by Baxter Clare
She couldn’t remember. She could see the apartment building. On Lafayette. But couldn’t think of the building address. Or the cross street. Only Lafayette would come to her.
“Okay, honey. Don’t worry. Look. Why don’t you come over here—” The cop was directing her from her father with one large hand but she pushed his arm away.
“No!”
“Look,” the cop insisted. “He’s gonna be all right. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”
They both looked as the siren cut the corner. An ambulance jolted to a stop in front of them. Two men jumped out with a stretcher and Frank was pulled aside. The men lifted her father onto the stretcher.
“Dad?” she called.
He didn’t answer.
“Dad!” she screamed, running to follow but the cop caught her.
Wolinsky.
Frank opened her eyes.
She was a homicide lieutenant with the LAPD.
She was a forty-five-year-old woman, not a ten-year-old watching her father die.
Frank closed the folder and left the room.
CHAPTER 14
Annie looked up from her computer as Frank carried her cup into the squad room. Frank noticed one of the other detectives still reading his paper. That wouldn’t play in her squad room. She balled up the empty bialy bag and tossed it in the trash. That, however, was just like her detectives—rip through the food then leave the empty containers lying around like bones. The Times sports section was next to the coffeepot. Frank skimmed it. Looked like the Pats were going to the Super Bowl again, a dynasty in the making. No mean feat in an era of salary caps and free agents. More steroid scandals and basketball fights. Still no hockey.
Glancing around the room, she found Annie staring at her.
“Ya finished already?”
Frank shook her head. “Just needed more coffee.”
She trudged back to the lieutenant’s office, took the chair again. She ran her fingers over the glossy wood grain, wondering what she needed to read that she didn’t already know.
They’d turned onto East Ninth. She’d been walking next to him, a bag of groceries cradled in his right arm, her hand in his left. When he walked with her or her mother he always kept himself between them and the street. He’d explained it was an old custom from the days of runaway horses in the streets. But that night the danger came from the entrance to an apartment building. Boing! Like a jack-in-the-box the junkie had popped out and landed in front of her father.
Wielding a short, ugly pistol, he demanded, “Gimme your wallet!”
Her father dropped her hand, pushing her behind him. “Take it easy,” he said.
Frank peeked around his waist.
“Gimme your money!” the junkie yelled, dancing and jabbing his gun close at her father.
“All right! Jesus Christ, hold on! Let me put my food down.”
“I don’t care about your fuckin’ food!” the junkie screamed.
“All right, all right, I’m getting it!” her father soothed. He groped for his wallet. Frank watched the junkie’s feet. Tennis shoes with holes in them, dancing at the end of skinny legs, dancing close to her father’s feet.
“Come on, man, hurry up!”
Her father pulled his wallet out.
“Give it to me,” the junkie mumbled. “Give it here.”
Her father dropped the groceries as his body swung forward. The junkie jumped back, swearing. Her father swung a roundhouse left at the same time Frank heard the pistol shot. Her father fell onto a knee then tipped over.
“Oh, shit,” the junkie said. “Oh, shit.”
Frank had a clear look at him before he bolted down the street. His eyes were round and black. Greasy hanks of hair hung in his face and his skin was gray.
“Frankie,” her father said in an awful voice. “Go back to the store. Tell him to call a cop. Get ‘em here quick. Get an ambulance.”
“An ambulance?”
She turned to her father, saw his shirt darkening around his hands, staining through his jacket.
“Dad?”
“Frankie. Go!” He breathed hard. “Now. Run.”
And she ran.
She ran and she ran like the Gingerbread Man.
There was a knock on the LT’s door and Silvester poked her head in. “I talked to my Loo. You wanna ride over to Queens with me?”
Frank pushed a hand through her hair. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Let’s go.”
Frank scooped the papers into the folder, passing it back to Annie as they walked down the hall.
“Anything?”
“No,” Frank said. “Nothing.”
