Cry Baby

by David Jackson

  ‘You said you understood. You told me you knew what the numbers meant.’

  Doyle reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out the folded piece of paper he showed to Albert earlier. He unfolds it and thrusts it in front of Albert’s face.

  ‘I thought I did, Albert,’ he lies. ‘I really thought I did. But you see more than I do, don’t you? You’re smart, Albert. Smarter than I’ll ever be. I wanna help you. Truly I do. But you need to help me first. You need to tell me what you know about these numbers.’

  It’s now or never. Doyle can see it in Albert’s face. He’s either going to spill what he knows or he’s going to tip over the brink again, just like he has done every other time he’s been quizzed.

  Doyle holds his breath and waits. Keeps the piece of paper as still as he can in front of Albert’s face. Thinks to himself, Do it Albert. Do it for you. Do it for me. Help us both.

  And then the phone on Wilson’s desk bursts into life and the spell is broken. Albert lets out a cry of frustration and starts slapping himself about the head. Doyle snatches the paper away. He wonders what the hell it takes to break through to this guy, and feels his own frustration at not being able to establish some form of meaningful communication. It’s making him angry, not at Albert, but at himself, and he finds himself unable to contain it when he next speaks.

  ‘Okay, Albert. Enough. I’m tired and I’m sick of this. Go home. If you change your mind about opening up to me, then you can come back. But not until you’re ready to tell me everything.’

  Albert is crying, and continuing to slap himself. Doyle looks over to Wilson for assistance, but the sergeant is busy on the phone. Doyle reaches out to grab Albert’s arm, thinking he may have to manhandle the poor bastard out of here, but Albert dances out of his grasp. He takes off, wandering aimlessly around the lobby area and muttering to himself through his tears.

  ‘What?’ says Doyle, irritation evident in his tone. ‘What the hell are you saying, Albert?’

  Albert raises his voice. And that’s when it happens.

  ‘Two-three-one-A-five-something,’ says Albert. ‘Two-three-one-A-five-something.’

  Doyle goes suddenly cold. He can feel his guts tighten up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Two-three-one-A-five-something.’

  Slowly, Doyle raises the paper again and stares at the symbols it holds.

  ‘Two-three-one-A-five-something,’ Albert repeats.

  An ‘A’? That’s an ‘A’? Well, it could be, sure. But why a letter? Why not a digit like the others?

  ‘Albert, why do you—’

  But Albert has moved on to another level. He is making loud keening noises, and he rocks his head back and forth as he stomps around the lobby. Other cops appear from the adjoining rooms to see what the hell is going on.

  ‘Cal,’ says Wilson. But Doyle holds a hand up to silence him. Something is happening here, and whatever it is, he needs to let it unfold.

  And then: ‘Three-zero-four-D-two-C. Three-zero-four-D-two-C…’

  He says it again and again and again, and Doyle is still mystified. Still can’t get a handle on this.

  ‘Cal!’

  He looks around at Wilson, who is holding out the phone toward him. ‘It’s one of my men,’ says Wilson. ‘He’s off duty right now, but he got talking to a friend of his who thinks he’s seen Albert in the area.’

  Doyle takes the phone. He continues to watch Albert going through his weird act while he speaks into the receiver.

  ‘This is Doyle. You got a line on Albert?’

  He listens. Lets the off-duty cop speak. And what he hears he doesn’t believe.

  ‘What? Say that again.’

  The words come once more, and still they carry the same jaw-dropping impact.

  Doyle hands the receiver back to Wilson, his eyes wide. And then he looks again at Albert, still parading around the room and issuing his strange mystical chant.

  ‘Oh my God,’ says Doyle. ‘Oh, Christ.’

  11.10 PM

  Just wait till Cal hears about this, he thinks.

  Tommy LeBlanc, lady killer extraordinaire.

  To be honest, he expected this to be a washout. He thought coming here was a mistake. He should have gone home and crashed out. But all the stuff Doyle was saying has been preying on his mind all day. Every time another cop looked at him, LeBlanc wondered what opinions were being formed or confirmed.

