Paine shrugged.
"Ah, I know," Coleman said. "I know." He waved at the air again, stopped looking at Paine. "We really squeezed you through the ass-pipe."
Paine said nothing.
Coleman gave a hearty false laugh. "I always said you looked like shit anyway, right?" The laugh trailed away. Paine still said nothing.
Coleman wheeled abruptly in his swivel chair, smacked the on button on the air conditioner. "Fuck it," he said, swiveling back around. Again, he looked at Paine. "For you, for old times, I'll break the rules."
The air conditioner clacked, began to throw tepid air into the room.
"Can't we just talk about Bobby?" Paine asked.
"Sure," Coleman said. "Sure. But first we gotta talk about you and me."
Again, Paine was silent.
"Look," Coleman said, if it helps, I'm sorry. Real sorry. We fucked up twice. I knew your dad, I knew you, but I also knew Joe Dannon. Dannon had a lot of pull around here. I didn't know he was a bad cop. Not that bad, anyway. That whole bunch of us came up here from the Bronx, we were tight. Jeez, you know I served with Petty in Vietnam. Your dad was the guy we all looked up to. You remember me over at the house when you were a kid. You remember we played ball, you and me and your brother Tommy. Your dad bled blue, Jack. But you gotta remember, me and Dannon were partners for six years. From '63 to '69. I was with him on Fordham Road, day Kennedy got shot. We covered a lot of shit together. We got called down to Columbia for the riots. Dannon took stuff, then, small stuff. Just about everybody did. Before Knapp and all that."
"Did you?"
Coleman blinked, and then looked defiantly at Paine. "Yeah, I did."
He leaned forward now, over his desk toward Paine, and little drops of sweat fell from his chin to his clean blotter. The air conditioner had not helped the room much.
"But you gotta remember, Jack. It was the times. It was small shit. I never saw Dannon do anything more than that. I thought he was clean, as far as clean goes. He was my friend."
Coleman leaned back in his chair. "Shit, you should have heard the way he talked about you when you were a rookie in '78 and they assigned you to him. Like you were the worst fucking partner a guy ever had. He had nothing good to say. After a week, he had me believing it, everybody believing it. Except Petty, of course."
"Can we talk about Bobby now?" Paine asked.
"Sure!" Coleman shouted. "Sure, we'll talk about Bobby. But you gotta understand. There was no reason to doubt Dannon. I had a lot of pull by then, and I helped him. I got you reviewed, I got you busted down. It was me. Nobody made me do it; Dannon pulled my arm but he didn't twist it. I did it because I wanted to. I believed you were holier-than-thou, a little shit. Your old man, God rest him, was a little like that. It was easy to believe you were worse."
Coleman slumped in his chair; cooling air from the machine behind him moved lazily through his thinning hair but didn't reach to his face. "You know," he said quietly, "I can get you back on the force if you want."
Paine's face registered some surprise. "Let's talk about Bob Petty first."
"All right," Coleman said. "If that's what you want. The bottom line is, he called me up and told me to go fuck myself, which is something he's said before to my face, but this time I believed him."
"Why?"
"We both know Petty," Coleman said. "You can tell when he means something. This time, he meant it."
"Did he quit?"
"He did more than that. He said I could take all his citations and shove them up my ass. That I could take his whole record and burn it."
"Was he drunk?"
"He was drunk. But he was serious."
"Any idea where he was calling from?"
"Someplace busy. Pay phone in an open place, sounded like. Bus terminal, airport, train station. It didn't sound closed in, like a bar."
"Could you tell if there was anyone else with him?"
"He talked fast and didn't stop."
"Did he give you any idea where he was going?"
Paine checked a notepad he had with him. "What was he working on?"
Coleman looked away from Paine, looked at the ceiling, looked back. "You know I'm not supposed to talk to you about that."
Paine kept his gaze steady.
"You didn't hear this from me," Coleman said. For the first time in their conversation, his look was rock hard, and stayed that way until Paine nodded.
Coleman said, "You remember Hermano?"
"Yes."