Annie dropped the folder on her desk. “Here.” She handed Frank the jars and their paperwork. “You’re deputized. Let’s go sign out a car. Maybe we can even get one with tires and a steering wheel. Psh. The crap they make us drive. Half the time they break down in the middle of rush hour and the other half they don’t even start.”
They got a plain brown Buick that choked to life, shaking like a wet dog.
“Cross your fingers,” Annie muttered.
Leaving the lot she dug a pack of espresso beans from her purse and held them out to Frank.
“No, thanks.”
Annie popped a handful, smirking, “Legal speed.”
“Need somethin’ on this job.”
“Tell me ‘bout it.” She chewed, her dark eyes roving the street. “Franco? Is that Italian?”
“Nah. Spanish. Spanish-German on my father’s side. Norwegian-Dutch on my mother’s. You?”
“Eye-talian. True and true.”
Frank deciphered “true and true” as through and through.
“I been called everything—guinea, dago, wop, greaser—I didn’t know my name was Annie until I was six. My father’s side of the family is from Naples and my mother’s from Salerno.”
“Ever been?”
“No.” Annie grew wistful. “I’ve always wanted to go, but I’ve never had the time. You know how it is. Kids, the Job.” She shrugged. “You got kids?”
“Nope.”
“I got two. Ben and Lisa. They’re good kids, despite me. Lisa’s at NYU—wants to be a lawyer. Can you imagine? My own daughter. Her brother’s a chef. You ever heard of Gramercy Tavern, up on East Twentieth?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Oh, it’s a nice place. Very fancy. They got foie gras and quail, salmon cooked in salt. They got eighty-five types of cheeses. My son’s the grill chef.”
“Quite an accomplishment.”
“Let me tell ya, he didn’t get his talent from me. That’s for sure. I cook outta a box. If mere weren’t Kraft macaroni and cheese my kids woulda starved to death. Musta skipped a generation, cause my mother’s baked ziti? To die for!”
Grizzled clouds spit snow, the flakes melting as they hit the windshield.
Jutting her chin skyward, Annie said, “Supposed to be more of this.”
“I heard. Guess I better pick up a real jacket somewhere.”
“You stickin’ around a while?”
“Yeah. At least until we get the print results back. Then …” Frank flipped a hand, checking Annie’s profile. “What about talking to someone at the cemetery? If you don’t have time, I could do it. Ask around, see if the groundskeepers have seen anyone at the grave, if there’s been things left there before? If so, how often? Stuff like that.”
Annie nodded, covering the street. “I got this kid I’m workin’.
That’s my priority, but maybe we can take a run out there when this breaks. Or you could ask on your own, let me know what you find out.”
“All right.”
They drove and watched, keeping one ear on the street, the other on dispatch chatter.
As the snow accumulated Annie said, “It’s starting to stick. Bet you wish you were home now, huh?”
“Nah, I like it. I miss the city. I think it’s prettier than LA.”
“Prettier? New York? Come on.”
“Y
ou’re right. Pretty is for flowers. New York isn’t pretty. It’s … good-looking. It’s handsome. Makes you stop and stare, you know? I like that no one smiles here. Until they know you. In LA everyone smiles. Until they know you.”
Annie chuckled. “If New York was a woman it’d be Madeline Albright.”
“Yeah.” Frank thought. “If LA was a woman it’d be Britney Spears.”
Annie banged the wheel and laughed. “How ‘bout this? If New York was a dog it’d be a pit bull. Straight outta Harlem.”
“If LA were a dog it’d be a papillon.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. One of them butterfly dogs, right? Always prancing and yapping? My neighbor down the hall has one. Makes me nervous as all get out. I’m afraid it’s gonna get loose and I’m gonna step on it and she’s gonna sue me for a broken heart. Okay, how ‘bout this. If New York was a flower it’d be a rose. Beautiful, but it’ll stick ya.”
Frank countered, “If LA were a flower … it’d be a hothouse orchid—gorgeous but forced.”
They went on like that, comparing the cities to vegetables, furniture, cars, even guns (New York was a Tech Nine, LA a nickel-plated twenty-five) until Annie asked, “Why stay if you don’t like it?”
