Summer birthdays were never riotous affairs—half of my school friends would always be away at camp or off on family vacations when the day fell. If you were lucky you might rustle up a half dozen boys for a trip to McDonald’s, followed by a matinee at the local movie theater. We’d watched Raiders of the Lost Ark for my twelfth birthday but this time around, on the day I officially became a teenager, there was an especially conspicuous lack of festivity. No school friends, no Happy Meal, no Ark-stealing Nazis and melting of faces by God-fire.
When I woke up, instead of having a present to unwrap, my mom handed me a card with some money folded inside. My parents had never given me money for my birthday and I would find out later from my brother they’d actually bought me Asteroids for my Atari but that, all things considered, the game being a shoot-’em-up in which the object was to blast apart objects of a roughly circular nature, my father had deemed the gift inappropriate and returned it to the store.
Anyway, what I’d really wanted was Pac-Man, so a few days later, that’s what I bought, Mom taking me to the store, although I told her I could easily cycle there on my own. But no, she insisted on driving. And then, seeing the looks cast at us from the faces of our fellow townsfolk, looks that suggested there was a foul smell in the air, quickly I understood why. Something was rotten in the state of Roseborn. Over the past several days, rumors had started to circulate and something had soured.
The looks on everyone’s faces? That foul smell in the air? It was me.
NEW YORK, 2008
The dark rump of the Lower East Side, seventeen minutes after McCluskey’s message, a rare day of Manhattan work (Brooklyn her bread, the Bronx Hannah’s butter), homicide two floors above the Chinese car service, brick tenement building with red-painted fire escape, body still inside, probably nothing, probably drugs, but not much happening elsewhere, and besides, she likes to keep in with Manhattan South Homicide. The sound of screaming children issues from the schoolyard at the corner of the block, another same-old day about to start at the sound of the bell, and fifty yards up the street, outside the crime scene, more of the same-old as well, street gift-wrapped in yellow-black tape, two uniforms on the door, crowd milling about, the neighborhood starting to stitch its own story into the breeze, and McCluskey comes out, losing the gloves, clapping the first uniform on the back, shaking hands with the second, his eyes reaching for the distance, long breath as he buttons his suit jacket, rubs his nose back and forth, and then, eyes returning, sees Hannah there, waves. Smoothing his gray crest of hair, McCluskey stoops to climb through the tape—POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS—surprisingly nimble for a ten-ton truck of a man.
Hey, Aitch, how’s tricks?
Detective McCluskey. Detective Colón not with you today?
What, I’m not good enough for you now? He’s off procuring vital supplies.
Glazed or jelly?
Jeez, Hannah, you freakin hacks, you’re so full of clichés. That’s what you think, after what I just feasted my eyes on?
Sorry, Detective.
Yeah, well, at least whoever did this was good enough to take the bath part of bloodbath to heart.
So the body was in the tub, right?
Sure. Nine-tenths of him. But look, Colón can fill you in. I gotta go make a call, says McCluskey, pulling his phone from his jacket, but then looking at the screen as if he’s forgotten how to turn the thing on, tilting his head back to her, Oh, one more thing, Hannah—did someone tell me you were writing a book?
Supposed to be. True crime. Apparently that’s my wheelhouse.
You got a particular case in mind?
A couple of thoughts, nothing fixed.
You know what I think? You should do the Angie Bell homicide.
Sure, only I need something with an ending, McCluskey.
Oh, I’ve got your ending. It’s the psychic, no-brainer. The facts that little creep knew? What, from the magic fairy vibes in the air? No way, Hannah, that guy’s about as psychic as my big Irish balls.
McCluskey stands there, looking at her as if, after the gentle toss of a softball, Hannah has failed to go deep, hasn’t even taken a swing.
Hey, what gives, Hannah? Something up?
No … Go make your call.
McCluskey puts his phone back in its pocket. Come on, Aitch, this is me.
It’s just … Patrick, you know, my husband? He still can’t find another job. So … I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.
