by Sara Gran
“I’m better off without Jerry McFall,” he said, “and I goddamn well know it. But I’ve got to get this mess cleaned up before it escalates. I don’t want a war breaking out on the streets.”
I hadn’t slept in about twenty hours. I dozed off a few times and Springer woke me up by smacking the back of my head. But not with the phone book.
Then he tried a friendlier approach. “Aside from the dame,” he said, “and of course you, Joe, the last person to see McFall alive was old man Harmon. They were seen together at the Happy Hour the evening before Jerry went into hiding in Brooklyn—the night of the eleventh. So what’s the angle, Joe? If you’re working for Harmon, all you have to do is tell me, and we’ll cut a deal.”
I knew old man Harmon. Of course, Springer was wrong—he wasn’t anywhere near the last. There was me, like he had mentioned, there was Harry, who’d brought him his clothes, the killer, and probably more. But back to Harmon. If he knew anything about McFall, I could count on him to be square with me.
“Come on, Joe,” he said, still trying to be friendly. “If Jim got you mixed up in this, all you have to do is tell me. Why take the fall for him?”
I told him I wasn’t taking the fall for anyone.
Finally Springer got a phone call that a businessman from Cleveland had been shot over in Pennsylvania Station and they cut me loose. Everyone cares a lot more about a dead businessman from Cleveland than they do about a dead dope pusher from New York.
It was dawn by the time they let me out. I took a taxi back up to Twenty-seventh Street to get Jim’s car and then drove home. I smelled like a police station. When I got to my room I washed up and lay down on the bed, just for a minute, before I got dressed.
When I opened my eyes the sun was coming in at a certain angle and I knew it was early in the afternoon. My head was as heavy as a cannonball and I would have been hungry if I hadn’t had such an awful taste in my mouth. I looked at the clock on my nightstand. There was just enough time to get to Harmon before I’d have to wait a whole other day.
I could have stayed in bed all day. But I remembered the idea that had come to me in the car—that if I found whoever set me up, I would take care of them myself. That got me up and out of bed and on my way uptown.
Chapter Twenty-two
Harmon was an old gentleman, almost as old as Yonah, who’d been using for years. He had a real distinguished look and he made his living slipping into fine restaurants and good hotels and robbing the places blind. He’d take overcoats, hats, silverware, china, anything that wasn’t nailed down. People said he had a real education, and used to be some kind of a writer before he got hooked. That must have been before I was born. Every afternoon he had supper at the Westside Cafeteria. Anyone who wanted whatever he had lifted in the past twenty-four hours could come to the Westside and get a good price, like a sale at a grocery store.
The cafeteria was full of thieves and whores and dope fiends, and I knew a good number of them. There in the corner was Kate from Brooklyn and her newest pimp, Gentleman Jack. Kate had a black eye but she still nodded a hello when she saw me. Jack tipped his hat. Nearby were John the Hat and John the Gimp, two old-time dope fiends who’d been using since before the Harrison Act. They both wished me a good evening. They might have known something about McFall, but if I sat down with them my wallet, my watch, and probably my hairpins would be gone in less than a minute. Finally I saw Harmon, in the back near the kitchen.
“Josephine,” he said excitedly when he saw me. He was sitting at a table alone in front of a cup of coffee and a bowl of rice pudding. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten anything. I got a plate of fried chicken and a dish of rolls from the counter and brought them with me to Harmon’s table.
“Josephine,” he said in his slow, creaky way. “You look awful. Don’t tell me you’re back on stuff.”
The food looked horrible but I ate it anyway as I talked. I told him I wasn’t, but that I was in a bad way. Worse than dope. As quickly as I could I told him why I was there.