“Never said I didn’t like it. I like the heat, the ratio of sunny days to cloudy days, the mountains—when you can see them—and I get enough of the streets to keep me honest. Shoot me if I ever get transferred to a white-collar division.”
“I hear ya. My last assignment was the Two-Oh. Upper West Side. I can take crap offa someone who’s been gettin’ crap all their life, but when these rich muhwhozuhs start beefin’ at me, I can’t help it. I wanna smack the snot out of ‘em. They had to get me outta there. I was a liability to the department.”
“That’s why you got a cherry assignment like the Ninth.”
“I don’t mind. In fact, I prefer it. Here you’re dealin’ with a spade, you know you’re dealin’ with a spade. Up there. Psh.” She waved a hand. “I ain’t got time for politician’. The city wants to pay me for that, they should make me mayor, not detective.”
Frank smiled out the window, glad to be on the street with Annie. Hell, she’d probably be glad to be with the Son of Sam if that’s what it took to get her out of that lieutenant’s office. But Annie was good company. A little talkative, but at least they had mutual ground.
Frank asked, “How long you been working homicide?”
“Nineteen years, cookie. There ain’t a cause a death I ain’t seen. And I’m ready to throw in the towel. Nine months, I pull the pin and I don’t look back. And I’m ready. I couldn’t a said that before Nine-Eleven.” Annie crossed herself. “But since then, it’s all been different. I used to love my work. Now? I still love it but it’s different. I’m different. I’m tired. I’m ready to let someone else clean up the messes. I done my share.”
“I’d say so.”
“You?”
“About fifteen.”
Annie nodded grimly. “You seen plenty, too.”
“Plenty,” Frank agreed.
CHAPTER 15
After they dropped off the evidence Annie’s cell phone rang. She answered while veering around a plumbing van and Frank braced herself against the dashboard.
“Vincent. Whaddaya got for me?” Annie listened. “Excellent. I’ll meet you at the station as soon as I can. Keep him uncomfortable, okay?” Hanging up, she asked Frank, “You want to go back to the station or I should drop you somewhere?”
“There a good hotel near the station?”
“Let’s see. There’s the St. Marks over on Third. For forty bucks you can have the room two hours, no questions asked.”
“Nice. But I’d like to stay a little longer.”
Annie laughed. “Let me tell ya, there’ve been times I’ve popped for it. Just for the pure luxury of stretching out on sheets for an hour and forty-five then a hot shower. Um-mm. There’s a Hojo at Forsyth and Houston. Sohotel on Broome. Used to be the Pioneer. I think it’s pretty cheap. There’s Hotel Seventeen up Third. I can tell you it ain’t the Crowne Plaza but it’s not a Super Eight, either. It’s clean and cheap. I think you gotta share a bathroom, though. Madonna stayed there.”
“Madonna shared a bathroom?”
“Yeah, imagine? You open the door to go and there’s Madonna on the can. ‘Oh, excuse me. Bu-ut, as long as you’re here, maybe I could I get an autograph?’”
Frank smiled. “Just take me back to the station. I’ll figure it out from there.”
When they arrived at the Ninth, Frank trailed Annie inside to use a phone book. She asked, “So I’m not gonna be steppin’ on your toes if I canvass the cemetery tomorrow?”
“Aw, hell, no. Go for it. But,” Annie warned, pointing a lacquered fingernail, “you tell me everything you find out. Even what you don’t find out, capiche?”
“Capiche”
After checking in with her squad, and talking to a very unhappy captain, Frank decided to try Hotel 17. Walking up Third Avenue, she passed the St. Marks Hotel, pleased that Annie Silvester was the detective on her father’s case. She was also pleased when she got to the hotel and saw that the Hazelden Rehab Center was right next door—if things got bad she wouldn’t have far to go for help.
Frank’s room was small and funky, but cheap, as Annie’d said. Willing to compromise on lodging, but not on what she wore all day, Frank hiked across town to Macy’s. Her long legs ate up the blocks as she hunched against the intermittent snow, warm from her exertion. A memory detached itself as she approached the monolithic department store—shopping there with her mother, having Coke and a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, a small Macy’s bag propped on the table between them.
