by John Griffin
“And how are you involved?” Lisa asked.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell. That’s the deal, Lisa. You want him?”
“Yeah. I’d love to catch Professor Pilfer. What do you get?”
“Out,” Solomon said. “I just want out when it is done. You take him, I get to leave. That’s it. This guy … he likes me. That’s kept me alive. Also means I can’t quit on him. Keeps asking me to do another job.”
“You can say no.”
“You can’t say no to him,” Solomon replied, shaking his head. “Not to him.”
“I can get you out anyway, Sol,” Lisa said. She reached for his hand. “If you need it. You don’t need to do this.”
Solomon squeezed her hand and let go, leaning back. He took a pill out of his pocket and swallowed it with the beer. “I knew you’d go big-time when we were first partners. Knew you’d be a kickass detective. And vice, so soon. I’m proud of you, kid.”
“What do you need?” Lisa asked.
“Clean undercovers. Super clean. Smart, smart, smart fucking kids with training and enrollments scrubbed clean. No word of it anywhere. Never spoke to their parents about it even. I don’t care if you pull them right out of training before they get there or pick them up off the street. Ivy-leaguers with a history of taking risks and drive and ambition. Remember that Kevin kid? The IT wiz?”
“You want him?” Lisa asked, looking confused.
“No,” Solomon said. “Ask him to do the scrubbing.”
Lisa nodded. “How many do you need?”
“It’s a four-person operation,” Solomon said. “But I only need two — the fourth guy, a driver, he is already lined up. I have to recruit the other two.”
“I got two,” Lisa said. “One just finished Columbia law, got called to the bar and offered all sorts of gigs. Parents have money, so he joins the force. I think he wants to be president and he sees this as his way of getting there. I don’t know. Sounds stupid. A former NYPD officer as president?”
“That’ll work,” Solomon said. “The other?”
“You’ll hate him. Big talker. But Navy-trained surgeon straight out of Harvard Med. Saw some real action. Never shuts up.”
“Good,” Sol said.
“So how dark is this op?”
“Pitch black,” Solomon replied.
“Can I bring the Captain in on it?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone else?”
“Kevin, and no one else. No.”
Lisa reached back and ran a hand through her hair. “You’re asking me to outfit you with help for major crime on a regular citizen. You’ve told me you have already done a few others. How can I trust you?”
“What does your heart say?” Solomon asked.
Lisa smiled. “It says it is still beating because you shot a fucker in the back like a coward.”
“His back was to me. Didn’t have a choice. Didn’t know you were on the ground in front of him, either. So?”
“If we catch him, we are even. No more favors. Nothing.”
“Good,” Solomon replied.
“And if we don’t catch him — if this is some fucking con and I’m getting used to help you get away with something — you owe me a fucking Bentley.”
“Deal,” Solomon said.
A few days later, Solomon woke naked and wet, his sheet slick with sweat. He sat up and reached out to the window and opened it. The raucous noise of the neighborhood rushed in with the cool air. He stood and stretched, going to his front door, putting on his gray robe and grabbing his towel off the hook on the back of the door. He stopped before opening the door and went back to his bedside table. He took a sip of water from a plastic cup. He went barefoot into the hall and walked down the hallway, stepping over debris left over from the night before. In the bathroom, he got into the shower. His shower was short. The water was cold.
He stepped out of the shower, and a man in his seventies, sores on his feet and a pronounced limp, came in. “How’s the water?” the man asked.
“Cold,” Solomon answered as he rubbed shaving cream on his face and began to shave.
“Well, it’s the Y, not the Ritz,” the man said, removing his clothes and disappearing around the corner.
Solomon finished shaving and gathered his things and returned to his room. The cleaning staff were coming through the hall, taking perhaps half of the debris with them as they went. What they left behind looked like it might belong to somebody. Solomon unlocked his room and went in, disrobing. He went to his dresser — other than his bed, the only piece of furniture in the small, gray room — and from the top drawer he removed his underwear and socks, putting them on. From the second drawer he took the cleanest of his two white Oxford shirts and slipped it on, buttoning it up as he walked back to his door and took his lone suit off the hook. He finished dressing, tying his tie in a Windsor knot as he walked down the hallway to the stairs, descending and heading into the subway.
He came out of the subway on 118th street, finding a stout brick building nearby filled with medical offices. He arrived at his appointment a few minutes before 9:00 a.m. and was welcomed in by Kirsten, Dr. Kravitz’s assistant. Sharply at nine, Dr. Kravitz escorted an officer out of her office. The officer and Solomon nodded at each other as Solomon stood and went into Dr. Kravitz’s office. The doctor followed behind.
She closed the door. She was wearing a red pencil skirt, red shoes, and a white blouse. She sagged altogether unpleasantly into her chair and without hesitation began. “It’s been a year last week.” Solomon nodded. “Our next to last session. How do you think you’ve done?”
“Lost my condo,” Solomon answered. Dr. Kravitz nodded. “Lost my job.”
“No you didn’t,” the doctor interjected. “You have severe PTSD. You’re on disability.”