“Jerry McFall,” he said, nodding his head when I was done. “The coppers came and talked to me yesterday. Or maybe it was the day before. Anyway, I told them everything I knew, which was absolutely nothing. I certainly didn’t mention your name. But I’m not surprised that fool is dead. A while back I bought some dope from him and it was so cut with milk sugar it was practically worthless. Of course I beefed about it, even though I was not expecting any kind of compensation. But he said that if I met him at the Happy Hour in a few days, he would make it up to me. He’d give me a paper of pure uncut stuff. You know the Happy Hour, don’t you, Josephine? It’s an awful lounge down on Forty-second Street. I didn’t believe a word of it. But he told me to meet him and, well, I figured it was worth a try. Of course when I found him there, he was with his friends and he gave me the brush-off. I met up with him outside the place, on his way out. Said he hadn’t gotten the stuff yet, but maybe tomorrow. Well, tomorrow never came for him. I mean that metaphorically, of course. He went into hiding for a few days, apparently, before he was killed.”
I showed him the picture of Nadine. “What about this girl? You ever see her around?”
Harmon shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m too old to chase after females, Josephine, and I just don’t notice them like I used to.”
“Do you know anything about his connection?” I asked.
Harmon shook his head. But then he stopped and cocked his head. “Well, that idiot did have quite a bit to say about him that night in the Happy Hour. Of course he said the reason he didn’t have the stuff for me was that his connection hadn’t come through for him. Called him all kinds of names, said he was a liar and a rat and a dirty Jew. Apparently he really loathed the fellow. Or maybe he was just making excuses for his lack of stuff.”
I pressed Harmon for details. “I wish I could tell you more, Josephine,” he said. “But I really don’t know. Oh, Josephine,” he said. “Before I forget. The reason I called you over was to see if you knew anyone who might be able to use a pistol. I can’t pawn it, it’s too hot, and my regular fellow for this sort of thing is up at Rikers, doing ninety days for insulting an officer.”
I was about to say no, I didn’t know anyone who needed a gun. But then I stopped myself.
What did I think I was going to do when I found out who killed McFall? Talk to them? Pull out a switchblade or a razor? They sure as hell had a gun. They’d used it once already.
I’d been thinking like a little kid. Like a girl. But I couldn’t think like that anymore.
I asked Harmon if I could see the pistol. He slipped it to me under the table. It was warm in my hand. I looked down. I didn’t know what a good gun was supposed to look like. I’d been around them all my life but never had any interest in them. I’d never fired one before.
It seemed okay. I wasn’t sure if I knew how to use it.
What was there to know? You just aimed and fired.
I figured I’d find out for sure if I needed it.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
Harmon nodded. “That’s a good pistol. Smith & Wesson. It’ll never give you any trouble.” He reached into his pocket and took out a handful of bullets and held them out for me under the table. I took them. “It was loaded when I found it, but you keep it empty, Josephine. Never keep a loaded gun around unless you intend to use it,” he went on. “That’s like that old line from Chekhov; if there’s a gun on the wall in the first act, it better go off in the third act.”
He wanted fifty bucks. It sounded fair to me. I gave it to him.
When we were done I locked myself in the bathroom and loaded it.
Chapter Twenty-three
The Happy Hour was on Forty-second, just west of the Square, in between two movie theaters showing French films. A dark room full of characters dressed up to look fine, or what they thought fine looked like, lying about deals they’d never made and boyfriends they’d never had. Half the people there were doped up on someth
ing or other, coke or pills or heroin or opium or tea. That was on top of a good drunk, which everyone there had. I’d only been there a few times before, but I felt like I’d spent half my lifetime in places just like it.
I sat up at the bar and looked around the room. I could go around with the picture of McFall. That would be a sure way to get myself kicked out fast. I had to get clever or find someone I knew. I was too exhausted to get clever so I looked around some more. Most of the crowd I had never seen before. Ten years ago I would have known everyone in the room. But somehow it was all the same anyway. It was like the people I knew had all been replaced by younger versions, dropped down in the exact same place. Through the crowd I saw two girls in the corner, whispering to each other. A group of men at the table were talking too loud, telling stories, trying to impress the girls. Nearby were two fellows and a girl sitting hunched over their drinks, talking quickly and softly, probably about the big deal that was right around the corner.
