Walking the Perfect Square

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “We can talk about it later. Listen . . .” I hesitated, “there’s some other stuff we have to talk about, too. It might be a little unpleasant, but I didn’t want to hit you with it cold.”

  “Is it Patrick? You heard something from Nicky and it’s not good. Tell me now, Moe. Don’t make me—”

  “I heard from someone,” I said. “It wasn’t Nicky and I’m not sure it’s got anything to do with where your brother is. I swear.”

  She didn’t believe me, but guessed correctly I wasn’t going to discuss it over the phone. We set a time and a place and quickly ended the conversation. Given my warning about the evening’s agenda, making small talk would have been like misting plants before a storm.

  Patrick Maloney had disappeared again, only this time it was from the pages of the daily papers. Nothing came of his being spotted in Hoboken, so he was out, sent back to the bench until someone else saw him strolling with Elvis. Even then it was unlikely Patrick would get another shot. There were just too many murders, oil embargoes, terrorists and dirty wars to go around. So much blood and so little space! Only the sports section seemed to have unlimited growth potential.

  The phone rang.

  “Yeah,” I said tentatively, worried about who might be on the other end.

  “Geez! You always this cheery?” It was Pete Parson. “You must be real popular at wakes.”

  “Sorry, Pete, I’ve had a rough few days. What’s up?”

  “On behalf a me and my partners, I just wanted to say thanks. They called off the hounds.”

  I was surprised: “So fast?”

  “That Kupf guy must pull alotta weight. I called him first thing yesterday mornin’ and boom, today the State Liquor Authority terminates the investigation. We gotta deal with some little shit. The fire department hit us with a few code violations and the health department says you shouldn’t eat offa our floors—”

  “That’s a shocker,” I cut him off. “Well that’s great news. I’m happy for you.”

  “Listen, Moe,” his tone turned serious, “we know you didn’t have to do this for us and—”

  “Forget—”

  “Will you shut up and let a man finish? We’re havin’ a party here on Friday night to celebrate and you and your girl—I forgot her name . . .”

  “Katy.”

  “You and Katy are the guests of honor. Your boyfriend Jack’s out right now buyin’ your gifts, so don’t even think about sayin’ no.”

  “No.”

  “Fuck you, bud. Ten o’clock Friday. And thanks again.”

  He hung up. I wondered if he’d be so happy to include Katy if he knew she was Patrick’s sister. I wasn’t going to call him back to check.

  DOWNSTAIRS ON MY way out, I spotted the mailman pushing his silly saddle-bagged cart toward my building. I hung back for a second and watched as the old men filtered into the lobby to watch the mailman fill up the hundreds of boxes lining the wall opposite the elevators. There was nothing sad or desperate in their eyes. It wasn’t a Depression bread line and most of them had long ago given up the fantasy of the mailman as a messenger of their deliverance. No one was waiting for his million-dollar check. It was just a boyhood habit, revisited, perhaps, in the service during mail call, rediscovered in old age. Sometimes I liked staying with the old men, but not today. My million-dollar check would have to wait.

  Rodriguez was at the desk of the Six-O precinct when I limped in. Although I’d been moved out of the Six-O for years before my forced retirement, my apartment building still fell within its patrol area.

  “¿Que pasa, viejo? ” I rapped my cane on the floor.

  “Old man, pffff.” He waved dismissively. “Who you calling old man? I bet your knee ain’t the only thing on you that limps.”

  He asked someone I didn’t recognize to take over for him for a few minutes while we got a cup of coffee. We spent some time catching up, bullshitting about the guys we’d worked with. I asked about his family. He asked about Rico and that cute sister of mine. Eventually we got down to business.

  “You guessed right,” he whispered. “The call about your car came directly here, to the desk, not through 911. Same thing next door.” Rodriguez pointed to the firehouse which adjoined the precinct. “They got a call. Then the 911 calls came in through channels.”

  “Anonymous?”

  “You know it, but I did like you asked and talked to the guys who handled the calls. Male voice, probably Caucasian, flat, unemotional—”

  “—and unrecorded,” I finished the thought. “Smart boy. Thanks, old man.” I hugged him. “I owe you one.”