“I’m not a detective. I’m not a negotiator. I don’t do anything.”
“You’re all those things and may never be those things again, Solomon. Do you still…” the doctor said.
“Think about the incident?” Solomon replied.
“Yes.”
“Obsessively,” Solomon said. “I still see her face. Particularly at night. It was the fear — that she knew what was coming, that she knew that I—”
“That no one.”
“That I couldn’t save her. She had that terror on her face when we found her.”
“How is the switch from Paxil to Zoloft going?”
“Good,” Solomon replied, removing the prescription pill bottle from his breast pocket and shaking it for the doctor before returning it.
“Side effects?”
“Just fuzzy thinking.”
“Any other panic attacks?”
“No. Close, a few times.”
“Still carrying Atavan?”
“Yes,” Solomon replied, taking another bottle from his pocket and shaking it. “Have not used it, though.”
“Still having suicidal ideation?”
“Yes.”
“Plans?”
“None.”
“Good.” She made a note. “Some suicidal ideation, but no plans for six months.”
“Not since the jumper, no.”
“Your court-mandated time with me is coming to an end. Do you want to continue your sessions beyond next week?”
“No.”
“I think you should.”
“Will that be your recommendation to the court?”
Dr. Kravitz shook her head politely. “It is my recommendation to you. You are making good progress, but what you went through… The girl’s death; worse, the pressure Psycho placed on you to save her. The responsibility you took for that was not yours. The transition out of being a detective into the negotiator role was a noble gesture by the force, but not appropriate. Then the incident with the jumper. These are
not things anyone should work through on their own.”
“I’m not ready to go back to work?”
“No. And you may never be; but you might be if we continue to work together.”
Solomon nodded. The doctor continued speaking, and he continued answering for the next forty-five minutes. As 10:00 a.m. approached, she led him out of her office. He did not look at the officer waiting for the next appointment, and he left the building. He got back onto the subway.
He came out of the subway at the 46th Street station. He walked a few blocks north and stepped into The Dog and Duck, sliding onto one of a dozen empty stools. The only other people in the bar were two young men with beards wearing sunglasses in the dark. “Sean,” he called. The bartender turned to him, nodding. He was bald and round all over. “Labatt 50.”
“Cheap bastard,” Sean said, bringing a bottle to the counter.
“Frugal,” Solomon responded. “I’m here to get drunk in a bar. This is the least expensive…”
“Only people who drink this shit are you and those fucking hipsters who think 50 is fancy PBR,” Sean said, shooting a glance over at his other guests.
“Still doesn’t make me cheap.”
Sean brought the bottle over and threw it in front of Solomon. The bottle bounced around before settling. “Cheap Jew bastard.” Sean said, slowly enunciating each word. “You don’t even fucking pay for drinks around here.”
“You should be happy, then. I’m saving you money,” Solomon said, taking a sip. Sean laughed. “He back there?”
“Gah’head.” Sean said, turning his back.
Solomon took his bottle and went to the end of the bar, pushing his way into the kitchen. He passed two line cooks cutting vegetables. At the back of the kitchen he went through a freezer door. On the other side of the door was a simple fifteen by fifteen room with an oval table covered in purple felt and surrounded by eleven chairs. The room was empty except for a black man wearing a gray pin-striped suit who was standing facing the door.
“Reggie?” Solomon said, taking a seat.
“Reginald, yes.” Reginald responded, offering his hand.
Solomon shook limply, and Reginald sat. “Harvard undergrad, majored in economics.”
“We call them concentrations at Harvard.”
“Columbia Law school.”
“Correct.”
“You from around here?”
“No,” Reginald responded, leaning forward in his seat. “My parents are from Connecticut.”
“A nutmegger?” Solomon said haphazardly.
Reginald paused, considered for a moment and then continued. “I always preferred Connecticutian.”
“Why the fuck do you want to rob banks?” Solomon asked.
Reginald sat back. “When I was sixteen, I swam the English Channel. When I was eighteen I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro and Everest.”
Solomon waved his hands. “I’ve seen the resume. Thrill-seeker?”
“Maybe a little,” Reginald said.
“That’s what I see. But you know what my employer sees?” Solomon said, pointing skyward. “He sees something I didn’t see. He saw preparation. He saw months of planning to achieve something that only has meaning to you. That’s what he told me. That’s why he wanted to speak with you. Me? I’d have passed you over. But it isn’t my operation. It’s his.”
Reginald nodded. “And who is he?”
“Do yourself a favor,” Solomon said. “If you’re going to ask, ask him yourself. Don’t ask me or anyone else in the operation.” Solomon’s phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?” he said. “It’s him.” Solomon handed the phone to Reginald. “Don’t say a fucking word until I leave the room.”
Solomon stepped into the kitchen and closed the door. He watched the two chefs continue chopping vegetables, and he relaxed at the pace and rhythm. After a few minutes, one broke off to start clipping chicken wings. Solomon smiled, walked out front, and asked Sean for half an order of mild wings with no vegetables. “We don’t do half orders of wings, you dumb fuck!” Sean called back. “Cheap pussy.”
