Where It Hurts

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  It was Casey. I asked her to hold on for just a second as I tried to orient myself. I saw that it was still snowing, but without the ferocity of the morning. I drew the shades and sat back down on the bed. I clicked on the TV and muted the sound.

  When I got back on the phone, Casey said, “I see you worked your way down the list of things to do and finally got around to me.”

  “I guess I deserved that.”

  “Look, Gus, one of the reasons I’m divorced is I got tired of being a second thought,” she said, a mixture of anger and hurt in her voice. “No one lives to be someone else’s next best option.”

  “I’m sorry. I know I should have called sooner, but I got caught up in some stuff that . . . it’s hard to explain.”

  “Try.”

  “I’m not sure I can and I’m not sure you want to hear.”

  She wasn’t buying it. “Don’t treat me like that, like you know better for me. I’m a big girl. I’m all grown up. I tie my own shoes and cut my own meat and everything. I’ll let you know if I want to hear.”

  I didn’t answer immediately because I was drifting, thinking about how we scar each other. About how Annie and I had scarred each other. About Magdalena’s obvious scars. No one comes out the other end of any collision unscathed or, at the minimum, unchanged.

  “I spent last night in a jail cell.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. I’d shocked her. I suppose that’s what I meant to do.

  “Why? I mean, what did you do?” she asked, her voice thinner, unsure.

  “I got pulled over on the Sagtikos and the cops planted five packets of heroin on me.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “See what I mean, Casey? It’s complicated.”

  “Can’t you go to the . . .”

  “To the police? Is that what you were going to say? Can’t go to the police when they’re the ones trying to screw with you. There’s something I’m doing that they don’t like and they’re willing to go a long way to stop me. Until last night, I wasn’t sure how far.”

  “Gus, I . . . I don’t know how I’m supposed to react.”

  “There is no how, no playbook about this stuff. I like you. Tuesday night was great. Being with you was amazing, but I may not be who you thought I was. And that’s okay. I didn’t come into this with expectations. You did. That nice, quiet guy with the empty heart you saw at the club on the weekends, he’s a guy you created in my image. Now you’re dealing with who I am. And if I’m a disappointment, I’m sorry because I like you and because you can really cook.”

  She laughed, but not hard enough.

  “Casey, let me make this easy for the both of us, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me finish this thing I have to do and then, if you feel like you want to try this again, we can. Besides, you’re better off keeping your distance from me until this thing blows over. Then, if you feel like you’re not up for it, we’ll always have that one night.”

  There was a palpable sense of relief from her end of the phone. That was answer enough, but she said, “I’m sorry, Gus.”

  “Don’t be.”

  She blurted out, “It’s Jocasta.”

  “What is?”

  “My name.”

  “It’s different.”

  “No one wants to be that different when they’re growing up,” she said.

  “Your secret’s safe with me, Casey.”

  And that was that. I didn’t fool myself that there would be a future for us, but I wasn’t sad about it. I’d learned an unexpected lesson. Not only wasn’t I who Casey thought I was. I wasn’t who I thought I was.

  48

  (SATURDAY EVENING)

  I flipped around the channels for a while, settling on the local cable news channel to see how bad the storm had been and to give myself a chance to absorb the events of the day. Even more than Pete McCann’s warning, more than Casey’s disappointment and relief, it was the dream I couldn’t shake. There was a message in there I was leaving for myself as Al Roussis had left for me when we met in the park. Unfortunately, I wasn’t any closer to figuring it out now than I had been a few minutes ago or a few days ago.

  The storm had pretty much blown itself out after dumping six inches on the island. What was left was only the very tail end of it. The unfortunately chipper weatherman, pointing at a front over the Rockies, said that we might very well be in for a white Christmas. I wasn’t in the mood for his happy smile and predictions of snow, so I turned my attention away from the screen until I heard the teaser for the next segment. Next up on News Channel 12, the Feds raid a salvage yard in Deer Park. Stay tuned to see what they came up with. When I looked back at the screen, there was video footage showing the front entrance to Rusty’s Salvage, and from the video, they switched to an old booking photo of Frankie Tacaspina Jr.

  I didn’t bother waiting to watch the report.

  “Roussis,” he said picking up the phone.

  “How’d you manage it?”

  “Manage what?” he said, a smile in his voice.

  “Cut the shit, Al.”

  “I have a friend in the government who owed me a big favor.”

  “Did you get it?”

  “The .357? Yeah, it was in his desk. He claims it’s not his, but belongs to some Nardo character who works there. May take a day or two for us to get it from the Feds to do the prints and ballistics to see if it matches the weapon that killed Tommy Delcamino. On the positive side, my friend says it looks like it’s been fired recently.”

  “So,” I said, “your Fed buddy come up with anything else worthwhile besides the revolver?”

  “Nothing they can tie to Frankie Tacos, no. Sure, yeah, there was some hot merchandise on the premises, but not more than might be there innocently. And as far as your pal Tacaspina is concerned, he’s claiming he just rents space from the owners of Rusty’s. He even had rent receipts to prove it.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Of course not, but what I believe doesn’t mean a whole lot.”

