The back door of Carlo Sappone’s house opened, freezing the question. Then a tiger-striped cat stepped onto the tiny porch, gave a soft meow, and leaped into the shrubbery.
“Think we should pick him up?”
Gadd’s question was meant to change the subject. At least, that’s the way Moodrow read it. He thought about letting her off the hook, finally decided that he liked her enough to want the answer.
“Nah, looks too tough for us. Probably ask for a lawyer.” He opened the glove compartment, then closed it again without taking anything out. “I was in the detectives for twenty-eight years. Right up until the bosses decided to make me a Community Affairs Officer. It wasn’t a deal I could refuse, so I put in my papers.”
Gadd knew he was prodding her and she resented it. She wanted to tell him to mind his own business, that they were using each other and he knew it, that their temporary partnership didn’t call for shared intimacies. But she couldn’t imagine sitting next to him for the next several hours wrapped in a bad attitude. That would be worse than allowing herself to be manipulated.
“It’s not that simple,” she finally said.
“Pardon?”
“Why I left the job.” She paused, tempted to leave it like that, then realized that once she’d opened the subject, she couldn’t close it off again. A second realization followed quickly: She’d explained it to herself a thousand times, tried to share it with her husband and her friends, but never with another cop. Despite the fact that only another cop could possibly understand it.
“It wasn’t something I really decided to do,” she said. “I went out on vacation and never came back.”
“Just like that?” Moodrow resisted an urge to turn and face her. “On impulse?”
“It’d been coming for a long time.” Gadd took a moment to put her thoughts together, to decide just how much she wanted to let out. “What you can’t know,” she finally said, “is what it’s like to be a cop and a woman. You understand about us and them, right?”
Moodrow nodded. Us was any cop below the rank of lieutenant who happened to be sitting next to you. Them was every other human being on the face of the Earth.
“Us and them is what makes it work for cops. That sense of being surrounded by enemies.” She waited for another nod. “The first time I found a dildo in my locker, I shrugged it off. I figured I had to take it, rookie hazing, boys’ll be boys, all the bullshit. Same for the spread-eagled centerfolds pushed through the vent slots. I’m not saying I liked it, mind you, or even that I thought it was okay. See, I’d heard that black cops sometimes find bananas or toy gorillas or even watermelons in their patrol cars, and they don’t quit.” She stopped, took a sip of her Pepsi, set the can between her feet. When she resumed speaking, her voice was tinged with anger. “The truth is that I expected it to end. You get the point, Moodrow? Like, sooner or later, I’d be in their club and the bullshit would stop. Only it didn’t happen. And the joke is that I was three years into the job before I got the point. That was the night my partner, Harry O’Neill, asked me to toss a car we’d pulled over on a routine stop while he kept an eye on the two bad boys spread over the hood.
“I went through the interior first, between the seats, the glove compartment, like that. Then I popped the trunk and walked around to have a look. What they’d done was stuff a blow-up doll in there, with the head jammed under the spare tire and the legs spread out, and me, when I looked inside, I thought I saw the gaping genitals of a spread-eagled DOA. I was going for my service revolver when the laughter finally got through to me.”
“It was your partner set that up?” Moodrow, unwilling to face the woman sitting next to him, kept his eyes glued to Carlo Sappone’s front door.
Gadd shrugged, her anger fading. “Harry was a drunk with seventeen years on the job. I think he felt bad, but it wasn’t something he could admit.” She finally turned to face Moodrow. “Anyway, that’s not the point.”
Moodrow, facing the inevitable, let his head swivel until he was looking into her eyes. “The point,” he said, remembering his own problems with the job, “is that you could never be us. As opposed to them.”
“Yeah, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have options.” She put her hands between her knees. “I knew women on the job who cultivated a ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude, who’d file a sexual harassment grievance if a male cop looked at them cross-eyed.”
“Did they get what they wanted?”