  It shouldn’t bother him – he knows that. These are modern times. A person’s sexual proclivities, or lack thereof, should have no bearing on whether that person is deemed fit to do their job. But at the same time he knows it’s not as simple as that in an organization like the police force.

  He’d be less bothered if he were indeed gay. But the situation now, if Doyle is to be believed, is that people have an inaccurate view of him. He’s as straight as they come. He likes girls and they like him. It’s just that he’s put all his energy into his work lately. He’s ambitious. Nothing wrong with that.

  So, anyway. This is to prove Doyle wrong. Him and all the other gossip-mongers who think they have a right to put people into fictitious pigeon-holes.

  And yourself, Tommy?

  What?

  I mean, isn’t this a little bit about proving something to yourself too? Confirming what you already know – because this is not news, of course – that you’re definitely one of the guys? That you’re interested in sports and cars and women and that you’re definitely not interested in musicals, even though that performance of Fiddler on the Roof the other night was pretty damn good?

  No, it’s not. I don’t need to prove anything to myself. I’m comfortable in my own skin, thank you very much. This is for all the shallow dickheads who will only accept they’re wrong when they see me with a woman on my arm.

  Not that she’ll end up on my arm. Or any other part of my anatomy, for that matter (see, guys, what I did there with the smutty testosterone-fueled jokiness? How about that Knicks game, huh?) At the most I’ll get a phone number. Maybe her photo on my cell phone. But that could always lead to other things on another night. And at least I’ll know – I mean, the guys will know. The rumors can be put to bed, even if I don’t get this girl into bed (see, again with the bawdy male wordplay).

  She’s nice, this Erin. Not the kind of girl he expected to meet in a place like this. In a way, that made it easier to approach her. A girl sitting alone on a barstool at the end of the night in a seedy bar, you expect her to be a hooker. Or at least a girl of questionable morals. You expect her to have as much flesh on display as is possible without contravening public decency laws, and to start talking dirty every time she opens her mouth.

  LeBlanc doesn’t like that type of girl. I mean, don’t get me wrong and all, they can be great to look at, right? What kind of guy doesn’t like to get his pulse all revved up by the sight of a half-naked woman, huh? Sure. That’s a given, right, fellas?

  Maybe it’s the way he was raised, by strictly religious parents. It was drummed into him that modesty is a virtue, and that girls who abandon it are destined for hell – even if they do seem to have an immense amount of fun en route. He has never quite managed to shake off that indoctrination. Girls who make the first moves have always worried him.

  Erin, though, is different. She is pretty. Desirable without the need to be half undressed. In fact, it is surprising how little attempt she has made to appeal to the drifting male clientele. I mean, that’s a big coat she’s wearing. No danger of over-exposure there.

  He could go for a girl like this.

  But, as the old saying goes, what’s a nice girl like her doing in a place like this?

  Well, that’s okay too. No need to doubt her intentions. He has already asked those questions. In a subtle way, of course. She came here to meet a guy. No, don’t get me wrong: not just any guy, but a particular guy. And he stood her up, the bastard. She came all this way to have a drink with a guy who said he might be able to offer her a job, and he stood her up. How d
o you like that? Some people.

  Oh, and she had no idea what this bar was like before she arrived. New in town, you see. Had no idea it was renowned as a pick-up joint. Still, might as well have a drink or two before heading home again, alone and forlorn. Nothing wrong in that. Anyone would do the same.

  Yeah, she’s nice.

  So maybe he shouldn’t have lied to her.

  See, people can be funny when it comes to cops. Sometimes they hate them. Other times, even when they’ve got nothing to hide, they can feel uncomfortable around an officer of the law. He doesn’t want Erin to feel uncomfortable. So, for tonight at least, he’s a hotel clerk.