Tough freakin economy, Hannah. My neighbor, young go-getter, something in banking, the guy gets canned four, five months ago, now he lives out of his Lexus, trunk full of fancy suits, shaves every morning in Burger King … But Patrick? You know, I only met the guy once but I remember he cooked us the best brisket I ever ate. So maybe I was high on the meat vapors or something but he seemed kinda solid to me.
He is. Patch is. Solid.
And he’s not taking it out on you. Because, you know …
No, nothing like that.
Any money worries? If there are, just say the word, Aitch, I can …
On a cop salary?
What? I’m living the Miller High Life now. The boys are all packed up and gone. Hey, Lindy just started a business, she does this tai chi massage thing.
Tai chi?
Yeah, something like that. So anyway, shit’s good, Aitch. It’s like a Cinderella story, only this one’s Aladdin.
Go on then.
Rubs to riches.
She smiles. Cute, McCluskey, how long have you been holding on to that one?
It’s been stinking up the locker a few days, I won’t lie to you.
Thanks, she says. Moneywise everything’s good. But thanks.
Whoa, then that means you were talking about emotional stuff … Wait, about that phone call I gotta make … But McCluskey doesn’t reach for his phone.
Emotions? she says. I wouldn’t do that to you, Detective.
And he turns his head, eyes reaching for the distance again. Look, Hannah, he says, I’m sure you tell your husband you … whatever, you love him and everything, right? But make sure he knows you’ve got his back. No matter what. No matter what. Me? I’ll take loyalty every time. McCluskey nods as he looks up the street, squinting, and then lifting one of his double-big fingers. Hey, here he comes now, he says.
Hannah turns and sees Detective Colón, paper bag in one hand.
Just in time, says McCluskey.
So those are your vital supplies? Inside the Dunkin’ Donuts bag?
McCluskey snorts. Freakin hacks, he says. You know, Aitch, it just so happens they make excellent coffee, OK?
* * *
EVERY MEAL AT RED MOOSE Barn could begin with free snacks to nibble, popcorn served in brown paper bags. Sometimes the popcorn would be covered in salt caramel, on other nights buttery and dusted with flecks of crispy chicken skin. Or customers might be greeted with a mixture of nuts freshly roasted that day and flavored with an herb-scented sea salt. Rosemary, chives, sweet basil. Miniature pretzels, right out of the oven, cheddar and black onion seeds studding their crusts.
He writes it all down, saving it for later before clicking onto his email. And then, seeing the message and opening it in a hurry, Patrick stares in excitement at his computer screen, this new arrangement of pixels—
TribecaM Thu 6/5 9:58 a.m.
Re: Contact Form submission from Red Moose Barn
Dear Patrick,
Congratulations on your stunning website. Since stumbling across it several weeks ago, it has become by far my favorite place to spend an hour. I’m a terrific admirer of your blog.
Listen, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time—particularly yours—so why don’t I come out and say it:
I have a small business proposal for you. I promise you this could be very interesting indeed, and I’d value the opportunity to put my case face-to-face if you think that might be possible. Even if nothing were to come of it, I’d appre
ciate the opportunity to meet.
However, I realize that a message such as this one, coming out of the blue, could come across as creepy. (What if I’m some kind of weird food blogger stalker?) I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, so here’s my suggestion. Allow me to buy you lunch at an exceedingly expensive and perfectly public restaurant. At the very least you receive a good meal and some fine wine in return for your valuable time.
Now, forgive me if I’m wrong about this, but some of your recent recipes/techniques have hinted to me that you might be familiar with the cuisine of Jean-Jacques Rougerie (I loved the close-up of you spraying melted chocolate from a paint gun), and I just happen to be able to score a reservation at Le Crainois. Jean-Jacques is a very close personal friend of mine.
What do you say? How about one o’clock sometime? I can do tomorrow and Saturday. Or otherwise any day next week?