Across the room I finally saw someone I knew. Linda Lee. She was sitting at a table with two other girls. I’d known Linda for years. She’d wanted to be an actress, like Shelley, and when we were young I thought she just might make it. She was pretty enough and wanted it badly enough, but for one reason or another it had never worked out for her. Now she made the kind of movies that no more than a handful of men ever saw. She did photographs, too, magazines and the sets of prints you sent away for from the classified ads. I didn’t know what she would do now that she was getting older. She was starting to get lines around her eyes and slight creases around her mouth. Her black hair was a duller shade than it had been—I guess she tinted it to cover gray. She wore a green dress and I could see that her waistline was getting thicker, her breasts starting to sag.
I wondered what would happen to her. Thousands of men around the world had used her picture. None of them had contributed to her pension plan. Those pictures would be around forever, showing a healthy young girl doing all the things a healthy young girl can do better than everyone else. Meanwhile the real Linda would slowly fade away. There was no retirement plan for hustlers and junkies and whores. Most of us wouldn’t live long enough to need one, anyway.
The way things were looking, I sure wouldn’t.
Linda was happy to see me. We went to a small table in the corner together, where it was quieter. She told me I looked good, and that she was happy to see it. She wondered how long it had been since we’d seen each other. Was it me she’d seen in Howard Johnson’s last month? No, it was that redhead, what’s her name? Used to go out with Johnny Stick-Up.
After a minute I realized she’d been sniffing cocaine. I told her I hoped she didn’t mind if I cut right to the chase, but I was in an awful bind, and I needed to know if she had seen Jerry McFall around here anytime lately.
“Sure,” she said excitedly. “Just a few days ago. Hey, did you hear what happened to him? He’s dead, someone shot him and no one knows who. Everyone thinks it’s someone he ripped off for dope, but no one knows who it was. I’m not surprised he’s gone. He was a real son of a bitch. You know, Joey, I knew that piece of shit for years. A long time ago he took some pictures of me—you know, to sell. Well, the pictures came out so awful he couldn’t sell ’em anywhere, no matter what body parts they showed. And then just a few weeks ago he tried to sell them back to me! Like I would want that crap! I mean, Jesus, everything I done and he thinks I wanna buy back a couple of pictures where you couldn’t even tell my ass from my elbow. Some of these guys, Joe, you ought to—”
I asked if she could tell me everything she remembered, everything, about the last time she saw McFall?
“Well, sure,” she said. She seemed anxious to help. And the fact that she was high and felt like talking didn’t hurt. “It was the night before he disappeared, I guess a few days before he died. Kind of spooky, huh? I mean, to know I was one of the last people to see him alive? I mean, you wonder what happens to a person like that after they die. Someone like him, he’s not going upstairs, if you know what I mean—”
I gently brought her back to that night.
“Right, yeah, the last time I saw him. There was nothing special about it. I had a drink with old man Harmon, you know him—he was pissed off because Jerry was gonna give him some dope and now he was getting the brush-off. But you know Harmon, he’s always complaining. He’s a nice guy and all, don’t get me wrong, but he’s never had a happy day in his whole life, to hear him tell it—”
“That’s Harmon,” I said. “So that night, what else happened?”
“Oh, okay. Hmm.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a little glass vial of coke. She bent her head down and took a sniff off the end of a fingernail. She shivered as she straightened back out. “Wow, that’s good.” Then she stared out into the room for a minute, clenching her jaw tight. I waited another minute for it to pass before I tried her again.
“So, Linda. The last night you saw Jerry. Was there anything else about that night? Who was he sitting with?”
This was beginning to seem like a waste of time. Linda was too high to give me the straight story of what had happened. For all I knew there was nothing to tell, anyway. There was no reason to think anything special had happened that night. It wasn’t like he knew he’d be dead in a few days.
Linda snapped back to attention. “What’s that, Joe? Sorry, I was just thinking about the whole thing, about . . . I don’t remember now.”
