by S. J. Rozan
“If you’re there, who’re the rice-eating gorillas? That my sucky sources told me about?”
“They work for the girl’s pimp. They called the ambulance, the dispatcher must’ve called the cops.”
“Oh, you’re dogging it, man, you’re not even trying. How did they know where to go? You told them! You called!” He was petulant, an angry child.
“You stupid shit. They have GPSs.”
“The gorillas?”
“The girls.”
“In her phone? I trashed it, moron. Next?”
“Not in her phone.” I had to tell him, but I didn’t have to tell him the truth. “In her shoe.”
“In her fucking shoe? What the hell for?”
“Jesus, why do you think? In case they need help, like they run across a nutjob like you. A girl disappears, her pimp can find her.”
A pause. “You are fucking kidding me.”
“I’m not in a funny mood.”
He suddenly was, though. He cracked up, howled like an electronic hurricane. “You are fucking kidding! Chips for the chippies! Holy fucking dumb-ass shit! I never thought of that. Hey.” Theatrically suspicious: “You wouldn’t be making this up?”
“You should’ve done your research.”
“Well, shit. Well, fuck. So you didn’t get to find her, my frozen fortune cookie?”
“No.”
“Goddamn, that sure does butter my nuts. I thought you’d enjoy that one. But you saw her, right? You were there? When they brought the body out?”
I’d been fishing when I said “sources.” What happened in Red Hook he could’ve gotten off a police scanner, and I thought he might be using one now. But then he’d know Angelique was alive. He had eyes, reporting in. Someone who’d been stationed here waiting for me had seen Ming and Strawman break into the tailor shop, had split before they brought Angelique out. Before they could see the EMTs treating a live girl, not processing a body. Split so he wouldn’t be seen? Or because he assumed, as I had, that she was dead, and, having made his report—it was gorillas, not me—he was done?
“Yes,” I said, “I saw her. And I didn’t enjoy it.”
“Okay, you caught me. I really thought you’d hate it and be seriously pissed off.”
“I am.”
“Dynamite! Then I guess it doesn’t matter who found her. Too bad about her, though. Angelique, she was everything Lei-lei said she was, back when me and Lei-lei were partying. Now why don’t you go take a snooze, big boy? You wanna be in shape when the third quarter starts! It’s gonna be nonstop action!”
“Let me talk to Lydia.”
“Why? You didn’t find Angelique, the pimp’s gorillas did. The Pimp’s Gorillas, hey, we ought to make that flick! Kick-ass, fucking kick-ass!”
I could hear it: he was high. Soaring, racing. Coke, probably. That’s what the wildness was about, the difference from before. Jesus, you headcase, do another line. Stoned could be bad, unbalanced, could make you more dangerous. But if that’s where you are, stay there. Don’t come down. No black depression, no life’s-not-worth-living. Yours isn’t, won’t be when I find you. But not yet.
“I solved your goddamn clues,” I said. “I got there. Without a GPS.”
“Hmm. Hmm, hmm, hmm. You know, you’re right. And you, Smith, when you’re right, you’re right. And when you’re not, you still fucking think you’re right! But hey. Okay. Yo, sweetheart, you busy? He wants to talk to you.”
A few endless seconds. Then, “Bill?”
“You okay?”
“Yes, baby, I’m all right.”
Baby?
“You sound low, but not as low as you could be.” To let her know I’d gotten it about the basement.
“It’s not just me. Anyone would have a hard time staying sunny for long in a place like this.”
And before I could answer, the robotic sneer: “Aww, she’s depressed again. You better speed it up there, Prince Asshole.”
“Tell me where to come, I’ll be there in a flash. You and I can have it out. Isn’t it about time for that?”
“Oh! Oh, no, not yet. We’re only at halftime. Aren’t you enjoying the game?”
“No.”
“Yeah, see, it’s a pain in the ass when you lose, isn’t it? Especially, when you do everything right and you lose anyhow. Any-fucking-how. Which you’re gonna do, by the way, bro. Gotta admit you did okay so far, but I just have this feeling you’re not gonna make it in time. See, time, ti-yi-yi-yime, it’s not on your side, no it ain’t! Wow, would you look at that, you’ve just about burned up six of your twelve hours!”