"Well, Hermano has been doing turn work for us. He was facing five to ten and didn't feel like getting fucked in the ass anymore. So Petty had him set up in a drug business, showing some new people interested in moving in all the connections in lower Westchester. He was talking to Petty every week. It was slow going."
"You think Bobby leaving has anything to do with this?"
"Like I said, we both know Petty. It would have to be something else."
"Anything happen to him yesterday, a phone call, someone come to see him that could have set him off?"
"Not that I know of. But he's been a lone wolf for a long time. He didn't tell anybody anything."
"Is that your way of saying you were trying to bust him down next?"
Coleman began to turn red. "Now, I didn't say-"
"You don't have to say anything. We both remember what happened when he stuck with me after Dannon went after my ass. We both know what happens to a cop when he tells everybody he works with to fuck off."
"Nobody-"
"I'm sure nobody said anything out loud. I bet after he left the locker room the middle fingers went up, though. Petty is the toughest bastard I ever met, much tougher than you or I will ever be. He could live with it. He knew what you and Dannon were going to do. If Dannon had gotten the case reopened on me, it would have meant his badge. You would have made sure of it this time."
Coleman said nothing, let the air conditioning blow over the back of his head.
"You said something before about giving me my job back?" Paine asked pleasantly.
Coleman looked as though he'd swallowed something very sour. He looked past Paine's head for a long time. His eyes had taken on the rock hardness evidenced earlier; with an effort of will, he reshaped and softened his face before he let it drift back to Paine.
"A lot of what you've said is true," he said. "I admit that. But Joe Dannon's dead. The investigation of what happened between you and him is closed. You've been completely exonerated. I could start you again, at current pay levels, at exactly the same spot you left in. And, due to extenuating circumstances, I could see that your move toward detective's rank was expedited. I think I owe you that much, and more."
"Is your ass on the line, Coleman?" Paine asked, smiling.
"No," Coleman shot back.
"That's not what I heard. I heard a shake-up is on the way, with this new guy as chief. And you figure on strengthening your position by getting me back on the force and making everyone see what a great guy you are, never mind a cracker jack administrator."
Coleman was looking down at his blotter. "I could assign you to find Bob Petty, at full pay, on leave. You'd be doing just what you are now, and get paid steady for it. You know he wiped Terry out. She must have told you that."
"She told me," Paine said, getting up, "but I don't give a fuck about money."
"You should," Coleman said. "Like I said, with full pay-"
"Did Bobby say anything else to you on the phone?"
Paine was about to get up, but he found himself pinned, Coleman leaning across his desk, his hand gripping Paine's arm. There was a look of desperation in Coleman's eyes that Paine wanted to relish but discovered he could not.
"Look," Coleman said, "come back and work for me now, and I'll push you faster than you thought possible. In six months, you'll have Petty's old job. Full detective, full pay, accrued pension. I can promise that. Do it for your dad." Coleman tried to smile; it came onto his face crooked. "Just like old times, eh?"
<
br /> "There weren't any old times," Paine said. He pulled his arm away from Coleman's grip, got up, and walked to the door.
As he opened it he looked back. Coleman was sinking slowly back into his chair. The breeze from the air conditioner was rustling the back of his head again; again, none of the coolness was reaching his sweating face.
Coleman looked at him, a haunted look, a look that perhaps was searching for the old times he so desperately wanted to cling to. Then his hands moved around his desk, looking for papers to rustle, and his eyes looked down, a new drop of sweat falling from his face to the center of the empty blotter.
"Better turn your air conditioner off," Paine said, leaving the door open behind him. "I might call the mayor and tell him you're cheating."
4
Paine sat in his car. The road he had parked on sported uncollected garbage spilling off the curbs, cracked brick-face buildings, rusting grates over bodega windows, Miller beer signs behind iron-reinforced windows with only the neon on the M flashing sporadically. The entire street looked like an alley.
Ah, America, Paine thought.
Paine lifted his watch to check the time; as he did so, there was a tap on the passenger-side window and he looked over to see Roberto Hermano's smiling face. Hermano was almost woman-cute, with tight black curls, limpid brown eyes with long lashes. His skin was smooth and unblemished. He was twenty-six, but looked seventeen. Paine's watch said 5:45; Hermano was precisely on time.