  “The Feds holding him?”

  “He made bail in thirty seconds. The gun better prove out or he’ll walk. It would help if we had a motive for him to kill the father. You have a motive for him killing the father?”

  “One that I can tie directly to Frankie Tacos and not a hundred other people? No. But I’m close on having a motive on at least the kid’s murder.”

  “It’s not my case.”

  “So you keep saying, Al, but what if the murders are connected?”

  “It isn’t something I can work with. Give me something to work with.”

  I changed the subject. “When you agreed to meet me the other day, why did you pick Brady Park?”

  “You used to be a good cop, Gus, what happened to you?”

  “Dumb question.”

  “Sorry, that’s not what I meant.”

  “For chrissakes, Al, what did you mean?”

  He didn’t answer the question. “As soon as we get the ballistics back, I’ll call you.”

  I began to tell him about spending the previous night at the Third Precinct and about Pete McCann’s threats, then I realized that I really didn’t know who I should trust. For all I knew, Al Roussis was as much a part of this as Pete McCann.

  “Yeah, Al, do that. Call me when you get the results.”

  After I hung up, I paced the floor of my room. I thought about calling Slava and going over my idea about how to deal with Milt Paxson. I considered calling Magdalena and tossing our proposed trial period as friends right out the window, but I couldn’t get the dream of John and the geese out of my head. It had to be something about the case Al Roussis had talked about when we were in the park, the Alison St. Jean case. That had to be it. I was on my way out the door to head to the business center to do some rese
arch when the hotel phone rang. It was Felix.

  “What’s up?”

  “There are two men waiting for you in the coffee shop. One says he’s a friend. Bill is his name.”

  “Thin man, dressed badly, ugly shoes. Smells like cigarettes.”

  Felix laughed. “Yes, that is him.”

  “And the other man?”

  “He did not offer his name.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “He is very tall. Older than you. His hair is red with gray—”

  “Okay, Felix. Thanks.”

  “Do you know this other man?”

  “I do,” I said before hanging up the phone.

  Then I mouthed the name: Jimmy Regan.

  49

  (SATURDAY EVENING)

  As fate or luck or karma or whatever the fuck you’d call it would have it, Father Bill and Jimmy Regan were seated and waiting for me at the same booth and wingtip table that Tommy Delcamino had sat at and waited. Only this time the coffee shop was buzzing with activity because of the unexpected flood of guests. Both of them had cups of coffee in front of them that only Bill showed any interest in. Regan just stared at his with a kind of disdain, a drinker’s disdain. I recognized the look from seeing it on my father’s face more times than I could count. It was as if drinking wasn’t worth the effort if there wasn’t going to be a bit of a burn down your throat or in your belly at the end of it.

  “Bill.” I nodded. “Chief Regan.”

  Jimmy Regan stood up, extending his right hand. Although he was no taller than me and had me by at least fifteen years in age, he projected this larger-than-life image that somehow made me feel much smaller and in awe. It was amazing how he did it and how he did it even now in spite of my being so suspicious of him. Was it his big avuncular smile that seemed to say, Come on, son, give us a hug. You’re safe as long as you’re with your Uncle Jimmy. Or was it the fire in what was left of his red hair or the sparkle of mischief in his green eyes? He was a paradox, half Finn McCool, half leprechaun. But unlike Bill Kilkenny, Jimmy Regan didn’t try to affect a lilt or inject old-country phrasing into his speech.

  “Murphy,” he said as if I was still on the job. “I hear from Bill you’ve got some questions. I’ve got some answers. Let’s trade.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I tried not to sound intimidated, but I wasn’t sure how successful I was. “But first let’s get out of here. Follow me.” I didn’t make it optional. “Bring your coffees if you’d like. I’ll be able to add something to them to freshen them up.”

  Regan took his. Bill, too, though he eyed me with great suspicion. When Bill made to put some money on the table, I told him to forget it, that I would see to it and make sure the waitress got a nice tip. He seemed relieved, but no less suspicious.

  The bar was closed to the guests as it was being transformed into the Full Flaps Lounge. The club wouldn’t be open for an hour yet. With the weather the way it was, I doubted they were going to get many of the usual crowd, most of whom came from other parts of the island. Yet with the hotel so full of guests unfamiliar with the area and without cars, they’d probably do all right regardless. For now the bar area itself was quiet and the only activity in the room was the DJ setting up his sound equipment and portable lights by the dance floor. I gestured at the barstools and, to counteract Jimmy Regan’s aura, I got behind the bar. I stood over him and Bill as I pulled a bottle of Jameson eighteen-year-old Limited Reserve from the very top shelf.

  “This is as good as it gets, gentlemen. A hundred twenty bucks a bottle in stores.”

  “Seems a shame to spoil it with coffee,” Regan said.

  I poured him two neat fingers’ worth in a rocks glass. Bill pointed at his coffee and held his thumb and index finger slightly apart.

  “Just a touch, Gus.”