I caught myself glancing at my watch. Why? I knew he was right. I’d felt every second draining away.
“Oh, and the clues get harder now,” he said. “Did I say that? Second half is always tougher, if the game’s good. Me personally, I wouldn’t lay odds on you. But maybe I’m wrong! We have to play to the end to see. Now, go plug that phone in. You don’t want it running out of juice. And hey, by the way, you still don’t know who I am, do you?”
“No.” But if I kept him going, gloating, sticking it to me, maybe he’d give something away. “I’m working on it, though. Like, for one thing, I get the feeling you don’t like cops very much.”
“That mighty brain, check it out! Here’s a hint: I don’t like cops very much.”
“Does that have to do with me?”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Did I jam you up?”
“Did you ever.”
“I helped put you away?”
“Bingo-o-o-o! Bonus points this round! Yes, you cocksucker. Yes, you put me away.”
“When?”
“Back in the day.”
“Where?”
“What’s this, twenty questions? Inside, idiot.”
“Yeah, I gathered that. Upstate?”
“What’s the difference? Upstate, downstate, some fucking other state? Four different bings, you really need to know. But it don’t mean shit! Inside it doesn’t matter where you live because you don’t live! That’s the joke! Big, big joke! They have capital crimes they execute you for, and then they have ones they let you stay living for. But it’s not living! You’re a zombie! The living dead! You do what they tell you, eat what they tell you, piss when they tell you, you don’t get a fucking choice about anything! They feed you shit that’s not food, you wear shit that’s not clothes—starting with that fucking orange jumpsuit, jumpsuit, Jesus in the Christmas tree, you should’ve seen me in that! Ohhh, you did, didn’t you? What did you think?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I can’t believe this. You don’t remember. You were so happy when they stuffed me into it! All these years, I’ve been comforting myself that no matter how fucking miserable I was, at least Smith was happy. At least I’d made someone happy. And you don’t even remember! I went to prison, you went to lunch. You bastard. You cocksucking, shit-eating dog.”
“I think you should tell me. I think we should get together and you should tell me to my face exactly what a motherfucker I am.”
“Nice try, asshole. Listen, that’s about it for this phone. In case you’re tracing it or something. Just not quite long enough, right? Hah! See, I got it timed, bro. Talk to you later.”
And silence.
And I knew.
12
BOILING CRIMSON RAGE blew me to my feet. That sneer, that vicious joy, that petty cleverness. Bastard! Kevin Cavanaugh, you sorry-ass, motherfucking BASTARD!
Simultaneously: Smith, you stupid, stupid fool!
How could I not have known? How could I have missed it? If I’d had a brain, if I’d come to it sooner—Jesus Christ, what was wrong with me? All morning, cocking around with fucking clues, Lydia locked up with Kevin Cavanaugh in some goddamn basement. I’ll kill him, I’ll kill that son of a bitch! I looked wildly around, as though I’d find him here. Smirking over coffee. Sneering through the window. There! That fat slob on the corner—No. Wrong. No. No.
Get
a grip. Get a goddamn grip. All right: You’re the stupidest most broke-down motherfucker who ever lived. Congratulations. You going to beat yourself up, or you going to try to save Lydia’s life? You didn’t see what you should’ve seen. But you see it now.
I had to have a cigarette. I pushed outside, stayed in the shadows, kept the gawkers between me and the cops. I lit my smoke, tried to think: what to do, which way to go?
As I watched, one path was cut off.
The detective, leaving the tailor shop, spotted Mary in her car. With an inquisitive grin he knocked on the window, and she got out. They stood and spoke in the attitude of old friends.
Another long draw on the cigarette and I pulled out my phone.
“Dude! What’s happening? I almost was gonna call you, but Trella said I couldn’t!”
“Where are you guys?”
“Sixty-third and Second. Miles from the action!”
“Stay there.”
Forcing myself to the sidewalk’s slow pace so I could stay invisible, I moved around the corner, headed east. I made another call.
“Me again,” I said to Lu.