  “You owe me two. So what’s the story here? You know who torched your car?”

  “Maybe, but I hope I’m wrong.”

  I shook his hand and got out of there before he started asking questions I didn’t want to answer.

  THE BUFFALO ROADHOUSE was on 7th Avenue in the Village. In spite of the moniker, barbequed ribs and pecan pie was as country as the place got. The waitresses didn’t wear Stetsons or lizard-skin boots and anyone who said shucks or howdy got the cold shoulder. Mike, the steady night bartender, was famous for knowing more trivia than any man alive.

  “Second largest city in Upper Volta?” I asked as I came through the door.

  “Bobo-Dioulasso. The capital’s Ouagadougou,” he rattled off. “Next time ask me a tough one, Prager.”

  “Okay, when are you going to get a life?”

  “He said tough, not impossible, mister,” the hostess winked, scolding me loudly enough for the barman to hear.

  “Screw ya both,” Mike shot back.

  I spotted Katy at a corner table toward the rear and whispered an order for a bottle of Chianti Classico into the hostess’s ear. Fruity, accessible, versatile and a good value, Aaron had tried to school me. No matter how old a man gets, it still makes him smile to think he’s done something, even a very small thing, that would please his big brother. But by the time I got to Katy all the glow and good humor had run out of me.

  Now all the awkwardness that had seemed so endearing during our first kiss just seemed awkward. She smiled. I didn’t. I knelt down. She stood up. I went for her cheek. She offered me her lips. I said hello. She said nothing. Some of the thickness of the atmosphere was her fault. Some was mine. Still, as uncomfortable as it was, being near her made my heart race. That was a good thing, no matter what.

  “About Sunday, Moe, I’m—” she started to say when the waitress came with the wine. I think both of us appreciated the interruption. Prepared speeches never quite work out the way you plan. After two glasses, Katy looked ready to start again.

  “What, no notes?” I teased.

  “Oh, God,” she exhaled for what seemed a minute, “I was a real jerk.”

  “Sunday? Yeah, you were, but I forgive you.”

  “Fuck you.” She smiled in spite of herself.

  I stood up, walked around the table and kissed her hard on the mouth. Sitting back down, I asked her if what happened Sunday afternoon was, as I assumed, about guilt. Mostly, she said, but it was also about fear. There’d been men, too many, she thought, since her divorce. But there was an ocean of difference between being with and being close to a man.

  We ordered dinner: salad and ribs. Eating ribs on a second date takes nerve. It’s difficult to look suave gnawing on dead pig bones and licking red goo off your fingers. And scraping sinew out from between your teeth always drives ’em wild. I avoided dropping any bombshells while we ate, choosing instead to discuss Friday night at Pooty’s. I repeated Pete’s admonition about not attending and we speculated about what goodies Jack was out procuring. We agreed it wouldn’t be a Springsteen album.

  “Okay,” she said, putting down her Irish coffee, “let’s hear it.”

  I didn’t play games. I told her about the threat, about how the arsonist had been careful not to leave a voice trail behind. She asked what I expected her to ask.

  “Any enemies from the job?” I repeated the end of her question.
“First thing I thought of, first thing any cop would think of. I swear, Katy, I sat at my kitchen table for hours going over every arrest I could remember. Did I ever really piss somebody off, you know, beyond the usual? I mean, deserving or not, nobody likes getting arrested. Hell, nobody likes getting a speeding ticket even when you catch ’em breaking the sound barrier.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Sure I pissed people off,” I admitted. “But in nearly ten years on the job, I never had a civilian complaint filed against me. I never took out my weapon in anger. For the life of me, I can’t remember anybody threatening to get me. I mean, come on, this isn’t an Agatha Christie novel where the cop, judge, prosecutor and jurors get it one by one. And yes, before you ask, there were some crazies. Did one just happen to take a special disliking to me? Maybe, but the guy on the phone didn’t sound crazy.”

  Facetiously, she asked: “What do crazy people sound like?”

  “Not like this guy,” I said. “He sounded serious, not crazy.”

