Rose-colored Glasses

by Downing, John

  “He tried to stab you and you took the knife away from him?”

  “No.”

  “What, exactly, did happen?”

  “He threatened me with it.”

  Perhaps, Langley thought, this wasn't going to turn out to be as bad as it had first sounded.

  “Why did he threaten you?”

  Cooney shrugged. “I don't know.”

  “Are you saying you came to work one morning and Burden just walked up to you and started menacing you with a knife?”

  “Something like that.”

  “For no reason at all?”

  “I called him a couple of names.”

  “What names?”

  “What difference? I mean, you ain't going to ask me this in court.”

  “The prosecutor will.”

  “Well,” Cooney said. “I called him a rat. And a fink.”

  “That's pretty harsh language, Mr. Cooney,” Langley said. This was the way he would play Cooney in the courtroom: straight man to Cooney's clown. “So Burden grabbed his knife and came after you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You said he didn't stab you and you didn't take the knife away from him. So how did it end?”

  “We sort of both calmed down.”

  “I see. Why did you call Burden a rat?”

  “Because he ratted me out. He turned me in for not being on the job.”

  “Were you upset about that?”

  “Fuck, I was upset about it. Wouldn't you be? But that wasn't what burned my ass.”

  “What burned your ass, Mr. Cooney?”

  “He didn't hafta turn me in. See, I had went for a coffee break. While I was away, a troubleshooter came by the playground. All Burden had to do was tell the troubleshooter, ‘He ain't here.’ Meaning me. That's all. ‘He ain't here. He was here a minute ago. He musta went across the street to get a cuppa coffee.’ Not even that. Just ‘He ain't here.’ That way he don't hafta lie. Instead, he told the troubleshooter, ‘I ain't seen Cooney for three hours.’”

  “Did you lose some pay?”

  “Fuck, yeah, I lost some pay. I was docked a whole day's pay.”

  “Why do you think Burden turned you in?”

  “Because he's a prick. Because he's one of these guys who think everything's gotta be just so. Reminds me of a nun I had in the fourth grade. You hadda draw your margins half an inch wide. Make them too wide or too narrow and you hadda do the whole fucking assignment over again. Burden thought it was stealing if you left a coupla minutes early. Jeez, who am I stealing from? I ain't stealing from him, that's for sure.”

  “Did you know he felt this way? I mean, before.”

  “Yeah, I knew.”

  “Why then were you surprised by what he did?”

  “Because I didn't think he'd do it. I figure, All right, so he might not cover for me. But I didn't think he'd turn me in. I mean, like I said, all he hadda say was, ‘I ain't seen him.’ That ain't no lie. ‘I been cutting the grass’‌—‌or whatever‌—‌‘and I ain't been watching Cooney.’ He didn't have to fink on me. I mean, like, we're on the same team. You know, like, one hand washes the other. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. I mean,” Cooney concluded, apparently having exhausted his supply of aphorisms, “I woulda covered for him.”

  “Have you covered for him?” Langley asked.

  “The guy works the whole fucking eight hours he's here. Is that crazy? Afraid to steal a minute from the City of New York.”

  “So he threatened you with a knife, but then you settled it peacefully?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “Did he ever threaten you any other time with the knife?”

  “No.”

  Did you ever call him names any other time? Langley thought. He asked, “Did you ever see him threaten anyone else?”

  “Yeah.”

  Great. “Who?”

  “One day this kid was riding his bike around the playground. Burden told him to stop. There were a lot of little kids in the playground, and, I guess, Burden was afraid one of them might get hurt. It was Luray's job to deal with the kids, but he was in the park house, like always, sitting on his ass. Anyway, the kid wouldn't stop riding the bike and the next time he passes Burden, Burden goes like this”‌—‌Cooney gave a sideways shrug of his shoulder‌—‌“and sends the kid flying. The kid gets up, his hands bleeding, his pants torn; says he's going home to get his father. Burden tells him to bring his mother, too, and a couple of his uncles and cousins, that he would be here. After the kid left, Burden went into the park house and got the knife out of his bag. That was the first time I seen him with it.”

  “What happened when the kid's father came?”

  “He never did.”

  So twice (if you wanted to count the kid's father) Burden had threatened people with the knife. But neither time had he cut anyone with it. Overall, good news or bad?

  “Where did Burden keep the knife?”

  “I told you. In a bag, a canvas bag he carried back and forth to work.”

  “Where did he leave the bag when he was working?”

  “In his locker.”

  “One of these?” Langley walked over to the lockers.

  “The middle one.”

  “Did he keep the locker locked?” There were scratches around the handle of the middle locker, where it might have been forced. The police?

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of lock?”

  “The fuck should I know?”

  “A combination lock or one that worked with a key?”

  “I just told you I don't know. I never paid no attention.”

  “Tell me about last Wednesday.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “What time did you leave work?”

  “I'm supposed to work until five o'clock.”

  “Did you?”

  “I left a little early.”

  “Around 4:15.”

  “Says who?”

  “Luray and Burden.” Langley threw in Luray just for the hell of it.