“Jesus, you son of a bitch!” Lu exploded. “You’re just too stupid to live, aren’t you? What the fuck do you want?”
“There’s another girl. Maybe two more.” I was thinking, third and fourth quarters. The time clock to run them down, and a goal in each: a girl’s life. Different from what he’d laid out to me when we started, but what did I expect? Consistency, reasonableness, rules?
Kevin Cavanaugh was a psycho.
Probably these girls were dead already, as Lei-lei was, as Angelique was supposed to be.
But maybe not.
I said, “The lunatic called me.”
“That lunatic shit again! Motherfucker, I don’t know who you are or why you decided to fuck with me, but it was a bad mistake.”
“They’d be from different houses—different cribs—from Lei-lei and Angelique. They’re missing since sometime last night.”
“Oh, and they’re stuffed in orange plastic bags, I bet. Just tell me where they are, tell me now.”
“I don’t know where or which girls. Their GPSs—”
“Fuck you, motherfucker, don’t play with me!”
“I’m not. You can—”
“I fucking can’t and you fucking know it! Ming has the tracker, on his way to jail, where you put him!” After that outburst Lu calmed down. “You, motherfucker, are in a deep and steaming pile. Tell me, and if the girls are alive, it won’t be so bad when I find you. I’ll kill you straight out. Instead of what I’m planning now.”
“Call around. By the time you find out which girls are missing Ming and Strawman will be out.”
“And then send them to wherever the girls are, so they can get busted again? I don’t fucking think so.”
“No. When you find the girls, tell me where. I’ll send someone in.”
“No. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come kill you.”
“Hell of an offer.” I hung up.
I’d reached the corner I was headed for, spotted the Malibu at a hydrant, Trella behind the wheel. I slid in back. Woof greeted me like he’d known me all his life and missed me almost as long.
Linus turned from the shotgun seat. “Wow, dude! You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Heard from one. Trella, head up to the Bronx. There’s a bar I know.”
“That’s the next place?” Linus asked. “Mr. Crazy said so?”
“No. But we need to go someplace I can think. Where I won’t be made.”
Trella eased the car into traffic. “If that’s what you want, I can take care of that, doesn’t have to be the Bronx.”
“I—” You what, Smith? You really need the Bronx? Or you just need to call the shots? So far today, who’s been right more often, these kids or you? “Yeah, okay.” I leaned back. Woof flopped his entire sixty pounds onto my lap. “If you’re sure it’s safe.”
Trella grinned. “It’s safe.”
“Dude, what—” Linus began, but “Bad Boys” chirped from his iPhone. “Aunt Mary,” he gulped. “Do I answer it?”
“You’d better. I want to know what she’s up to.”
Linus put the phone to his ear. “Hey, Aunt Mary, what’s going on?” he said noncommitally. His face furrowed. “Hey, no, don’t, I can’t—” He listened hard, nodding, mumbled, “Umm-hmm, umm-hmm.” Hunching over, finger in his other ear, he mumbled some more things I couldn’t make out. When he clicked off he slumped against the seat. “Damn! I wish she wouldn’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk to me in Chinese.”
Trella laughed.
I said, “I thought you went to Chinese school.”
“Yeah, I can recite Wang Wei if you need it. And my calligraphy’s great.”
“So you don’t know what she was telling you?”
Linus flushed. “I do, sorta. She said, I think she said, her cover got blown.”
“I saw that. The detective at the tailor shop.”
“Yeah. She knows him. She gave him a story, she was tailing Ming and Strawman because of some friend’s kid she thinks went to work for Lu. He was, like, all sympathetic. He said working for Lu is risky, girl of Lu’s got killed last night, too, could be some guy has it in for Lu. They have a suspect but they didn’t find him yet. I guess that’s you, huh?”
“I guess. What else?”
“He said Aunt Mary should come back to the precinct with him, she can question Ming and Strawman about the friend’s kid. She couldn’t think of how to say no. She told him she was calling the friend about maybe she got a lead.”
So much for when they’d make the connection. “That’s it?”
“I think she told me the tailor-shop girl isn’t dead. Is that true, or did I get it messed up?”
“No, it’s true.”