  We went round and round like that for a little while longer. Could it have been a jealous boyfriend or husband of an ex-girlfriend? No. A relative? No, I’d be more apt to blow up one of their cars. A practical joke gone wrong? No. Did somebody owe me or did I owe somebody money? No. An old grudge from another cop or someone else I might’ve worked with? Maybe, but unlikely. A vendetta from the old neighborhood? No. And with that line of questioning out of the way, the easy part of the evening’s program had drawn to a close.

  “Listen, Katy, I’ve gone over it until my head wants to explode, but the only thing I can think of is that someone doesn’t want me out looking for your brother.”

  But instead of taking the next logical step, the only step I saw she could take, she fooled me. Smiling like she’d just stumbled over Judge Crater’s body, Katy said: “You’re right. You interviewed people, the people in Patrick’s dorm, for instance. You spoke with Theresa Hickey the day you spoke to me. I’m sure there are lots of others. Maybe you said the wrong thing to one of them, stepped on the wrong toes or hit a nerve. It’s not impossible that you came across some information that one of these people don’t want you to have.”

  I hated admitting it to myself, but she had a point. Theresa Not-Hickey-No-More’s cop husband couldn’t have been thrilled with the nasty turn my interview with his hairdressing wife had taken. And Theresa had sent me to speak to Tina “Tits” Martell. If what Tina had told me about her sexual liaison with Theresa’s husband and his buddy was true, I could see where he wouldn’t want me nosing around in his business. As a cop, he’d have no trouble finding me. He’d know not to call the fire in through 911. I wouldn’t recognize him, never mind his voice over the phone. Maybe Tina’s biker friends didn’t like my attitude. I didn’t know many bikers in a meaningful way, but I didn’t figure they all spent their afternoons watching soap operas.

  As I was opening my mouth to give Katy my grudging respect for her conclusions, she went and strengthened her case.

  “The other night,” she said, “you mentioned Patrick having a new girlfriend. Moe, I’ll be honest with you, Patrick and me, we didn’t exactly swap love stories. We aren’t close like that, so I don’t know about the girls he’s dated. But what . . .”

  Katy’s mouth kept moving, but her words no longer registered. Nancy Lustig’s story was ringing in my ears. If Nancy’d broken down, confessing the truth of what had come between her and Patrick to her folks and told them that I too knew the facts, I could understand the Lustig’s desire for me to keep my mouth shut. To what extent they would go to insure that goal, I couldn’t say, but they had money, lots of money. And in some sense, that’s all I needed to know. Unfortunately, Katy was not so easily satisfied.

  “. . . and my left breast speaks Mandarin Chinese,” I thought I heard her say. Then she snapped her fingers. “Ground control to Major Tom. Earth to Moses. Hello, anybody home?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t hear a word I said. What were you thinking about?”

  Katy wasn’t the only one who could pull a rabbit out of a hat. It was my turn to surprise her. Instead of lying or making excuses, I answered her question. Like I said, I didn’t lie, but I didn’t tell the whole truth either. If Enzo Sica’s sighting was just smoke and Patrick really was a lonely corpse somewhere, waiting for the winter thaw to wash up on a local beach, I couldn’t risk the whole truth. To hear me tell it, Patrick and Nancy liked each other very much. At first, maybe, she more than him. Later on, that would change. Oh, he was still Beauty to her Beast, but they had discussed a future together. She got pregnant. She lost the baby. They were both devastated. There was a screaming fight and a messy breakup. Club Caligula? Never heard of it. The essentials were left intact if not unscathed.

  “That’s so sad. God . . .” is what Katy said before excusing herself from the table.

  I’m not sure why I told her about Nancy. Did I hope the story would shake Katy up a little, elicit some response that would aim me in the right direction? Maybe. But it was just as likely out of frustration, because in a very real way it seemed to me I knew Patrick better than his own sister. I kept remembering how Francis Maloney had referred to his son as the boy. I wondered if the Maloneys had been so wounded and distant before Francis Jr. died.

  “You okay?” I asked as Katy returned to the table.

  “In the bathroom I was thinking . . .” she trailed off.

  “About what?”

  “About tonight, about our phone conversation today. And—” she stopped herself. “It’s just . . . I don’t know.”