  “I don't want anyone to get the idea that I make a habit of leaving that early. But it was a special day. It was the day before Thanksgiving. I left early so I could pick up a turkey. Besides, it looked like it was going to snow.”

  “So you left around 4:15. Did Luray leave at the same time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you leave together?”

  “No. I walked to the train station. He went to his car.”

  “Did you say anything to Burden before you left?”

  “Me? No.”

  “Did Luray?”

  “Just as we were leaving he sort of began ragging Burden.”

  “How so?”

  “Like: ‘You be sure to stay until five o'clock now, Burden. Don't leave a minute early or we'll report you to the Mansion. If it starts snowing so hard you can't see your hand in front of your face, don't leave.’”

  Litchfield Mansion (“the Mansion”) was the Brooklyn headquarters of the Parks Department.

  “You didn't join in on this?”

  “Me? No.”

  “Did Luray make a habit of teasing Burden?”

  “No. I was surprised to see him do it. I leave Burden alone. Usually, Luray does too.”

  “Why should Luray care if Burden stays until five o'clock or until midnight if he wants to?”

  “It was just so fucking stupid, this day even more than the others. The sky was black as soot. Any fool could see it was gonna snow or rain any second. Nobody was in the park and nobody was gonna come, especially not a troubleshooter. Burden's work was done, so why the fuck stay? I'm no fan of Luray's, but sometimes when you see stupidity you gotta speak out.”

  “Why don't you like Luray?”

  “He's another prick. It's like he's one of these superior people. And you're nothing. Burden didn't lord it over you. You knew he thought you were shit, but he thought everyone e
lse was shit, too.”

  “Including himself?”

  “What? Yeah, I think so. Luray thought everyone was shit except himself. And then he didn't do any work. At least Burden worked. If he had just done his work and left me alone, I wouldn'ta minded him.”

  “Did you know Burden walked home from work?”

  “The fuck would I know that?”

  “How did he usually leave?”

  “I never paid him no mind.”

  Meaning you were long gone before Burden left. “Where did he go for his lunch hour?”

  “He sat on that bench right there.” Cooney pointed out the window to a bench near the seesaws. “He ate his lunch and then he read.”

  “Every day?”

  “Every fucking day.”

  “Last Wednesday too?”

  “Every day.”

  “What about when it rained?”

  “Then he stood just outside the door under the overhang, and ate his lunch and then read his book.”

  “He didn't come inside the office at all?”

  “Well, there was no place to sit down here anyway, since Luray was always here. But no, Burden didn't come in here at all. Except for a few minutes after lunch, when he locked his book away.”

  “He locked the book away?”

  Cooney shrugged. “I guess he was afraid Luray or me was gonna steal it.”

  ***

  Langley climbed the steps of the porch and rang the bell. While he waited, he turned and looked across Oriental Boulevard toward the ocean. The water was gray, reflecting the clouds that had been threatening rain all day. Even the sands of Manhattan Beach looked gray. He hoped he would be finished here and back in his car before the skies opened up.

  Hearing a sound behind him, he turned. The door was opened by a woman wearing a severe charcoal dress that was buttoned all the way to the throat. She looked, he thought, like a character out of Rebecca.

  He introduced himself. “I went to college with your son, Mrs. Luray. How is Charles?”

  Somehow he knew it would be “Charles,” not “Charlie.” Definitely not “Chuck.”

  “I'm afraid he's still not very well.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Luray. May I see Charles?”

  “Well…”

  Seeing her hesitate, Langley said, “I may not get the chance to talk to him again for some time.”

  As a child, he could not lie without blushing. Even as an adult, he had difficulty telling a straight-faced lie, at least in his private life. It was a different story, however, when he was acting in his professional capacity. Now he had not lied to Mrs. Luray: in fact, if she refused to let him see her son, he would not get the chance to talk to him for some time, probably not until he put him on the stand. On the other hand, the inference contained in his remark to Mrs. Luray and the reality of the situation were at least a light-year apart.

  “I guess it's all right,” Mrs. Luray said, “if you promise not to excite Charles.”

  She stepped aside to let him enter. The house, like the woman, looked like something out of the nineteenth century: walls papered in an oppressive pattern of trellised flowers, doorways framed by heavy velvet drapes, furniture trimmed with‌—‌what was it called?‌—‌chintz.

  She escorted him up the stairs to the door of her son's room, and knocked. Without waiting for a reply, she opened the door and entered.

  “There's someone here to see you, Charles. An old friend‌—‌”

  Langley cut her off. “Charles and I haven't seen each other since we were at Columbia together.” He extended his hand.

  Luray shook it tentatively. Even if he had known this guy in college, Langley thought, he wouldn’t have recognized him. Luray's whole head, including most of his face, was swathed in bandages. Only his eyes, nose and mouth remained visible.

  “Well,” Mrs. Luray said, “I'll leave you two boys alone.”

  When she had gone, Luray gave Langley an appraising look. He gestured to his throat. He mouthed the words: Can’t talk.