Yours,
A fan (TribecaM)
It feels like something is flowering in Patrick’s chest, the air blooming inside him. He reads it again. He reads it again. He feels the tears trying to push their way out.
Perhaps TribecaM works in publishing and wants to suggest a Red Moose Barn cookbook. He starts to think about test kitchens, photo shoots, book signings, cooking demonstrations on daytime TV …
Sure, Paddyboy, don’t go leaping too far ahead of yourself.
But food bloggers get offered book deals all the time. He sees them interviewed in magazines, on morning TV. They even made an entire movie out of one woman’s food blog.
Although what if it all means nothing? What if nothing comes of this?
At the very least you receive a good meal and some fine wine in return for your valuable time.
He wipes his eyes, checks the website for Le Crainois and discovers that the next available lunchtime slot is over seven weeks away. To snag a dinner reservation requires taking part in an online lottery. In April, Le Crainois was voted the number one restaurant in the world by a food magazine, and ever since Jean-Jacques Rougerie has been featured in every newspaper and magazine that has ever breathed a word about food. Several that have not.
This is what the wait has been for, thinks Patrick. This is it. The point at which everything changes.
* * *
OUT OF THE SUBWAY AT Twenty-Third, daylight surrendering to taillights and headlights, the walk home one long block, one short, a few golden minutes, Hannah’s workday slipping away, and then into the building, fresh flowers in the lobby, and the doorman Jorgé there to greet her, Hello, lady, I hope you had a pleasant day, Thanks, Jorgé, you have a good night, and she makes it into the elevator with no neighbors in tow, thirty seconds of peace, a few golden breaths, not exactly a wildly successful day, not really much point.
A man was found dead in his bathtub yesterday on the Lower East Side, hacked to death in an apparent drug-related attack, police sources said.
The victim, whose name was withheld pending family notification, was found at 8:43 a.m. in an apartment at 47 Ludlow Street.
Police responding to an anonymous phone call recovered drug paraphernalia including scales.
And that’s it, ten hours’ work reduced to fifty-eight words for the New York Mail’s CRIMINAL RECORD column, page sixteen or so, maybe as high as twelve, now that Obama v. Hillary is mostly played out, but when they go big they go big, Hannah missing the thrill of her weeks after the bloodbath in Washington Square (Jeez, what a job) when it was she who broke the news that the innocent bystander had been killed by a bullet from the gun of a cop (But oh, what a week), because it is she, Hannah Jensen, who cracks wise with the Manhattan South Homicide squad.
Open door, kiss husband, sit down, kick off shoes, maybe he seemed brighter, Patch stepping back into the kitchen, tiptoeing away as he does every night after their kiss and a confirmation of okayness, a few more golden minutes, which, for some time, she has been needing more and more, not that her life spent with Patch has become dark, but he is saddened and hurt, and she can’t fix him, but she loves him, and sometimes after a hard day at work, a tough job, she just wants to …
McCluskey would take loyalty every time. And she’s loyal, surely Patch knows that she’s loyal. She throws her shoes in the closet and steps into the kitchen.
You seem in a good mood, she says. Did something happen?
His back to her, stirring risotto. No, he says. Well, an email. But it might not mean anything.
Tell me about it.
I’ll tell you if anything comes of it.
Good, she thinks, good, then everything’s taken care of, and she tells him about her morning on the Lower East Side, the body in the bathtub, details McCluskey passed on to her that didn’t make the story, because just another drug homicide, another humdrum New York murder, not really much point.
PATCH
The perpetrator had confessed, the victim had effectively absolved me of blame and so, legally speaking, I was off the hook. And yet, much to my father’s chagrin, there was still a case to be heard because I hadn’t yet been cleared of any wrongdoing by the second most important authority of the land, the Supreme Court of Public Opinion.
While I rested my fractured skull at home and Mom fussed over me, Sean returned to soccer camp and my father continued his work at the Ulster County district attorney’s office, the town of Roseborn began to gather—at supermarkets and gas stations, in hardware stores, diners and bars—to sift through and scrutinize every last detail of The Swangum Shooting.
