Walking the Perfect Square

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Good afternoon to you, too. Did ya call Sully?”

  “Yeah,” I lied again, “but he was out. So . . .”

  “You got a pen and a long sheet a paper?”

  “You can throw out any tags registered to persons with addresses north of Orange, Putnam and Dutchess Counties, okay?”

  “Ya’ll still need a long sheet,” he cautioned.

  We were on the phone a good ten minutes. Though Rico recited the names and addresses I wanted to hear within the first two minutes after he began the list, I copied down all twenty-six names and addresses. I couldn’t afford to tip my hand—not to Rico, not to anyone. I rushed Rico off the phone and looked at the digital clock on Nicky’s desk. I don’t know why I bothered. It was already too late when I arrived at Dirt Lounge to do the cross-checking I now needed to do. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

  I got Miriam on the phone and invited her to tomorrow’s party. It happened that Ronnie would be off from work, but she was iffy about their attendance: “I don’t know, Moses. Ronnie’s always so drained when he gets home from the hospital.”

  “Come on, you guys love dancing. And there’s . . .” I drifted off purposefully.

  “There’s what?”

  “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  She tried prying the details out of me, but I steadfastly refused. I wasn’t the only pathologically curious member of the Prager family.

  “We’ll be there,” she promised, “even if I have to give him intravenous caffeine.”

  The nature of my call to Aaron was less innocent. Sure he’d help me buy a few bottles of wine as gifts. He didn’t ask why or for whom. I was just to come on over. Not overtly inquisitive or overly analytical to begin with, marriage and fatherhood had further blunted his curiosity. Aaron’s talent was single-mindedness. He could focus his attention so fiercely, so intently, on something—the wine shop, for example—that distractions were never an issue. I’ve admired him for that since we were kids. There’s no doubt in my mind that if Aaron and I had flip-flopped careers, he would have made detective first grade in spite of the obstacles. And instead of being area manager for a major pharmaceutical company, I’d still be going from doctor’s office to doctor’s office doling out samples and promotional golf balls.

  When I got downstairs at Dirt Lounge, neither Nicky nor Bear were anywhere to be found. I guess I was glad for that.

  AS I WALKED through the front door, Aaron handed me a glass of red wine. Having been thoroughly schooled by my big brother, I swirled the wine in the glass, checked its legs, its nose, admired its bouquet and sucked air into my mouth as I swished the fermented grape juice around my cheeks and over my tongue. I felt a pop quiz coming on.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “Peppery with hints of black and raspberries. A zinfandel?”

  “Bravo,” Aaron bowed slightly, kissed me on the cheek.

  “We’ll make a sommelier out of you yet.”

  “Watch your language around the kids.”

  But the kids were out with Cindy buying shoes for impending spring. I drove halfway across Brooklyn to Cobble Hill, where, Aaron claimed, the only decent wine store in the borough did business. During the trip, Aaron caught me up on family matters. I invited Cindy and Aaron to Pooty’s. Even when I mentioned my desire for him to meet my date, Aaron’s response was to the point: “No babysitter.”

  I wanted one good bottle of red, two good bottles of champagne and one top shelf champagne. Aaron thought I was nuts. It was going to cost me a small fortune. Of course he wasn’t exactly a disinterested party. Every dollar I spent at this shop was less money toward the down payment on a shop of our own. When he saw he wasn’t going to talk me out of it, he went about his task with his usual fervor.

  “So,” he said as I pulled on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, “what is it you wanna talk to me about?”

  He knew me, my big brother Aaron.

  “Let’s say I found out something really bad about Daddy. Would you wanna know?”

  “Daddy’s dead. Why would I wanna know?”

  “What if he wasn’t?” I kept on. “What if you found out he was a bank robber or a con man?”

  “It wouldn’t matter if he was a murderer,” Aaron said calmly. “I wouldn’t wanna know. He would still be my Dad. I don’t think you can deconstruct love, little brother. And if I knew, I think it would hurt me more than him. The conflict would be mine, not his.”

