Pulse

by Michael Harvey

  “Thanks.”

  “We want to remember Harry.” Trent pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and fixed a set of reading glasses he kept on a cord to his treacherously long Beacon Hill nose. “And to that end, the Board of Fellows has decided to establish a full, four-year scholarship in your brother’s name. It will be awarded each year to a graduate from the Boston Latin School. The recipient will be chosen by a committee of Harvard and Latin School alumni, chaired by the sitting president and headmaster of the schools, respectively. Criteria for the scholarship will be leadership, academic prowess, athletic ability, outstanding character, and service to the community. The scholarship will be fully endowed in perpetuity by the university and serve as a testament to the life and character of Harry Fitzsimmons.” Trent folded up the paper and dropped the glasses to his chest. “We want this to be something special, Daniel. Awarded to an outstanding student from the city who might otherwise not have the means.”

  “That’s great,” Daniel said.

  Trent lifted a patrician finger. “There’s one more thing. We’d like to start the scholarship with your graduating class and we’d love for you to be the first recipient.”

  Daniel glanced at Keating, who had a smile slathered across his face like a smear of Irish butter. “Your academic record is outstanding, Daniel. Everyone here knows what kind of a person you are. And everything you’ve overcome. Frankly, we can’t think of a better recipient.”

  Trent reached for Daniel’s hand. “Daniel, I’m thrilled to offer you a place in our freshman class upon graduation from Latin School. I suspect you’ll make a great Harvard man.”

  “Thanks,” Daniel said, “but I’m not interested in going to Harvard. I mean, it’s a wonderful school and all, but it’s just not for me. Not with Harry having gone there and everything.”

  Trent smiled and nodded, still pumping Daniel’s hand as if that might force-feed some sense into the boy. “Why don’t you take some time and think about it?”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “Take it anyway. Please. We’ll announce the scholarship next week. See where things go from there. William.”

  Both men rose from their chairs and walked out into the hallway for a private chat about the moron who’d just turned down a free ride to Harvard. Daniel stole a look across the flat expanse of the headmaster’s desk. Behind it was an open door that led to a small, interior office. Daniel could see a row of pictures running down one wall and a man sitting in a chair just inside the door. Actually, he could see the man’s cuffed pant leg and a brown shoe, heel tapping impatiently against the nub of carpet. Keating returned from seeing Trent out and sat down again.

  “Well, Daniel.”

  “I know you want me to take the scholarship.”

  “Let’s talk about it when things are a little more settled.”

  “Let’s not. Tell Harvard I’ll go to their press conference and sing their praises, but only if they award the thing to Eddie Spaulding.”

  “Spaulding?”

  “That’s it. He gets the first scholarship when he graduates at the end of the year and we never had this conversation. Now, why don’t you go ahead and bring in the cop.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You have a cop stashed in the office next door. I recognize his shoe.”

  Keating narrowed his eyes and all the bonhomie was gone, if there had ever been any bonhomie in the first place. He ducked into the other room and returned with the black detective from the alley. The headmaster left without another word, closing the door behind him as he went. The cop took the seat Harvard’s president had been keeping warm and smiled.

  “Hey, Daniel. Remember me?”

  “Detective Jones.”

  “Call me Barkley. That was a nice thing you did just now.”

  “Eddie will do a lot more with it than I ever could.”

  “I’ll take your word on that. Thing is, I don’t give a shit about Harvard or Eddie.”

  “No?”

  The detective leaned forward, pressing his palms together and touching the tips of his fingers to his lips. “Let’s talk about the gun.”

  * * *

  He should have known better. Grace had told him as much. People see things. People know. And if people know, cops like Barkley know. It’s how they make a living.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it at the station?”

  “About what?”

  “Not gonna work, Daniel. Not gonna work at all. Have you been to bed?”

  “I slept a little.”

  “There was a fight here yesterday. You were in the middle of it.”

  “What does that have to do with Harry?”

  “Several people say they saw a gun. At one point you had your hands on it.”

  “I was in a fight, sure, but I didn’t see any gun.”

  “Daniel . . .”

  “I’m sure you’ve been in fights, Detective. It’s crazy.”

  “There were at least two students hiding in the gym. They told the cops you knocked it out of the guy’s hands.”

  “What guy?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You don’t remember any of this?”

  “I remember fighting a black kid. Had a silver tooth hanging around his neck.”

  Barkley took out a ballpoint pen and began to write in a notebook.

  “He was bigger than me so I grabbed his arm. He threw me around like I was nothing. I remember being on the ground, this kid coming after me when the cops showed up. The kid ran and that was it.”

  “Was a girl attacked?”

  “A friend of mine. A couple of other kids grabbed her, but she got away.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I’d rather not say. What’s any of this got to do with my brother?”

  The detective stopped writing and looked up.

  “She doesn’t know anything. If she did, I’d tell you.”

  Barkley clicked the pen a couple of times with his thumb. “Would you?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “So you didn’t see a gun?”

  Daniel shook his head. Barkley’s eyes flicked to the bag at Daniel’s feet, then settled back on the boy.