Paine leaned over and unlocked the door, and Hermano slid into the seat, slammed the door behind him, and relocked it.
Hermano flipped the switch on a miniature boom box he had set in his lap; a blurt of reggae music came out, very loud, before Paine hit the stop button and said, "Don't."
Hermano smiled widely and then feigned hurt. "Paine-man, how you doing? Don't you like Bob Marley, man? I like Bob Marley." He moved his face closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. Paine smelled garlic and marijuana, a sickening mix. "Aroun' this neighborhood, man, even if you Puerto Rican, you gotta like Bob Marley."
He moved back to his side of the seat, punched Paine playfully on the arm with his left fist. "So, Paine-man, how you been? You know, I always like you. I like the way you didn't ring my cajones the way that Dannon did. Dannon liked to ring my cajones. I bet he like to suck them, if he can. That fuck-meat, I hope he rot in hell where he is." He smiled, showing beautiful white teeth. "So, how you been?"
"Not bad. I want to know about Bobby."
"Bobby? Bobby, he great, man. He the greatest. I got nothing but good things to say about Bobby."
"Do you have any idea where he is?"
"Me?" He shook his head vigorously. "No, I got no idea. Like I say, Bobby, he's the greatest."
"Did you know he's gone?"
A wary look clicked onto Hermano's face. "You mean fired? Or like you, busted down?"
"No, gone. He took off, left his family, the police force."
A sickly smile had come onto Hermano's face. "Don't say that, man. Don't joke wi' me, you know it's not nice."
"It's true. I thought it might have something to do with this job you're working with him on."
Hermano shook his head even more vigorously. "No, no, no. Can't be. He can't be gone."
"He is."
"Es'cuse me, man," Hermano said. He fumbled for the door latch, got the door open just in time to vomit into the street. The small boom box started to slip down off his lap and Paine reached over, putting it back onto the seat.
Hermano retched four or five times, stayed hunched over breathing deeply, then slowly straightened. He closed the car door, locked it. He looked ill when he turned back to Paine.
"You not shitting me, are you?"
"He's gone. Told his wife he's not coming back."
"That's bad. That's very bad. You know, Bobby, he was acting a little edgy I saw him yesterday. I got scared, man. Petty never make me scared before. I jus' thought it was trouble with Coleman, trouble at home." A glimmer of hope sparked into his face. "You here to pick up for him?"
Paine shook his head. "Coleman wanted me back on the force, but I said no."
Hermano was shaking his head again, slowly this time. "Very bad. That Coleman, he'll chuck me to the shit pile now. He never liked Bobby at all. He'll never keep Bobby's promise. They'll put me back in the house. That's something I can't do no more of. No more of that shit. I like women, women like me, no more of that shit. .
"From what I heard, it sounded like they need you."
Hermano brightened. "Really?" His hope dimmed. "No. You heard that from Coleman. Coleman is mean. That Coleman was in the marines, they taught him stuff. Him and that Dannon, they had me in the cellar room once, and they beat me up bad. Dannon liked it. I don't know if Coleman liked it, but he did it. He doesn't know what Bobby had. We had almost nothing. These Jamaicans, they not letting me in yet. Bobby knew that. He told Coleman we were in, the thing was set, we'd be ready to go soon. Bobby was covering my ass." He looked up, smiling like a dead man. "Guess he can't cover it no more, right?"
Paine said nothing.
"I can't do no more of that shit," Hermano said. He groped for his boom box, cradled it, opened the door of the car. "Thanks, Paine," he said. "I always like you."
He got out, slammed the door.
When Paine turned to see where Hermano had gone, he had already disappeared.
5
Bad dreams.