  I obliged. I left the bottle on the bar within easy reach of Jimmy Regan’s left hand. I took a Corona out of the fridge.

  “Up yours!” Regan said with a laugh as we clinked bottle to glass to coffee cup.

  Regan took his in a swallow. “That goes down smooth. May I?” He took hold of the bottle.

  “Of course.”

  Regan poured himself two fingers again, but was careful not to take it all in a gulp.

  “So, Murphy, are you back on your feet yet?”

  I knew what he meant. He hadn’t come to John’s funeral, but had sent lovely flowers. It was he who suggested to the union head that Bill Kilkenny be the priest to help us through John’s death. I owed him something for that.

  “Not sure I will ever be fully back, but I can say my footing is better, Chief.”

  He raised his glass. “To your boy.”

  We all drank to that. He poured himself another without bothering to ask this time. Bill glared at me, but kept his silence.

  “What questions do you have for me, Murphy?” he asked, sipping at his third glass of Irish.

  “I heard you showed up at the murder scene of TJ Delcamino last August. Not for nothing, Chief, but TJ Delcamino wasn’t exactly a high-profile criminal or local personality. Why show up there at all?”

  “Truth?”

  “Saves a lot of trouble, don’t you think?”

  “I got an anonymous tip on my cell that there’d be a body in that lot in Nesconset,” he said. “I called it in, but someone, I think a neighbor walking a dog, had already put in the call. I went to the scene because I was close by, a Turkish restaurant in Setauket, and I was curious about why I’d received the call.” He put up his palms like a traffic cop. “Before you ask, the call was traced back to a prepaid cell. So I’ve got no idea who it was who called me or why. And no, I didn’t recognize the voice.”

  “So before that night in August, there was no connection between you and the dead kid?”

  “Like you say, Murphy, this Delcamino kid, he wasn’t exactly a high-profile criminal. I was probably off the streets before he was out of diapers.”

  “And his father, Tommy Delcamino, you didn’t know him, either.”

  “I wasn’t in the Second long enough to cross paths with him, no.” The chief had finished his third whiskey and was conscious of it. He slid the bottle away from himself, but not completely out of arm’s reach. He may once have had his drinking under control, but it was pretty clear those days were over. He had the jones bad.

  Bill was still glaring at me, but even if he hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have poured Regan another. If he wanted to get wasted, I wasn’t going to keep pouring. From that first drink on, it was his doing. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

  “Chief, can you tell me why I’ve been warned by everyone from Pete McCann to Lou Carey to Milt Paxson to Alvaro Peña to Al Roussis to Pauly Martino to keep my nose out of the Delcamino cases?”

  He made a face when I mentioned Martino and poured himself another drink. “Who in Christ’s name is—sorry, Bill—who the fuck is Pauly Martino?”

  “A hothead from the Marine Bureau. And look, Chief, let’s not pretend that word didn’t come down from on high. Even before I got involved with this, the father, Tommy Delcamino, went to Carey and Paxson with solid leads and names and they ignored him.”

  Regan’s face twisted into a red knot. “Let’s not pretend! Just who in the hell do you think you’re talking to, Murphy? Do you know who I am?”

  “I know who you are, Chief Regan. I know.”

  Regan realized he was losing it and took a few deep breaths. “Sorry, Murphy, that was uncalled for.” He held up his glass, jiggled it at me, and smiled. “Yes, I suppose you know exactly who I am.” He finished the drink just the same and motioned for me to put the bottle back on the shelf. “This is where you’re living these days? In this ratty hotel?”

  “And working,” I said, wondering where he was going with this.

  “Working?”

  “I drive the court
esy van at night and I am what passes for a house detective around here. I also work security for this club on Friday and Saturday nights. It’s not much of a life, but it’s the one I’ve got.”

  Then he showed his hand. “Why not come back to the job and do what it is you’re good at? Be among your own. We could find a place for you in any bureau you like. You could come work for me.”

  Bill’s glare changed to shock.

  “Thanks, Chief. It’s tempting. Maybe after we clear this stuff up I can come in and we can discuss it.”

  “My door’s always open to you. Just before, you mentioned that this Delcamino guy, the father of the vic, had gone to Carey and Paxson with names, solid leads, you said.”

  “I did.”

  “You know they’re solid how?”

  “Because I checked them out.”

  “Did you? I thought you were a courtesy van driver and did hotel security,” he said, a jolly smile on his face. But I could see him staring up at the bottle of Jameson I had since placed back on the very top shelf.

  “Just did what I used to do in uniform. I asked a few questions, is all.”

  “And the names the father gave you, who are they?”

  “A kid named Ralph O’Connell who grew up with TJ Delcamino. A drug dealer who goes by the handle Lazy Eye, but whose real name is Lamar English. Lives over in Wyandanch. The other two you will have heard of: Frankie Tacaspina Jr. and Kareem Shivers.”

  Jimmy Regan clapped his hands together and laughed. “Well, Frankie Tacos has new worries of his own, the thieving prick. He’s worse than his father. But this Kareem Shivers, sorry, don’t know him.”