaine makes a mushroom-and-tofu Stroganoff that we both like, and she served it with a big green salad. After dinner I went into the other room and called Beverly Faber. I’d tried her a couple of hours earlier but hung up gratefully when the line was busy. This time she answered, and I hung in there and got through the phone call. By the time I returned to the kitchen to tell Elaine I’d called, I had already forgotten both sides of the conversation, what I’d said and what she’d said. Something about a private funeral for family members only, to be followed by a memorial service in a couple of weeks.
“He’s at peace now,” Elaine said.
“He was at peace all along,” I said. “He was a pretty peaceful guy. He wasn’t happy all the time, for that you pretty much have to be a moron, but he was good at taking things in stride. You were right before. She’s a hard woman to like, our Beverly.”
“I think she loved him.”
“And he loved her. It wasn’t always smooth sailing for the two of them, but they made it work. I think I’ll go to a meeting.”
I put on a sport jacket, a Harris tweed with elbow patches she’d picked out for me. I’d tried it on earlier, and it was a better fit over the holster than the blazer.
“Heavier than your windbreaker,” she said, rubbing the sleeve, “but it doesn’t zip up. Will you be warm enough?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Take an umbrella. It’s not raining yet but it will before the night is over.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it and took the umbrella. “I may not be back till late,” I said.
“I won’t wait up,” she said. “But call anytime. I’ll let the machine screen the calls, so stay on the line and give me time to answer.”
“I will.”
She squeezed my arm. “And don’t you dare get killed,” she said.
There’s a meeting every weeknight at my home group at St. Paul the Apostle. A home group is like family, and I wanted to be there, but it was too soon to face a lot of shared memories of Jim and questions about what exactly had happened to him. In a small town I’d have had a problem, but I was in New York and had dozens of meetings to choose from.
I caught the IRT at Columbus Circle and got off at Ninety-sixth and Broadway. The meeting was in the church basement—they very often are—and I got there a few minutes early and helped myself to a cup of coffee. I didn’t know anybody there, and I was just as glad. I wanted to be in a meeting, but I didn’t want to talk to anybody.
&
nbsp; At eight o’clock the chairman opened the meeting. He had somebody read the preamble and then introduced the speaker, a woman who looked like a young suburban matron with two kids and a golden retriever. She told a harrowing story, mostly drugs but with plenty of booze in it, told of rapes at knifepoint while trying to score smack in Harlem, told of trading blow jobs for hits on the crack pipe in Alphabet City hell-holes. She was two years sober now and she had her life back. She also had HIV, and a T-cell count that was not so hot, but so far she was otherwise asymptomatic and she had high hopes.
“Anyway,” she said, “I’ve got today.”
During the break I put a dollar in the basket and had another cup of coffee and a stale oatmeal cookie. There were some announcements—the annual dinner dance six weeks away, some openings on the outgoing speakers’ list, a member in the hospital who’d appreciate calls. Then the meeting reopened for a round robin.
If I’d known it was going to be a round robin I probably would have gone somewhere else. I grew oddly tense as my turn approached. I suppose I knew I ought to say something, and knew too that I didn’t want to.
“My name is Matt,” I said, “and I’m an alcoholic. Thanks for your qualification. It was very powerful. I think I’ll just listen tonight.”
Matt the Listener.
“Matthew Scudder,” Danny Boy said. “First I heard you were dead. Then I heard you weren’t. Logic told me that both of these reports could not be true.”
“Where would we be without logic?”
He smiled and pointed to a chair, and I pulled it back and sat down. When the meeting ended I’d walked downtown on Amsterdam and looked for him at Mother Blue’s. When I didn’t find him there I walked the rest of the way to Poogan’s Pub, on West Seventy-second. He was at his usual table, with a bottle of iced vodka in a hamper next to him and an unconvincing transsexual in the seat opposite him. She used her hands a lot while she talked, and what she said had Danny Boy laughing.
I drank a Perrier at the bar while she talked and gestured and Danny Boy laughed and listened. I didn’t think he’d noticed me, but at one point he looked my way and caught my eye. A little later the TS stood up—she was tall enough for basketball—and extended a hand. It was a bigger hand than any woman ever sported, with long nails painted a bright blue. Danny Boy took her huge hand in his small one and pressed it to his lips. She whooped gaily and flounced away, and then it was my turn.
Everybody Dies (Matthew Scudder) Page 15