  “Say it Katy,” I urged, “I promise not to crumble.”

  “You thought it was my dad, didn’t you? That’s what the ominous warning was about when we talked on the phone.”

  “Yeah, I did think it was your dad, but now I don’t know. And I’m not just saying that. I mean I was never sure. I couldn’t help but think it was weird how right after Mr. Sica came forward, your dad cut me loose. I didn’t know what to think. Maybe he’s pissed off about the two of us. But now you got me thinking. There’s a lot of other candidates I never even considered till now. Don’t be mad, please.”

  “I’m not.” She sounded like she meant it.

  “But there’s one thing if it’s not your dad. You could be in danger.”

  “I’ll take the risk,” she said. “Take me home. I want to introduce you to my bed.”

  SHE HAD ONLY stopped laughing at me when we turned off West Broadway onto Prince Street. For some reason Katy found it hysterically funny I’d rented almost exactly the same car that had been torched. She was unmoved by my claim that renting another ’76 Fury was my way of giving the arsonist the cosmic finger.

  “Cut it out,” I barked, brushing a loving hand across the dashboard. “It took me hours to find a place that rented these beauties. I nearly had to settle for a Pacer.”

  “Why don’t I have trouble believing you?” she said, wiping tears out of the corners of her eyes. “Where’d you get it, Loan-a-Lemon?”

  “What can I say? They were fresh out of Jaguars. You know, it’s not like the insurance company gives you a big budget for a rental.”

  I parked up the block from her flat. She lived on Greene Street in a loft over an antiques shop that catered to the design trade. The shop pawned off art deco and art nouveau appliances as objects d’art. Only in New York could you make a mint selling old curvy toasters, broken radios and cigarette lighters. Somehow I didn’t see it as a viable business venture in Baton Rouge or Ulan Bator.

  “They sell some artwork, too,” Katy argued in the shop’s defense.

  Now it was my turn to be unmoved.

  As she removed the keys from her bag, someone shouted: “Katy! Katy Maloney. Over here!”

  “Oh shit!” Katy whispered, as we turned to look across the street. “It’s Kosta. He dates my roommate, Misty.”

  “Misty! What, you live with a topless dancer?”

  “Actress.”

&n
bsp; “Come on, get over here,” Kosta insisted. “Misty got the commercial. We’re celebrating.”

  “Do you mind?” Katy asked.

  “Maybe a little.” I kissed her. “But I’ve always wanted to meet a Misty.”

  It turned out to be pretty much fun. Kosta was a darkly handsome guy from an unpronounceable town in western New York. He worked sound boards for rock bands and was between tours. Misty was young, about twenty-two, blond, smoked French cigarettes and would’ve weighed a hundred pounds in wet football gear. She was a lingerie model by trade, but an actress by passion. She had just landed her first paying part.

  “I’m the whiny teenage daughter in a cereal ad,” Misty announced, fluttering her eyelashes. “I get to say: ‘Aw come on, dad, do I have to?’ It ain’t Shakespeare, but it’s a start.”

  And with that, she proceeded to down the three shots of tequila lined up on the bar.

  When the conversation turned to me, Katy answered: “He’s a traveling tuna salesman.”

  Kosta and Misty took it in stride. This was New York; why not?

  “How’d you hurt the leg?” Kosta was curious.

  Following Katy’s lead, I said: “Breaking up a fight between a yellow fin and an albacore. Nasty fish, tuna.”

  Leaving the bar after a few rounds of handshakes and kisses, I could feel myself falling more deeply for Katy. I was attracted to her looks from the second I saw her. After the first time we had a conversation, when I was up in Dutchess County, I knew I liked her. Having kissed her, and held her, having woken up with her flavor on my mouth, there was no question of physical chemistry. But her sly, unexpected sense of humor was incredibly alluring.

  When we crossed back over the street to Katy’s loft, a man stepped out of a doorway shadow. He asked: “Hey, Mac, you got the time?”

  I don’t know what it was exactly, his Harry Lime entrance or his tone of voice, but I got the distinct impression he couldn’t’ve cared less about the time. My cop brain screamed: “He wants you to look down at your watch so you can’t see what’s coming.”