The recollection stung. Frank found indignant comfort in her sad memories, but being back in the city of her youth revived happy memories for which she had no ready defenses. She realized that she’d been so busy resenting her mother that she’d forgotten how much she had once loved her. She stepped into Macy’s, assaulted by the warm, perfumed air. The smell hadn’t changed in forty years. Frank quickly bought a change of clothes and when she was done, ate lunch across the street. But the large Macy’s bag propped defiantly on the table couldn’t hide the little bag in Frank’s memory. She couldn’t remember what had been in the bag but her mother had beamed at it as if it held a queen’s riches.
Then came darker days when Frank was towed through the store in her mother’s manic wake, her mother stockpiling merchandise with delighted cashiers, only to leave empty-handed at closing time with barely enough money for bus fare. During the ride home to whichever project they were in at the time Frank had seethed in shame and anger.
The waiter delivered a carafe of wine a few tables down. Frank looked on as the man poured, reminded of a Ray Bradbury story where time was used in place of money. Some saved time, others spent it. The poor sap in the story was down to a few hours in his account. He’d rushed frantically about town, begging for time, but no one would lend him any. He ran out and died.
Frank paid her bill, thinking that was how her drinking was. All done, all her passes used up, none left. Pull the plug. On her way back to the hotel she walked Broadway all the way down to the Strand. For the last year, year and a half, she hadn’t been able to read anything not related to work. Now, with lots of empty hours to face, she thought it might be a good time to try again. For the better part of the afternoon Frank lost herself in paper and ink, finally leaving the store carrying a Strand bag larger than the Macy’s bag.
Dusk had become night by the time she returned to the hotel. Seeing the shared bath was empty, she warmed herself with a quick, hot shower. Ducking across the hall wearing only a towel made her think of Gail running around the Crowne Plaza in her pajamas. She wanted to call Gail, hear her voice. Instead Frank picked a book from the bag and snuggled under the covers. She wasn’t ten pages into it before the phone rang. She jumped up, hunting for the cell phone hidden in her jacket. It showed a local number.
“T
his is Franco.”
“Franco. Annie Silvester.”
“Hey. What’s up?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“Chi di spada ferisce di spada perisce.” Annie laughed. “‘He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.’ We’re interviewin’ my mope, we get a call about a homicide. The vie turns out to be the mope’s friend, the other guy we’re lookin’ for. The little girl’s father shot the crap outta him. Mope looked like a friggin’ colander by the time he got put outta his misery. You should see the blood. Someone’s gonna make a fortune cleanin’ that apartment.”
“Congratulations. Double-header.”
“That’s not the best part. We take a Polaroid of the vie, show it to my mope and ask if he knows him. I swear, Frank, he turned whiter than me. I thought he was gonna toss his cookies all over the box. I tell him the vie gave him up while he was bein’ shot, that he told the father where to find him, and I kid you not, he starts talkin’ faster than I can listen. Figures his chances are better with a New York jury than the girl’s father. And he’s right. Only I didn’t tell him we had the father in custody.”
“Sweet.”
“Yeah, no kiddin’, huh? What are you, my good-luck charm? You blow into town and bada bing, I close two cases. So I was thinkin’ while I’m on a roll here, I should head out to Canarsie with you tomorrow. How would that be?”
“That’d be great.”
“Good. Where you stayin’ at?”
“Hotel Seventeen.”
“I’ll pick you up around ten.”
“See you then.”
A few pages later the phone rang again. This time Frank recognized the number.
“Hey,” she answered.
“Hey yourself. How was your day?”
“Okay. Took the evidence to the lab with Annie, found a place—”
“Who’s Annie?”
“She’s the detective handling my dad’s case. Annie Silvester. Did that, then I found a place to stay. It’s funky, but like Annie said, ‘It ain’t the Crowne Plaza’ but it’ll do.”