“McFall, Linda. The last time you saw Jerry McFall. Was there anything strange about him that night?”
Linda shook her head. “I don’t think so, Joe. He was sitting up at the bar, having a drink with some of his pals. I don’t know who they were. Then he went outside with Harmon, I guess, or that’s what Harmon said. Then I saw him later that night—well, that morning really, at this twenty-four-hour coffee joint over in the Square with your sister.”
“What?” I thought I hadn’t heard her right.
“He was up at the bar,” Linda said. “Having a drink with his pals—”
“No,” I interrupted. “The last part.”
“Well, after the bars closed, I went out for a cup of coffee with a friend of mine. We went to this joint in Times Square that’s open all night. It’s called Charlie’s or something like that, Charlie’s or Harry’s, some man’s name. It’s just a little hole in the wall, they just got coffee and burgers and eggs, I don’t know why I end up going there so much because the truth is it really isn’t any good—”
“And this place,” I said firmly, trying to keep her focused. I must not have heard her right. “McFall was there. And who was he with?”
“With your sister, Shelley, like I said. You know, Joe, I don’t mean to be nasty or nothing, but your sister, she’s pretty full of herself these days. I mean, I’m real happy for her, being on a television show and all, but she could at least say hi. She acted like she didn’t even know me.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d better talk to her about that.”
So Shelley knew Jerry McFall. She’d said she might have met him once. “Years ago,” she’d said.
Right then I felt like just about the biggest dope in the world. And having been set up for killing Jerry McFall was the least of the reasons why.
Chapter Twenty-four
I didn’t sleep too well again that night. My mind kept running over the craziest things. Like the time when I was a little girl and Shelley was just a few years old, and our mother left us alone for the first time. Just the two of us alone in that tiny apartment. When my mother came back, three days later, I put Shelley down in our bed and went outside without saying a word and sat on the stoop and cried and cried and cried. I’d been so scared. The second time I didn’t wait. I left Shelley with the lady next door and I went to the market and I begged the grocer for credit. After a few times my credit was no good. But by then I’d wised up how to make money fast.
After a while I gave up on sleeping and got up and looked out the window again. I took out
the gun I’d bought from Harmon. I took the bullets out and then put them back in again and took them out again. I held it in my right hand, straight out ahead of me like I was going to fire. It was heavy. I wondered how long I could hold it for. Not long. With the chamber empty I shot up my apartment. Click. There went the percolator. Click. My coffee mug. Click. A bottle of scotch. Click. Here’s one for you, Springer. Click. That’s for you, Jerry McFall.
If he wasn’t already dead, I could have killed him.
Chapter Twenty-five
Shelley lived in a fine old building near Gramercy Park, the type of place where all your neighbors have to approve you before you move in. How Mike, the guy who paid for Shelley’s place, ever sneaked her in I’ll never know. It was mostly ladies who lived there. You could tell from the lobby, where everything was perfect and neat as it would have been in a house on East Sixty-seventh Street. Shelley’s doorman didn’t mind me waiting in the lobby for her, or at least he didn’t mind at first. After five or six hours, he started dropping hints that I might be more comfortable elsewhere. He would even call me when she got there. The doorman was a fellow of about forty who had Brooklyn written all over him, no matter how fancy his uniform was and what kind of airs he put on.
Finally I looked right at him and started to cry. I don’t know how I did it, because I’ve never been able to cry on purpose before. But I just willed myself to start crying and I did.
“Oh, Chr—Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. He started to look frantic, looking around for a tissue or a clean handkerchief or maybe a lollipop to give me.
“It’s just—” I let out in between sobs. “There’s been an emergency in Miss Dumere’s family—” I broke off and started crying again before I could continue. “I really need to speak to her the instant she gets in, the very minute—”
“Oh, I’m sorry, lady,” he said again. Finally he found a clean handkerchief in his desk and handed it to me. I cleaned myself up a bit and then squeezed the handkerchief like it was a life preserver. “I’m so sorry I said anything,” he sputtered. “I didn’t mean—”