One of the chefs brought the wings to him as he stood outside the door. He ate them, cleaning the meat off the bones, breaking the bones as he chewed them, and then spitting them out and leaving nothing edible on the plate. He washed his hands in the sink and went back into the room when a buzzer went off in his pocket.
Reginald handed the phone back to Solomon. “Hello? Good. Yes.” Solomon hung up. “How’d it go?”
“I barely said anything.”
“Did you ask who he was?”
“I tried.”
“Did he volunteer an answer?”
“No. Just kept telling me that to be successful in this game you can’t be greedy. Asked me what I would do if I was in a vault with a hundred million dollars in gold and was told only to take two hundred gold bars. Would I take two hundred and one for myself? Would I take an additional thirty? Eighty? And then just deliver the two hundred?”
“And what did you answer?”
“I didn’t. He gave me the answer. Says that he is still doing this because he takes two hundred. And everyone — everyone, he said — who takes more than that gets killed. Not by him, he was quick to add — by the game. They get caught. Told me if I could learn that lesson I’ll make it, and if I didn’t I’d be dead anyway, but he’d fuck me if I ruined his operation.”
Solomon nodded. “Well, sounds about right.” He sat. “I was in that very situation.”
“How many bars did you take?”
“Dumb question. I’m still alive.”
“Didn’t even consider taking one for yourself?” Reginald said.
“You always consider it. But this is a game that requires discipline. And if you ain’t got that, you’re dead. You’ll get sloppy. You won’t stick to the plan. You’ll get caught, and you’ll get everyone around you caught.”
“I get it.”
“You’re in. You were probably in before you spoke to him. Lisa introduced you.”
“Lisa?” Reginald said, surprised.
“Yup. She introduced you. And I owe her a favor — several, in fact. So you’re in. Did he tell you the score?”
“Said it was better than a bank.”
“A million times better,” Solomon said. “All the money and valuables you could hope to find in a vault, locked away in a safe so easy to crack, a child could do it.”
“And where would that be?” Reginald asked.
“Old, rich people’s houses,” Solomon said. “You’ll fit right in.”
Reginald sat back. “Is it safe? To talk here, I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“So, you know Lisa sent me.”
“Yes,” Solomon said.
“How much do you know about me?”
“Like, do I know you’re a cop?”
Reginald nodded.
“Yeah, I know you’re a cop. You know I’m a cop?”
“On leave right now, yes.”
“You know I’ve also run a few operations for my employer?”
“Yes,” Reginald replied.
“Does this arrangement make you uncomfortable?”
“No. I knew what I was getting into when I signed up.”
“But you wanted to know that I knew you knew.”
“Something like that.”
“Listen, Reg. This is a great opportunity for you to make a big first splash. And me, I have my end. I hope to get back onto the force soon. I took these jobs to tide things over. I made some commitments, and I was stretched real thin.”
“The Psycho stuff?” Reginald asked. “Weren’t you supporting that kid?”
Solomon nodded. “And that’s it. I don’t regret it. But I’m close to getting back, and I want to wipe that slate clean, and this is it. This is how
I do it.”
Chapter Three:
Clive
“A New York City coroner,” Clive started, “sees everything. It’s why I left Barts and London.” He ashed his cigarette and then presented it to the young lady in the short skirt asking the questions. “Stressful as all get-out.” He tossed the cigarette into the street and made his way back toward the door, holding it open for the young lady. “Want to see one?”
“An autopsy?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Clive walked with the woman back to his office. There was a light oak credenza and a matching desk. “No chair?” the woman asked.
Clive shook his head but did not look up from his desk, where he was shuffling papers. “Never use it. Never here long. Let’s see. Missing person, unsolved homicide? No. Not normal enough. Motor vehicle collision? Too normal. Murder. Murder. Murder. Traffic accident. Ferry accident?” Clive paused, picking up the paper. He looked back to the woman. “That’s no fun. Oh, here’s something!” Clive held up a picture of a dead woman’s face. An X was tattooed on each eyelid. “It looks like she is a dead cartoon character! I wonder if that was her intent.” Clive opened the file and read. “Manic behavior, synthetic drug use, and positional asphyxia? That’s the one.” He hit a button on a contraption sitting on his desk. “Linda, get Chan and prep the examination room.” He paused. When no one called back, he hit the button again and repeated himself, loudly. When there was still no response, he yelled.
Linda came to the door. “That’s the fax machine, Dr. Maguire. I’ll get Dr. Chan.”
“Good,” Clive said. “And get this bloody fax machine out of here. Nobody uses fax machines anymore!”
Clive dressed in his green surgical gown while directing the journalist in how to do the same. When ready, they stepped into the examination room and toward the lone metal slab occupied by a white sheet pulled over a dead body. Dr. Chan was in the room shuffling surgical instruments, preparing papers, and adjusting the computer screen. Clive took a position on the side of the table opposite Dr. Chan. Clive nodded at the journalist and began. “The recorder, Dr. Chan.”
Dr. Chan hit ‘record.’