  He picked that particular job because he thought it unlikely she would be find it interesting. The last thing he wanted was a shitload of questions regarding a form of employment about which he knows very little. But in fact the very next thing out of her mouth was a query about which hotel he worked for. So he said the Waldorf. And then she wanted to know if he had met anyone famous there, and so he had to pretend that he had signed a non-disclosure agreement, which sounded so unconvincing it provoked him to change the subject immediately, while bitterly regretting the fact that he had lied in the first place.

  But what the hell? This isn’t going anywhere. And even if it does, he’ll fess up. He’ll explain to her that he was so enamored with her that he didn’t want to jeopardize the possibility of a relationship. That’s what he’ll say, and she’ll love that. She’ll appreciate his honesty and the strength of his desire for her, and she’ll tell him how cute she finds it. He’s got it all figured out.

  ‘So…’ he says as he watches her take a delicate sip of her drink, ‘What are your plans now?’

  Good question, he thinks. Puts the ball firmly in her court. Gives her an opportunity to say something like, ‘That’s up to you, lover boy.’ Okay, maybe not that. Maybe something not quite so cheesy. But something that at least hints at a continuation of this togetherness into the small hours.

  She takes a look at her watch. He’s noticed she does that a lot. Why does she keep doing that? How is my animal magnetism not enough to stop her obsessing about time?

  ‘I should be going home soon,’ she says. ‘Long day. And another long one tomorrow. A girl needs her beauty sleep.’

  ‘Looks like you’ve had plenty of that to me,’ he says, a little too quickly. Shit! Talk about cheesy. What kind of line is that, you freaking idiot?

  She turns her gaze away, looking faintly embarrassed. As well she might after receiving such a moronic comment. Okay, Tommy, what are you gonna do now to rescue this situation, you putz?

  ‘You want, I could give you a ride home,’ he says. ‘My car’s outside.’

  A step too far? She hardly knows me. Why would she agree to get in a car with a complete stranger at this time of night, especially since she seems so respectable?

  ‘I… Well, we’ve only just met, and, well…’

  See? Told you. A ridiculous suggestion.

  ‘That’s okay. No problem. Just thought I’d do the gentlemanly thing.’

  She looks him up and down, a hint of a smile on her lips. ‘You know what, I actually think you are a gentleman. You’re a refreshing change. Most guys, coming up to a girl all alone in a bar, well…’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he says. ‘Conversely,’ he adds, because ‘conversely’ is a good word, he feels, an intelligent word, ‘most women who sit alone in bars…’

  She laughs then, in a way that suggests she has entered into a secret pact of understanding with him. They are now both inside the circle looking out, and that makes all the difference.

  She stares at him a bit longer. ‘It’s okay. I can get a cab. It’s probably way off your route, anyhow.’

  I would drive to the ends of the earth for you, is the next answer that jumps to mind, but this time he catches the ludicrous statement before it escapes. He decides he needs to stop watching so many old B-movies.

  ‘Why, where do you live?’ There. Sensible, down-to-earth question. No need for the melodrama.

  ‘I’m not sure I should tell you. You might have ideas.’ She says this playfully, as though toying with him, and he feels a tugging sensation in his pants. Okay, he thinks. Don’t fuck this up now. Don’t tell her that, actually, you do have ideas. Lots of dirty, disgusting, depraved ideas. See, guys? See how I’m just one of the boys?

  But before he can think up a better response, she tacks on a question of her own: ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Greenwich Village,’ he says without hesitation, because he doesn’t want her to think he has anything to hide. ‘West Thirteenth and Seventh Avenue.’

  She blinks. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘No. Why would I be kidding about my address?’

  ‘I live there! Well, not there exactly, but the next block. On West Fourteenth.’

  Now it’s his turn to blink. This is destiny. Has to be. Somebody is trying to tell him something and he needs to listen. The stars are all lining up.

  ‘Seriously? That is so weird. We’re practically neighbors.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I guess we are. Howdy, neighbor.’

  ‘Howdy. So… you still want to turn down my offer of a ride?’

  ‘Well, now, I think that would just be downright rude, don’t you? I accept your kind gesture, neighbor.’

  He smiles. Tonight is working out just fine. Better than fine.