Dad would arrive home each night in a terrible froth, additional snippets of grapevine gossip having trickled down to him, and although he directed his anger physically at the front door and then vocally at the checkout-line numbskulls of town, I felt that the party his anger was really turning toward was me. But to be fair, the election was fast approaching and the Supreme Court of Public Opinion holds some sway in such matters.
Before too long, every time my father looked at me, I started to see my approval rating dropping. Yes, at the very least I was guilty of stupidity. Hadn’t everyone been saying for years that Matthew Weaver was trouble? How had I gotten myself into such a preposterous situation?
It was now becoming clear that the self-appointed jurors of Roseborn would find me guilty of something—my crime, at the very least, was one of first-degree association—but it was not only the legal opinions of a misinformed public that my father had to contend with, because then opinion became rumor and rumor became lie and soon my father’s froth turned to fire.
What in hell’s name? It was nothing but a pack of lies to suggest the police had stumbled across the bodies of several dead animals near the scene of the shooting, animals tortured to death and their limbs removed. (In truth, the police may have found some frogs in pickle jars. And I certainly remember us saving a few bones and antlers we’d picked up here and there.) Goddammit, how dare anyone suggest that his son had helped tie Hannah to the tree, this was slander of the worst kind. Are you damn well kidding me? If Patrick had really fired half the shots did these imbeciles not think for one second that the police would have arrested him? Why not ask the girl herself, listen to her own words?
And then, one morning, Joe McConnell, chief assistant district attorney, rising Democrat and, until recently, a shoo-in for election to the New York State Assembly, awoke to discover that someone had tipped a gallon of yellow semigloss all over the hood of his blue Chevy Impala.
Yes, the electorate had spoken. Our motor vehicle was dripping with poll numbers. And it was time for us to leave.
At least that’s how it felt to me at the time, a violent shift to the dramatic, our family chased very suddenly out of town by paint, a protest aimed squarely at me and my spinelessness.
Although when I turned thirty, my brother organized a bar crawl for me and a few friends and at the end of the night, I was speaking to Sean about these and other events from our childhood and he told me, over the space of several whiskey shots, that there was more to the story of our leaving Roseborn tha
n I’d ever understood at the time.
And how did Sean know all this? Well, apparently our dad told him everything one night—also in a bar, whiskey also the culprit—after they’d both attended a fund-raiser for Bill Clinton’s 1992 presidential campaign.
Sean told me he had long suspected the truth of the matter—from the moment right after everything unraveled a few years after our exit from Roseborn. But I had suspected nothing at all.
Anyway, back to 1982, my father had long remained friends with an old college roommate, another lawyer with a small practice in Portland, Maine, and after a series of increasingly buddy-buddy phone calls, conversations my father strategized as carefully as his electoral campaign, it was agreed that the two of them would join forces.
Which meant that not only was my father withdrawing from the New York State Assembly election but also that he would be switching from prosecution to defense.
I suppose the whole episode had prompted an ethical shift.
Hence, or at least as it seemed to me at the time, my spinelessness didn’t just run the family McConnell out of town, it also ran us clean out of New York State, a six-hour drive across Massachusetts and up through New Hampshire, all the way over to the fronded coastline of Maine.
* * *
THE REASON WHY MY FATHER’S election to the New York State Assembly had, until a certain Wednesday in August 1982, been a near-certainty was not only because he’d been laying the groundwork for years but also, and more important, because my father was so enormously well liked and respected.
Joe McConnell was a smart-yet-approachable man. Joe McConnell had a firm handshake and steady eye. Joe McConnell was both supremely confident and solidly down-to-earth.
These were just some of the tricks of the trade he was keen to pass on to his sons, because a political career wasn’t something my father dreamed of only for himself. No, Joe McConnell, son of a Long Island baker and his German immigrant wife, had a longer-term scheme in mind.
The McConnells were going to be the next Kennedys.
Grist Mill Road Page 7