“That’s a good question. I mean they still found porno in their lockers, but nobody, not even the lieutenant, got in their faces.” She rolled down her window, took a deep breath. “Us and them is what makes spending a third of your life wallowing in other people’s misery halfway bearable. Without it …”
Moodrow nodded sympathetically. Just as if he hadn’t spent most of his NYPD life nurturing an outsider self-image. But, of course, he realized, the label hadn’t been forced on him. It’s one thing to refuse an invitation to the prom, another to be blackballed just because you don’t have a dick.
“What I finally decided,” Gadd resumed, “is that I’d be better off on my own.” Her eyes returned to Carlo Sappone’s front door even as her shoulders dropped into their natural set. “And now I have to deal with the boredom.”
SEVENTEEN
THERESA KALKADONIS WASN’T GOING to cry anymore. She was sure of that, sure the crying time was past. That was partly because she wasn’t thinking about her mother, about wanting to go home, and partly because Uncle Jilly had changed. Now, he mostly sat next to her with his chin on his chest, eyes all droopy, like Mackie, her stuffed dog.
Theresa wondered if Mackie was lying between the pillows on her bed. That was his place. She hoped mommy would take good care of him, now that she couldn’t do it herself. Now that she had put her old life behind her.
“Good-bye, Mackie.”
She didn’t mean to say it out loud, but she must have, because Uncle Jilly was suddenly looking down at her.
“Didn’t I tell you about cryin’? Didn’t I?”
The words came slowly, bubbling out like the water in Theresa’s bathroom sink when the toilet was filling up. Theresa wondered if she was supposed to answer. When Uncle Jilly was real angry, it was better not to say anything. Saying things didn’t help. Only she couldn’t hear any anger now, so maybe he really wanted to know, maybe he forgot what he said before about crying.
“She ain’t cryin’, Jilly.”
Theresa looked up. Uncle Jackson was staring at her through the rearview mirror. He tossed her a big wink.
“Then what’s she doin’, Jackson-Davis, fartin’ through her mouth?” Jilly laughed at his own joke, a rough snort that quickly worked its way from his nose down to his chest where it ended in a phlegmy cough. Theresa watched him roll down the window and spit, then dropped her eyes to her lap when he turned back. “So what were ya doin’, Theresa? Fartin’ through ya mouth?”
She could feel him looking down at her, though she didn’t move her head. When Uncle Jilly took his medicine, his eyes were like the eyes of Mr. Cambesi’s pet snake. You couldn’t tell what they were seeing. She guessed that was better than before, when Uncle Jilly didn’t have any medicine, but his snake eyes still frightened her.
“Doggone, Jilly, she’s just a little kid. She probly ain’t even heard of fartin’. I swear to the good Lord above, Jilly, you shouldn’t be usin’ that language.”
“Swear to who, Jackson?”
“To the good Lord.”
Theresa raised her eyes, knowing, somehow, that Uncle Jackson was drawing Uncle Jilly’s attention away from her and toward himself. That’s what he always did when Uncle Jilly got mad at her, and this time it was working. Uncle Jilly’s mouth was right next to Uncle Jackson’s ear and he was scratching the back of Uncle Jackson’s neck with his middle finger.
“Tell me something, Jackson.”
“Sure, Jilly.”
“Do you remember when you were in the room with Carol Pierce?”
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Theresa could see Uncle Jackson’s face in the mirror. He had that pouty look he got when Uncle Jilly was making fun of him. The one mommy said would stay there all the time if Theresa put it on too often. Like he was gonna cry.
“Yeah, I remember.”
“You remember what you did to her?”
“That was different.”
“Different than what?”
Uncle Jackson shook his head—as if Uncle Jilly’s finger was a bug he wanted to make fly away—but he didn’t answer.
“What I wanna know, Jackson,” Uncle Jilly whispered, “is if the good Lord above was watchin’ you when you worked on Carol Pierce?”
Theresa couldn’t put any images together with Uncle Jilly’s words, but she knew he was saying something important, something her new life required her to learn. So she concentrated real hard—just like she did when she was reciting her ABCs—and tried to picture Uncle Jackson at work.
“Ain’t gonna do that no more.” Uncle Jackson shook his head from side to side.
“That right?”
“It’s the God’s truth, Jilly.”