  He forgets about what came before. The homicides he has been investigating. If he weren’t so tired and his mind so preoccupied with this woman next to him, he might allow his thoughts to flit back to the events of the day and the realization that there is a murderer still out there somewhere. A female murderer.

  But he doesn’t. And even if he did, his mental picture of the killer would be of someone utterly unlike Erin.

  Erin is just too darned nice.

  11.17 PM

  When he first steps into the apartment, it all seems so normal. A home like any other. No signs of anything untoward.

  But then Doyle starts to search. He looks in the bedrooms. He looks in the bathroom. And gradually it starts to become apparent to him that something is very wrong here. This is not normal at all. This is a place of disturbance, of derangement, of extreme unhappiness. This is a place where bad things have happened. A place to send chills up the spine.

  Doyle takes his time. Searching and searching. Putting the pieces together. Trying to understand.

  Some of it he gets. But not all. Not the whole picture. There are things that still need to be explained, and there is only one person who can do that.

  When he believes he has done all he can here, he starts to head toward the apartment door. He needs to radio in, make some calls. He opens the door, but turns to take one last look at the apartment that has so much of a story to tell.

  That’s when he sees it.

  The tiny keyhole. Set into the wood-paneled wall on his left.

  He walks back to it. Taps on the wall. Hears the hollowness that betrays the closet space behind.

  It takes him a few minutes to find the key, placed on a shelf in the kitchen area.

  He inserts the key into the hole and turns it. Swings the door open, wincing as it creaks eerily.

  It is a simple utility cupboard.

  It contains a vacuum cleaner, cleaning products, cans of paint, a rolled-up rug, some framed paintings, spare light-bulbs, an ironing board…

  Oh, and a body.

  A dead body.

  Freed from its confines, it rolls and flops into the room, staring up at Doyle as if demanding to know who would dare disturb its peace. Doyle recognizes the face. He knows exactly who this is. Another piece of the puzzle slots into place, but still leaves many questions unanswered.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  The words are not Doyle’s. He spins to confront their source, standing there in the open doorway.

  ‘Who are you?’ Doyle asks.

  The old man cannot take his eyes from the co
rpse as he speaks. ‘My name,’ he says, ‘is Samuel Wiseman.’

  11.34 PM

  ‘You can’t back out now, Erin.’

  She knows this. She doesn’t need reminding. It’s getting close to midnight. There isn’t enough time to get rid of this guy and find somebody else. Not without rushing it and making mistakes that will get her caught.

  But…

  A cop, goddamnit!

  Why did he have to be a cop?

  She didn’t know this before. He told her he was a hotel clerk, and she didn’t question it. Why would she? Who goes around saying they’re hotel clerks when they’re not?

  Cops, that’s who. Dirty sneaky cops who are out to prevent me from keeping my baby alive.

  A few minutes ago she had told him to pull over at a random building on West Fourteenth, saying it was her apartment. She told him she’d love to invite him for a coffee – a coffee, you understand; nothing more – but her mother was staying over. And then, surprise, surprise, he suggested going back to his place instead, only a block away. Again, you understand, just for coffee, nothing more, just coffee.

  Well, she had said, I guess I could risk a coffee, and off they had driven. Here, to this apartment building, outside of which this man called Tommy had hesitated before getting out of the car because he had something to tell her. A confession, if you will.

  So she asked what it was, and he told her what it was. Which was that, erm, actually he had lied about being a hotel clerk, and that he was in fact a detective in the NYPD.

  A detective. In the NY-fucking-PD.

  Aaaargh! How more unwelcome could that revelation be?

  She did her best not to panic. Oh, she said in her best unruffled voice, you’re a cop, so why didn’t you tell me that? And he said he hadn’t wanted to frighten her off. To which she could easily have responded, Frighten me off? You’ve just made me crap my pants, you prick! Is that any way to deal with a murderer? But she didn’t. She said all the things she was expected to say, about what a silly fool he was, and about how sweet his attitude toward her was, and all the while laughing coquettishly like a character in a Jane Austen novel.