  That was the most intuitive thing I think I ever heard my brother say. It took me a moment to catch my breath.

  “What if it was Miriam?” I wondered. “What if I found out she was using heroin or cheating on Ronnie? Would you want me to tell you?”

  “That’s different,” he said. “I’d kick your ass if you didn’t tell me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d wanna know,” he barked. “It’s just different with brothers and sisters than with parents.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is.” So much for intuitive answers.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “For confusing the shit out of me.”

  I dropped him off and headed home.

  For once, the phone wasn’t ringing when I got in. I placed the box with the wine on the table and tossed today’s mail atop yesterday’s pile. Looking down at my metal cane, I resolved to replace it before the party. You had to love my brother Aaron, he hadn’t even noticed. Like I said, his attentions were focused elsewhere.

  February 14th, 1978

  ONLY WHEN I sat opening my mail over morning coffee did I realize it was Valentine’s Day. There were all sorts of discount coupons from florists, restaurants and candy stores mixed in amongst the bills and notices. I hadn’t gotten halfway through the pile when the phone rang.

  “Sully, geez, I meant to get back to you,” I yawned, “but you know how things get.”

  “I’m surprised I haven’t heard from ya,” he said like it was a coded message, “if ya know what I mean.”

  “I don’t,” I said plainly enough. “Should I?”

  “That’s okay,” he assured me. “Better to play it this way.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Just wanted to let ya know, there’s a reporter gonna call ya in the next few days. He’s doin’ a big piece on the Maloney kid’s disappearance. Feel free to give him anything ya got, anything at all.”

  I repeated my favorite phrase: “If you say so.”

  “Okay then. Take it light.”

  I didn’t bother asking why, of all the investigators searching for Patrick Maloney, a case only Katy and I knew I was still working, I had been selected to talk to the reporter. It was clearer now than ever I was being played, that I was to be a conduit through which certain information was supposed to flow. What that information was, I still hadn’t a clue. Frankly, I was a little too preoccupied to care. After I made sense of what was really going on with Patrick, maybe then I’d care. Maybe then I’d stop to feel the hurt of being used by the man I considered my closest friend. Sully? What did I care about Sully? He was a bigger stooge than me, a stranger. Betrayal isn’t something a stranger can do, but Rico was almost blood.

  Thinking I needed some professional help to sort through what I’d learned in the past twenty-four hours, I put in a call to Dr. Friar at Hofstra.

  “She’s unavailable at the moment,” the receptionist informed me as I ran a finger under the tab of a large brown envelope with no return address. “If you leave your name and number I can have her get back to you.”

  “Moe Prager, that’s P-r-a-g-e-r. Just tell the doctor I’m Nancy Lustig’s friend. My phone number is (212) 332-85 . . .” I grew silent studying the contents of the brown envelope. It appeared to be a photocopy of Francis Maloney’s NYPD personnel file and a redacted copy of an old Internal Affairs report. That’s what it appeared to be. What, in fact, it was, was the answer to another part of the puzzle. All at once I understood my bruis
ed ribs and Sully’s cryptic banter. I understood my role as a conduit and the lines I had been set up to parrot to the reporter. I might’ve understood it all a lot sooner had I been more conscientious about opening my mail.

  “Mr. Prager,” the receptionist lost patience, “can you please repeat your—”

  Without apology, I finished giving her my number.

  I could taste the coffee turning sour in my mouth. No, it was me that was turning sour, not the coffee. I went into the shower and stayed there until I felt like cream would no longer curdle in my hand.

  ARMED WITH MY spiffy new cane, I limped heavily into the offices of the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association. I made nice with Sondra, the woman who greeted me there, flirting, showing her my union card and purposely complaining about my wounded knee. It was a horribly manipulative way to act and maybe I didn’t have to lie to her about the ricochet my kneecap had taken when I threw my body over the little girl’s, but it put Sondra in the frame of mind to help me and help is what I needed. I had neither the time nor patience for the usual bureaucratic bullshit.