“Too bad, cause I had somethin’ real nice all set up for ya. Guess I’ll have to handle it myself.”
Theresa was still thinking about Uncle Jackson’s job when Uncle Jilly dropped back onto the seat next to her. She wanted to look up at him, but her head seemed frozen, like a Popsicle on a stick. It just wouldn’t move.
Moodrow drained his fourth Pepsi of the afternoon, belched softly, rubbed his swollen gut by way of apology. It was nearly seven-thirty and a blazing orange sun hung just above the flat roofline of a Pathmark drugstore on the other side of William Floyd Parkway. Time, Moodrow thought, for the vampire to rise from his grave.
“Whatta ya think, Moodrow? Think I should give Carlo another call? Make sure he’s still in there?”
Moodrow tossed the empty can into the Volvo, then rolled up the window and started the engine. The temperature was dropping fast. They’d need some heat before too long.
“We going somewhere?”
Moodrow looked over, noted the crumbs on Gadd’s sweater, wondered if there was something about surveillance that wilted investigators. Maybe the boredom, or the cramped quarters. “Just warming it up,” he said. “Carlo’ll be coming out soon. We’d better switch seats.”
“If you knew when he was coming out, why’d we get here so early? We could’ve gone to a movie. Read a book. Enriched our miserable lives.”
“Just a feeling.” Moodrow stepped out of the car without acknowledging the joke. He walked around to the other side, opened the door, then simply stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. All irrelevant considerations—Betty, the foundation, Jim Tilley, the FBI, even Theresa Kalkadonis—had vanished without a trace, like gangsters in a New Jersey swamp. Carlo Sappone himself had been reduced to something less than human, to a resting moth awaiting the appetite of a mother robin.
“Hey, Moodrow, either get inside or close the damn door.”
“What?” He squatted down, stared at Gadd as if trying to place her.
“First, it’s getting dark and the overhead light’s on.” She pointed to the glowing dome light. “But even if it wasn’t, you’re much too big to be inconspicuous. If Carlo should happen to look out the window and see you hopping around, he’s not gonna think you’re the Easter bunny on a trial run.”
Moodrow nodded agreement, slid inside, closed the door. “If Sappone makes the tail,” he said without preamble, “if he flies, I want you to come right up on his bumper. This Chevy used to work for the Alabama State Police and it’s got enough horses to run with almost anything on the road. Carlo’s sure to think we’re narcs. He’ll pull over, eventually, try to bluff us.”
Gadd let her eyes follow Moodrow’s back to the house. The wall closest to them, part of the garage, had no windows, which was good and bad. Good because they couldn’t be spotted from inside; bad because there were no cars parked in the driveway and Carlo would appear without warning. If he went right, away from William Floyd Parkway, they’d have a hell of a time catching up before he vanished into the suburban night.
“Hey, tell me something, Moodrow. It’s almost dark and the street lamp’s on the other side of the road. If somebody backs out of that garage, how are we gonna know who it is? How are we gonna know it’s not Sappone’s grandmother on a laxative run?”
“Whoever it is, they’re gonna have to get out and close the garage door.”
“What makes you think the door’s not automatic?”
Moodrow answered without turning to face her. “Because I checked it when we drove by.”
Gadd closed her eyes for a moment, thinking, It’s not bad enough that I have to obey this old bastard’s commands like a trained puppy, I also have to come off looking like a complete jerk. What I should’ve done is drive out here by myself. Then I could have come off like a jerk without anybody noticing.
“Game time.”
She looked over at Moodrow, then at the house. The garage door was opening up and out, pushed by an invisible hand from inside. A moment later, a heavily customized van backed onto the driveway and stopped. Carlo Sappone emerged, strode up to the garage door, and closed it with a single, smooth motion.
“He’s wasted, look at him.” Moodrow licked his lips and rubbed his hands together, both gestures totally unconscious. “The mutt’s doin’ his own product.”
Gadd watched Carlo Sappone walk back to the van. Skinny, verging on gaunt, his obviously expensive clothes hung on his narrow frame like hand-me-downs from an older brother. She couldn’t see his face, but she could easily imagine the red-rimmed eyes, the runny nose, the tight, nervous jaw.