Paine knew the drill. Get into bed, watch the ceiling for a while until blackness recedes, the pupils adjust, and you can see the whirls of nightlight move across the plaster. A tapestry of life, if you want it to be. Sometimes waking dreams were better; the control room was more at your command, the bad thoughts more easily shunted aside. Sometimes the bad thoughts came anyway, and you felt just sorry enough for yourself, just sufficiently depressed, that you let them wash over you like a black tide, finding that the oily water has bobbed you to the surface and you are floating in shadow light, under the moon of your own past.
There were all kinds of bad dreams. In the past, a century ago in Paine's thirty years, he had taken beer and bourbon to watch the dreams develop. Now he took neither, but the habit his mind had formed with the aid of alcohol had not abandoned him with the departure of the poison.
Rebecca.
Tonight, Paine searched for her on his ceiling tapestry. Paine thought about the gun he had once kept in his bedside table. After meeting Rebecca, he had taken the gun out one night and it had felt like a metal bird in his hand. He had looked down at it and then put it to his head and said, "Bang." The bird-gun had said "Click." There had been no bullets in it, at least not that night; it was only much later, when it was too late, that he had understood why his mock self-execution had mirrored Rebecca's real one; how what she was, the thing that she knew and would not tell him until it was too late, had defined his life from that night onward.
She had been him, Paine's own mirror image, and when she finally told him what he must have known (perhaps he had known it in his dreams-but not on waking, in the tapestry, where it might have done him some good) it was from a short ten miles away on a telephone whose line stretched not ten miles but the opposite way, six thousand miles around the world, because when he had reached her it was too late and she was gone.
"I know that you don't have it in you to do what I'm going to do," she had told him. "You might go to the edge, and peer over, but something will always hold you and keep you from failing. Maybe you'll think of me as holding you from now on," and she had been right, and he had known himself for the first time.
But Rebecca was gone. He had lost his mirror self. And even now, always, he would believe that if he had reached her, or been more aware of himself, he could have kept his mirror sell with him forever He could have looked into his own eyes, into his own mind, and seen that part of him that did want to do it, and reach into the mirror, through the looking glass, like Alice, and fix the part in her that wanted self-destruction, truly wante
d it, and make it live. He had loved her, and she had known that. But it hadn't been enough.
The telephone line had stretched away from him, all around the world, and he had been too late to find out what would have been enough, beyond love, to save her.
Because Paine was sometimes a romantic fool, he thought of her often when he was using the telescope. She had told him, on that phone before she let the receiver drop and hung herself, "I want you to remember that, Jack. I love you. If there's anywhere after this, I still will." When he used the big white tube to peer into the darkness of space, to find the delicate tendrils of glowing gas, the sparkling pinpoints of colored light called stars, the soft, infinitely distant whirls of light that were galaxies, he thought of her as between the stars, between the worlds, perhaps looking down at the distant earth, so tiny to her after death, and seeing him. He knew it was foolish to search for her in the black cold between stars, but it was a way for him to know that she was still with him.
Maybe you'll think of me as holding you from now on. He was foolish and romantic enough, and knew himself well enough now, to do that.
He searched for Rebecca in the ceiling tapestry, in the waking dream that rolled over plaster, as always; but tonight Bob Petty's face appeared to him. And it was not Bobby's face he saw so much as Terry's. He saw them together, and knew that what he saw could not be false. All the years they had been together, the looks of secret life that had passed between them, could not have been manufactured by either. They had fought, and loudly; sometimes they had come to the edge of fissure. But there had been something in their union, some dovetailing, that had always locked them so tightly together, for all the world to see, that what had happened, what seemed to have happened, had to be false. They had worked at their marriage; had realized from the very beginning that love was work, and over the years that Paine had watched them, the work had produced something as tight and true, at the core, as any work of art.
Paine believed in secret lives. He believed it because he knew it to be true. All men keep secrets, especially from themselves, and all unions have secret lives. But the essential self is rarely hidden to those who really look. Most of our lives are spent in self-absorption; our dealings with those others of our species are carried out in the most superficial fashion. The neighbor is always startled on hearing that the "nice, quiet boy" next door has murdered his family; that same neighbor would blush with embarrassment on reflection, to realize that for the fifteen years he'd known the nice, quiet boy, he had had no interaction of consequence with him.
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