  “Why would I lie?” Daniel said.

  “Maybe cuz you’re thinking of doing something stupid.”

  “I’m not stupid, Detective.”

  “We have a suspect in Harry’s death. We’re looking for him right now.”

  A knocking came from pipes buried deep inside the walls, a scent creeping up from the building’s ancient heating vents. It was the smell of dry powder, his mother’s talced fingers reaching into the back of their old Buick and pulling his lungs from his chest, smiling and squeezing the pale pink sponges until all the air had bled out and Daniel was lying flat on the car seat, dead but alive, breathing yet unable to strike a breath while the detective sat in the front, feet up on the dash, and took notes. Daniel began to wheeze and cough like an old man, the sound harsh and rasping in his ears. Barkley reached over and patted him on the back.

  “You all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You want me to get you some water or something?”

  “What do you know about my mother, Detective?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  25

  SHE WAS standing on the corner of Washington and Essex, wearing a short yellow jacket with tassels, a tight blue skirt, and a floppy hat that hid one side of her face. A skinny Asian kid squatted on a box in front of her, working polish into her stiletto heels and buffing them to a high shine. The kid wore thin wool gloves with the fingers cut out and talked nonstop as he worked. The woman checked her makeup in a compact while keeping one eye on the street. Daniel slouched past, invisible to both of them.

  Grace was waiting at the King of Pizza. It was a storefront shop set up in the heart of the Combat Zone with maybe the best slices in the city. Grace was parked at a counter by the front window, sipping a Coke.
/>   “How did you know I’d come?” Daniel said.

  “I didn’t.”

  She’d taped a note to his locker telling him to meet her after he got done with Keating. She was right. Going into school today had been a bad idea. So he’d stuck the note in his pocket and headed out to meet her.

  “You want something?” Grace pointed to a couple slices of pepperoni on a paper plate.

  “Not hungry.”

  She pushed across a slice and Daniel took a bite.

  “What did they want?” Grace plucked a pepperoni off the other slice, then picked it up and nibbled.

  “They just wanted to talk about Harry. Make sure I was all right.”

  Outside the woman in the hat had finished getting her shoes shined and was talking to a tall man wrapped in a camel hair coat with a roll of dark fur around the neck. Daniel couldn’t make out the words, but he could tell the woman was angry. She stood on the corner with her hip cocked and finger raised, waving it in the man’s face then jabbing it in his chest. The man didn’t seem to notice the woman until he did, catching her flush on the jaw with the back of his hand. She bounced off the side of a building that housed fifty-cent peep shows and would have fallen into the gutter, but the tall man caught her by the elbow, holding her up so he could plant a platform heel in the small of her back. The woman skidded on her hands and knees, snapping a stiletto and banging off the side of a parked car. The tall man followed her into the street, taking off his belt and wrapping it around his knuckles. A cab flashed past, swerving around the two of them and laying on the horn. The kid with the shine box materialized out of nowhere, slipping between man and woman, laughing and joking, forcing the man to make eye contact while the woman struggled to her feet and wobbled toward the King of Pizza. She stopped in front of the window and put on her shoe with the broken heel, then walked lopsided to the far end of the block. Across the street, the tall man had put his belt back on and was smoking a brown cigarette, one foot up on the shine box as the Asian kid worked his polish and talked his magic.

  “We probably should’ve met somewhere else,” Grace said.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Was it far from here?”

  Daniel flicked a finger in the general direction of the alley where Harry had died some twelve hours earlier.

  “Let’s just go.”

  “I already saw the body, Grace. Can’t be anything worse.” Daniel picked up the slice in both hands, then put it down again. Grace watched.

  “You live close?” he said.

  “Five minutes. My dad doesn’t want me coming in here. He’s always driving past. Checking.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  “The girls are actually really nice. Besides, no one bothers me.”

  Daniel considered the shine of her skin and clean lines of her face and thought, Not yet. She turned so their knees were touching.

  “There’s something I want to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If I tell you, you have to promise you won’t do anything crazy.”

  “You mean with the gun?”

  Her smile flickered like a lightbulb that was loose in its socket. Her eyes fastened on Daniel’s book bag. “Is it still in there?”

  “What do you want to tell me?”

  “Harry’s killer was a student from English. A guy named Walter Price. At least that’s what I heard.”

  Walter Price. The name thrummed through his body and hummed hot in his brain. Daniel did his best to sound casual. “You know him?”

  “My dad says he’s a big black kid who hangs around down here. Says he’s a drug dealer or a pimp, but someone else said he’s just a wannabe. Anyway, the police are supposed to be looking for him.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “I told you. Big, black. That’s all I know.”

  “So you’ve never actually seen him?”

  “My dad says I have, but I’m not sure. Everyone thinks it was a robbery, Daniel. Just a freak thing. I’m so sorry.”

  “Why did you tell me?”

  “If the situation was reversed, what would you have done?”

  “Told you.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But you’re worried about the gun?”

  “I’m not worried you’ll use it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Yesterday you were talking about energy.”

  “Simon was talking about energy.”