“Don’t you ever get tired of being right?”
She threw the car into reverse, turned around without flipping on the headlights, then inched up to the edge of the road.
Theresa endured the long, boring ride from Worcester, Massachusetts, to the northern outskirts of the Bronx by pretending she was Mackie, her stuffed dog. You could leave Mackie any place you wanted and he was always waiting in exactly that same place when you came back. It didn’t matter how long you were away or where you went. One time, her mommy and daddy had taken her all the way to Disney World, in Florida, and they stayed so long that she nearly forgot Mackie. But there he was, flopped on her pillow, his black button eyes and round white nose tilted up. As if he was expecting her any minute.
Of course, Mackie was part of her old world, not her new one. In her old world, she made the grown-ups happy by doing things. Things like brushing her teeth without being reminded or reciting the alphabet without making a mistake. Her new world was a lot more complicated. Uncle Jilly hated it when she did something. He didn’t want her to eat or talk or wash her hands before dinner; he didn’t even want her to go to the bathroom. And he could be very mean, like when he put her in the trunk.
Uncle Jackson was different. He liked it when she played his baby games and sang his baby songs, but when she recited the alphabet, he got very angry and called her a “highfalutin darn show-off.” She didn’t know exactly what that meant except that she shouldn’t recite the alphabet, a fact she dutifully added to a growing “do and don’t” list—her Book of Rules.
It was her daddy who first told her about the Book of Rules. “It’s in the book,” he’d say whenever she asked why she had to do something like go to bed at eight o’clock. “It’s in the Book of Rules.”
She’d almost forgotten about the Book—like she’d almost forgotten about the monster under the bed—but the Book was very important in her new world. That was because the monster had come out and was sitting right next to her.
“Jackson?”
“Yeah, Jilly.”
“Gimme the phone. I gotta make a call. And slow it down. We’re gonna be makin’ a stop pretty soon.”
Theresa wanted to watch Uncle Jilly use the special phone, because she’d never seen one like it in her old world. But sh
e knew better. Looking directly at Uncle Jilly was a definite don’t.
“It’s Jilly. We on?”
She could hear a tinny voice coming from the phone, but she couldn’t understand the words.
“Yeah, yeah. Twenty minutes.” He stopped again. “Don’t give me no fuckin’ bullshit about you gotta go and pick up the package. Not when ya chargin’ me twice what the shit is worth. Wait, wait, wait. Don’t say nothin’. I’m gonna be over your way in about twenty minutes, maybe a half hour at the fuckin’ most.” He was yelling now, the roar of his voice filling the small car. “You ain’t there to meet me, I’m gonna come lookin’ for ya.”
Theresa heard him click the little button that shut the phone off, then take a deep breath.
“Hey,” he said, “you wanna talk to ya mommy? Huh?”
At first, Theresa didn’t realize that Uncle Jilly was speaking to her. Uncle Jilly hardly ever spoke to her now that she had stopped crying.
“What’s the matter with this fuckin’ kid, Jackson? She sits there like a fuckin’ doll and when you talk, she don’t answer. I swear, it’s gettin’ me pissed off.”
“Theresa?” Uncle Jackson was grinning at her in the mirror. “Didn’t you hear what ol’ Jilly just said? About gettin’ to speak with your mommy? You wanna speak with your mommy, don’t ya?”
What was she supposed to say? What response did her new world require? Theresa wasn’t sure and when she turned slightly to find Uncle Jilly’s black snake eyes fixed on her own, she became even more confused.
“My mommy’s gone,” she finally whispered. “You … she got hurt.”
Jilly’s nasty laugh echoed in the small space. “Fuckin’ kid’s smarter than she looks.” He grabbed her left earlobe and twisted sharply. “I’m gonna call ya mommy and talk to her for a minute. Then I’m gonna put you on the phone. Ya better not clam up on me, kid, ’cause if ya do, I’m gonna rip this ear right off ya fuckin’ head.”
He held her close to him while he dialed the telephone, close enough for her to understand the man’s voice on the other end of the line.
Damaged Goods Page 13