  Picking up a tablet that lay by his side, he wrote: DON'T REMEMBER YOU.

  “I don't remember you, either,” Langley said. “My name is Owen Langley. I'm Terence Burden's lawyer.”

  Luray wrote on the tablet: PLEASE LEAVE.

  “I'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Luray.”

  Luray underlined what he had written.

  “You'll have to answer them eventually‌—‌under oath.”

  Luray pointed to the door.

  Langley crossed to the door. Pausing with his hand on the knob, he turned and looked back at the room.

  Either Luray had a much younger brother or this was his own room unchanged from the time he had been a teenaged boy. Model airplanes hung from wires attached to the ceiling. Pennants covered the wall above the bed. The Brooklyn Dodgers. Luna Park (the late, lamented amusement park at Coney Island). Columbia University.

  “We did go to college together, Mr. Luray,” he said. “I was a freshman at Columbia the same year you were. So was Burden's brother.”

  That got a reaction. Langley couldn't read the look in Luray's eyes. Surprise, yes; but something else, too.

  “Didn't… know… he had… a brother,” Luray said. The words came out in a croak.

  “His brother is Terence DeBrough.”

  “Not… likely.”

  “It's true. Burden is adopted. Did you know DeBrough at Columbia?”

  Luray shook his head.

  “Will you answer some questions for me, Mr. Luray?”

  Luray indicated his throat.

  “I'll try to make it as easy for you as possible,” Langley said. “You can shake your head yes or no.”

  Luray pointed to a chair next to the bed. Langley sat.

  “I understand you were driving through the park when‌—‌what?‌—‌you saw a man and a woman struggling in the road.”

  A nod.

  “Did you recognize the man?”

  A shake of the head.

  Langley didn't like this. He was telling the story for Luray. On the other hand, it gave him the chance to ask leading questions.

  “Did you recognize the woman?”

  Luray shook his head. Shouldn't there have been a further reaction? Langley thought. A display of indignation perhaps, as the implication of what he was being asked sank in; namely, that he had known Laurel Rose.

  “What did you do?”

  “Sat… in… the… car,” Luray said. He grasped his throat as he spoke, as though to force the words out.

  “You didn't immediately run to the girl's aid?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Why not?”

  “… afraid.” Luray lowered his eyes.

  “Well, that's understandable, Mr. Luray. Who wouldn't be afraid? How long did you sit in the car?”

  “Not… long… too long.”

  “But eventually you got out. By now, I assume, the man had dragged the woman off the road and into the woods.”

  Luray nodded.

  “And now you went after them?”

  Another nod.

  “Were you armed, Mr. Luray?”

  A shake of the head.

  “You went without a weapon? That was very brave of you, Mr. Luray,” Langley said, careful to keep even a hint of sarcasm from creeping into his voice. “Not many men would have had the courage.”

  Luray shrugged.

  “I'm wondering why you didn't stop to grab a spanner, a tire iron.”

  “No… time.”

  “You were afraid for the woman's life?”

  A nod.

  “Why? Did you know the man had a knife?”

  Luray shook his head.

  “How did you know it wasn't two lovers roughhousing?”

  “Assumed… the… worst.”

  “It seems you were right,” Langley said. “I understand it was pretty dark. How were you able to see the
man and the woman?”

  “My… headlights.”

  Headlights? Burden had been captured by Luray's headlights as he struggled with Laurel in the middle of the road?

  “What happened next, Mr. Luray, after you went into the woods to help the girl?”

  “Too late… already dead… struggled… with… Burden… he… kicked me.” Luray pointed to his throat.

  “Did you recognize him?”

  A nod.

  “And then what, Mr. Luray?”

  “He… tried… to… kill me.”

  “With the knife?”

  “If… the… police… had… not arrived…”

  “Did you recognize the knife?”

  Luray appeared confused by the question.

  “Did you ever see Burden with a knife?”

  A nod.

  “Where?”

  “The… playground.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “… threatened… Cooney.”

  “With the same knife he used to kill the girl?”

  A shrug.

  “Have the police asked you if you could identify the knife?”

  A nod.

  “You couldn't?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Are you saying it wasn't the same knife?”

  “Might… have… been.”

  “I understand the attack took place around 4:45. I believe you're supposed to be on the job until five.”

  “Left… early.”

  “At what time?”

  “Four… thirty.”

  “Cooney says you left at 4:15.”

  “Might… have… been.”

  “Why did you leave so early?”

  “… snow.”

  “You wanted to beat the storm?”

  A nod.

  “Then what were you doing still in the park thirty minutes later?”

  “Thought I'd… forgot my… glasses… park house… went… back for them.”

  “What kind of glasses? Reading glasses?”

  A nod.

  “According to the police report, your car was parked on the bridge, pointed in the direction of East Drive.” There was no such statement in the report Langley had received. He wanted to see if Luray would confirm or deny it. “From that position, you couldn't get to the playground unless you circled the whole park.”

  “Found… glasses… slipped behind… seat cushion.”

  “Where were you when you first thought they were missing?”