  “Well, I think he’s right. Everything has an energy—people, places . . .”

  “Even guns.”

  “Especially guns. If you want to find the guy who killed your brother, be there when the cops arrest him, tell him what you think, whatever, that’s fine. I’ll even help you. But lose the gun first.”

  “There was a cop in Keating’s office today. He was asking about it as well.”

  “The gun’s gonna kill you, Daniel. At least it could. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

  A car pulled to the curb and laid on the horn. In the driver’s seat was a square-faced Asian man with white teeth and a black buzz cut.

  “Your dad?” Daniel said.

  “Shit.”

  It was the first time he’d ever heard Grace curse and he knew he’d always remember it.

  “I gotta go.” She pulled him away from the window so her father couldn’t see and took his face in her hands to kiss him. Not the sweet, storybook kiss from the record store. That was a lifetime ago, when they were still kids and anything was possible. This one was wet and sloppy and reeked of desperation, her mouth opening and tongue pushing through his teeth as she flattened him against a wall next to the ladies’ room. Their time together was running thin and Grace felt it as much as he did. Maybe more. She nipped at his ear and whispered, “I’m so sorry.” Then she ran out the door to the waiting car.

  Her father glared at Daniel as the ancient Ford crawled across King of Pizza’s plateglass window and was gone. Daniel rubbed his lips with the back of his hand and listened to his heart bump in his chest. He was suddenly ravenous and ordered another slice. He’d just gotten back to his seat when a tall man with curly brown hair and eyes the color of gravy slipped onto the stool beside him.

  “You mind?”

  Daniel shrugged and took a bite.

  “Good slice, huh?”

  Daniel remembered his warning to Grace. This was a place full of predators. And they didn’t discriminate between male and female when it came to whom they preyed upon.

  “Just leave me alone, okay?”

  “What are you doing down here?”

  Daniel grabbed his book bag and got up to go. The man reached out and gripped his forearm. Daniel tried to break free, but the man was surprisingly strong. Daniel thought about Simon, about men with layers.

  “I wasn’t gonna hurt you, kid. You know what, fuck it.”

  The man let Daniel go, turning on his stool and crossing one leg over the other. A small Italian with quick hands and a round face was behind the counter, throwing cheese on a pie. The man with the curly hair seemed to see him for the first time.

  “Mr. Sal, how you doing?”

  Mr. Sal looked up with four teeth and a full smile, nodding and talking while continuing to work on his pie. “Hey, Signor Nick. You wanna slice?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  Daniel sat back down on his stool. After all, it was the middle of the afternoon and they were in a pizza shop.

  “What do you want?”

  The man turned, surprised at first but getting past it quickly. “You’re looking for information on the college kid, the one that was killed last night.”

  “You heard us talking?”

  “You and the girl? Sure, but I knew anyway.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I saw you last night. You came down the alley and ran right into it. Started screaming and the cops grabbed you.”

  Daniel let his mind spin through the images—black buildings with windows lit up l
ike cats’ eyes in the smoky darkness, the crunch of a cop’s boot, Harry collapsed in a corner, face empty, gutted.

  “Name’s Nick Toney.” The man held out his hand. His skin was cool and dry, the wrinkles of his palm fitting neatly into Daniel’s.

  “I know, you think I’m some kind of freak, but I’m not. Mr. Sal . . .” Toney looked back toward the counter. “Am I some kind of freak?”

  Mr. Sal looked up again from his pie. “That’s Mr. Nick. Good man. Caan.”

  “Thank you.” Toney turned back to Daniel. “He thinks I look like James Caan. I don’t see it either, but what the hell. You mind if I smoke?” Toney already had his cigarettes out and lit up, pulling a piece of tobacco off his tongue and studying it before flicking it away with the flat of his thumb.

  “The man who was killed was my brother.”

  “Shit.” Toney lapsed into silence, shaking his head and staring at the capped toe of his shoe while he drew on the cigarette and exhaled.

  “My name’s Daniel.”

  “Daniel. Okay, good. I’m sorry, Daniel. I made a mistake and I’m gonna go.”

  “You had something to tell me.”

  “Did I?” Toney let more smoke drift from his nose, then dropped the butt to the floor, twisting it into the yellowed linoleum. Daniel stared at the inner black of the man’s left eye and thought about trying to go inside.

  “My brother’s dead, Mr. Toney, and nothing’s gonna change that. If you have something to say, just say it.”

  Toney wet his lips. “You know a detective named Jones? Big black guy?”

  “How do you know him?”

  “Talked to him very early this morning.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a photographer. Got a studio on the top floor of the Brompton Arms. Looks right over the alley where you wound up last night.”

  Daniel summoned up the face he’d seen in the window above the alley. The man with the camera. “You took pictures of the murder.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “I saw you with the camera. Did you give them to the police?”

  “Cops are looking for the guy right now, Daniel.”

  His name rolled off the photographer’s tongue in a way that made the air prickle, but that was just the vibe you got in the Combat Zone when you were sixteen and swimming upstream, a gun in your bag and the idea of killing a man running like a rat through the maze in your head.