  She demanded I take a seat. And when, with great empathy, she uttered the phrase: “What can I do to help you?” I knew no red tape would stick to me today.

  “When I got on the job there was an old-timer who taught me the ropes. Now that I’m retired I wanted to return the favor and throw him a big party, you know?”

  “Oh that’s so sweet.”

  “Anyway,” I feigned embarrassment, “I’ve gotten most of the names and addresses of the guys who were on the job with him. But these three guys . . .” I handed her a paper with the names and addresses. “These three guys, I’m having trouble confirming their addresses. Now I don’t wanna cause you any trouble, but—”

  “No trouble at all,” Sondra assured me. “I’ll be right back.”

  I’d see soon enough whether Katy’s memory and Rico’s information were any good. I didn’t like the frown on Sondra’s face when she returned.

  “I’m so sorry, but we have no record of these two,” she said, pointing at two of the names. “Maybe there’s been a mistake. I can always double-check. But the address you have for Philip Roscoe is correct; 1287 Clay Pitts Road, Janus, NY 1—”

  “Thank you so much, Sondra. Phil is really the man I was looking for. The other two weren’t as important.”

  Standing too quickly, I winced in genuine pain. I didn’t see what it would accomplish to tell Sondra it was actually my ribs that hurt. My twisted expression simply lent an air of authenticity to my half-truths.

  DR. FRIAR RETURNED my call while I was back home resting up for the party. She expressed pleasure at receiving my message and seemed eager to help. She admitted to being somewhat haunted by our previous conversation. Had I any luck in locating the hypothetical construct who walked the perfect square? Her question made for a seamless segue. I explained I was very confused, and added the latest details.

  “Your confusion is perfectly understandable,” Dr. Friar laughed at the internal contradiction of her words. “This is 1978, Mr. Prager. Modern psychology is less than a hundred years old. Many of my colleagues will tell you it’s half as old as that. In either case, it’s in its infancy. And though we’ve made monumental strides in some areas, fully comprehending the scope of human sexuality is a daunting task. Human sexuality by its very nature is confusing and because of the complex balance between its genetic and environmental components, I’m not certain how far we will come in deciphering its code.

  “You are confused because a man who is apparently homosexual has, in the recent past, at least, successfully consummated heterosexual intercourse. This is not as unusual as you might think, Mr. Prager. Though a vast majority of homosexual men and, to a lesser but not insignificant degree, lesbians, claim to have known from an early age that they had a same-sex orientation, society frequently forces them to experiment with heterosexuality. We must never underestimate the power of societal forces brought to bear when considering human sexuality.

  “Maybe someday there will be a more gender-neutral orientation in our society, but as it stands today, almost every societal institution positively reinforces the heterosexual model while either ignoring altogether or actively condemning the homosexual one. Everyone from your mom and dad to your clergyman to your teacher to your friends work, either consciously or unconsciously, to protect and reinforce societal norms. There’s nothing sinister or overtly conspiratorial about it. It’s how societies function. Has anyone in your family married outside of his or her race or religion?”

  I said: “My cousin Arty wound up marrying a Puerto Rican woman from the Bronx who refused to convert.”

  “And what was your family’s reaction, Mr. Prager?”

  “My aunt and uncle sat shiva. They treated his marriage like a death in the family. He was dead to them.”

  “Can you imagine what their reaction would have been if your cousin had brought a man home?”

  “I don’t know,” I joked. “If he was Jewish . . .”

  “Jewish or not,” Dr. Friar pointed out, “no grandchildren. Although there is a lot of ignorance and mean-spiritedness wrapped up in the enforcement of taboos, there is an underlying, if often distasteful or irrational, logic to it. It is uncomfortable enough for people when they feel different in purely innocent ways: their hair is red when the other kids have brown or black hair. Their hair is curly. They have freckled skin. Can you possibly imagine the torment a young boy or girl must suffer when he or she has a same-sex orientation?”

  “I guess I can.”