“Cool! And she wanted to know if the crazy man called.”
“What did you say?”
“Dude, I can hardly say my name! I told her no.”
“Good. But he did.”
“He did? He called you? Dude—!”
“I’ll tell you. But first go on. Tell me what else Mary said.”
“Well, what she said, I think she said, ‘You guys stay put until I call you.’ ”
“Did you tell her we’d already split?”
“Why would I?”
“And besides,” Trella grinned, “even if you wanted to, what you would’ve told her was she should go wash her yak.”
“Whatever! Dude, the crazy man! Did you record him? Did you talk to Lydia again? Is she okay?”
I passed Linus the phone. “I pressed the button the way you showed me, but I don’t know if it worked. I did talk to Lydia. But guys? I know who he is.”
“Shit!” Linus yelped. “Oh, shit, dude, that’s awesome! Who?”
Trella said nothing, but in the rearview I could see her eyes glow. Woof pawed and whined.
“His name’s Kevin Cavanaugh. I knew him a long time ago.”
“And pissed him off big.”
“Yes. I did.”
“Who is he? Where do we find him?” Linus was fiddling with the recorder.
“I don’t know. That’s why I need to think.”
Linus flicked a glance at Trella, then back to me. “Can we play the tape? While you think?”
That wasn’t likely to help me think and I didn’t want to hear that voice again. But maybe they could pick up on something I’d missed. “Go ahead.”
Linus blinked as the metallic monotone sliced into the car. Trella steadily drove. My muscles twitched, burning to dive through the phone, strangle the mockery out of that voice. Linus leaned in when Lydia spoke. When the replay was done, he pressed the button, handed me the phone as if he wanted to be rid of it. “Shit,” he breathed. “How wack is that freak?”
I didn’t answer.
We’d hit East Harlem. These streets, solid Italian a few generations back, are Latino now. All that
’s left of the Italians are a few restaurants. One’s famous, the others you have to know. Trella knew. She pulled in at a row of tattered storefronts. We left Woof in the car and walked a quick half block.
“Dude?” Linus looked troubled. “Now that Mr. Crazy knows about the GPSs, even if he thinks it’s the shoes, don’t you think, if he already put more girls someplace, he could just say screw it and leave them there and start again? I mean, with, like, just random girls, so they won’t have them?”
“I’m counting on him being too impressed with his own cleverness to want to do that. What I’m hoping, actually, is he’ll go back and take their shoes. If he has to improvise, do anything that’s not already planned out, there’s a chance he’ll make a mistake.”
“What if the other two girls, they’re not Lu’s?”
“Then what did I lose by telling him? But I bet they are. Lei-lei told him about Angelique. He probably asked Angelique who else was good, and then asked that one the same question. It’s a pattern. He likes that, patterns.”
Trella pulled open a door beside a shop window where ELAINE AND LORENA’S drifted like steam out of a painted soup cauldron. Her entrance stirred a buzz of long-time-no-sees from waiters and customers alike. Even Linus got a beaming kiss from the woman at the register, whose eyes glittered like Trella’s. “Elaine,” Trella said. “Lorena’s in the kitchen.” They spoke in Italian, Elaine shooing us to a back table.
“So dude,” Linus said, sitting. The garlicky air awoke a hunger I hadn’t known I felt. “This Cavanaugh freak. What’s his beef? How do we find him?”
“What you said at the beginning: he’s been in prison. Can you search for Kevin Cavanaughs, the five boroughs, New Jersey, Long Island, Westchester?”
“Who is he?” Trella asked as Linus brought out his iPhone. “What did he do?”
“He killed a girl.”
We hadn’t ordered, but food arrived: bread, olives, cheese, sausages, soup. I was starving, Trella was hungry, and Linus was a teenage boy, so nothing lasted long.
“And you nailed him? Long time ago?” Linus spoke without looking up from what absorbed him: the phone and the food.
“Ten years.”
Another minute passed; then, “Dude.” Linus swept his bowl with a crust, eyes on the phone. “Two. One in Yonkers, he’s eighteen. One in Bellport, Kevin’s his middle name, and he’s sixty-three.”