  “Then is it really any wonder to you why this man was pushed to try on heterosexuality for size? Can you understand why he wanted the girls to keep the babies and marry him?”

  “To get the world off his back,” I said, “and maybe try to convince himself he really was straight.”

  “Very good, Mr. Prager. While some homosexuals have the tools and wherewithal to simply come out and present themselves to the world as they know inside they are, some live secretive, closeted lives. Others still, fight a desperate battle, trying to live, quote unquote, conventional lives. You might be surprised at how many homosexual men have wives, children, two cats, a dog and a house in the suburbs.”

  As Dr. Friar uttered those words, Nancy Lustig’s voice rang in my ears. Patrick, she had said, seemed to have a script, a blueprint that included a wife, children and a split ranch.

  “Of course,” the psychologist continued, “there are always hints and signs that all is not as it seems on the surface. Often, the charade cannot last. The internal pressures cause cracks and—”

  “Doc, if I recall our first conversation correctly, you said obsessive-compulsive neurosis is basically a reaction to profound anxiety and that sometimes sexuality and issues of self-esteem are the root causes of the—”

  “If only my students paid such careful attention,” she interrupted. “Now I must warn you I am loath to make diagnoses over the phone and without careful considerations of the individual dynamics, but it would not be inconsistent for someone facing the conflicts you’ve described to exhibit obsessive-compulsive symptoms.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Prager. I’ve got to caution you, the coming out process can be a very delicate period in a person’s life. Issues of sexuality are volatile and the pressures great. If you should cross this man’s path, remember what the labels read on shipping cartons containing antique china.”

  “Fragile,” I said. “Handle with care.”

  She wished me luck. And in spite of being sorely tempted, she regretted having to take a pass on my invitation to Pooty’s.

  PETE PARSON HID Katy’s roses in his office along with the gift-wrapped bottles of wine I’d purchased with my brother the day before. Pete’s partners, the ex-hippies from his old neighborhood, cleaned up real good. One guy, the one that looked like a baked potato with hair, wore enough gold jewelry to finance a small revolution. The other, clearly the numbers
man, looked like a mortician. Both, however, were genuinely thankful for my help. They had a lot of cash sunk into the place and were only too glad to throw this little party in my honor. But every time I looked over at the undertaker I could almost hear him thinking: “We shoulda given the guy a fucking watch and been done with it. We’re losing a fortune!”

  Believe me, I was tempted to tell him Katy was Patrick Maloney’s sister. Somehow I don’t think he would have appreciated the irony, Katy having introduced her younger brother to the charms of Pooty’s in the first place. But since Katy and I had carefully neglected to share that information with anyone at Pooty’s to this point, I resisted the impulse. Why spoil everybody’s fun? Someday, when this whole mess was behind us, we might be able to laugh about it over a drink.

  When I first arrived I found myself strangely disappointed at not seeing Jack behind the bar. In his stead was some burly bearded guy who looked like an escapee from Henry’s Hog. I asked after Jack and Pete Parson assured me: “Don’t worry, your boyfriend’ll be here later. He’s home putting cute pink ribbons on all your gifts.” Pete also asked if it was all right that he had had Jack invite some of the regulars. I didn’t mind and since it was a moot question to begin with, I was magnanimous as hell.

  Miriam and Ronnie got there at ten on the nose. That was Dr. Ronnie’s doing. He was a good guy. He was a sweet, caring man who loved the air my sister breathed, but he was so earnest it could make you nauseous. If the party was scheduled for ten, ten is when he got there. The concept of tasteful lateness was lost on my brother-in-law. Miriam, with her long sable hair and fierce green eyes, looked stunning but tired. So I could have Miriam to myself for a few minutes, I made sure to introduce Ronnie as Dr. Stern to the assembled crowd. Within thirty seconds, Pete Parson’s wife was chewing Ronnie’s ear off about her painful ulna nerve.

  “That was cruel,” Miriam admonished, smiling and punching my arm.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll rescue him in a few minutes.”