“Time for one more, Nicky?” a hefty man in a plaid sports jacket and necktie asked the man behind the bar.
The owner, a Greek immigrant with an olive complexion and a warm smile, nodded. “Okay, guy,” he said in a thick accent. He invariably referred to everyone as guy. “But make it a fast one, eh? Wife is waiting up for me.”
The customer chuckled. “Sure, Nicky. I know how it is.” He’d spent the past four hours sitting at the bar, downing a half dozen beers. He’d been enjoying the evening, bantering with the owner and the other regular customers. Continental Espresso Cafe was a nice friendly place. A place where you could relax and unwind. Enjoy a good meal or just a couple of drinks. No hassles, no hustlers, no rowdys, no drugs. “What about you, Alex?” he said to the man next to him.
“Naw. Think I’ll call it a night.” He loosened his belt and sighed. His belly was bulging over his pants. “Gotta be up early. Long day tomorrow.”
“Come on, it’s on me.” His companion insisted.
“Tomorrow, Sam.” He got off the stool, paid his tab. “Hey, be good, Nicky.” he said as he walked to the door.
“Sure, guy. You too, eh?”
A young couple charged their dinner with a credit card. Nicky thanked them, invited them back, smiling all the while. He dimmed the restaurant lights, went to the cash register and started to make the day’s tally. Somewhere nearby a police car’s siren yelped along the almost empty streets. Within seconds the noise disappeared.
The man at the bar downed half his beer, burped. He turned on his stool and glanced around the restaurant. “You got a cozy little place here, Nicky. Hope it pays off for you.”
Nicky beamed. “Lotta work, Sam. Lotta hours. But yeah, it pays off.” There was pride in his voice. The decor had been carefully planned; neat round tables for two or four, French Impressionist paintings on the walls, the lighting just a touch on the dark side. The menu carefully prepared and carefully served. The sort of place where you’d be pleased to bring your family. Nicky saw to that. Cozy was the perfect word to describe it.
The waitress was busy preparing the tables for the next morning as he spoke. Only one table was still occupied, and she was growing more annoyed. The dimmed lights were a hint for the patron to leave. The woman at the only remaining occupied table showed no sign of leaving yet. She sat quietly by herself, fingers around her cup of coffee, eyes staring deeply into it.
She caught Sam’s attention. “What about you, lady?” Sam called from the bar. “Buy you a drink?”
It took a long moment for the woman to look his way.
Sam squinted into the dimness to get a better look at her. She was younger than he’d first thought. Legs shapely under her faded jeans, breasts invitingly hard against her striped cotton sweater. She was kind of pretty, too. Her dark eyes met his and locked. She stared at him. “Sure. You can buy me one,” she said.
Sam fidgeted on the stool. “Give the lady anything she desires, Nicky.”
Maybe he was gonna get lucky tonight, he thought. You never know. She ordered a double rum, no ice. Nicky attended to her quickly. The waitress frowned. Her boss never pushed his customers out, no matter how late. She’d have to stay as well. She cursed to herself.
Sam took his beer in his hand and rambled over to the table. “Can I sit?” he said.
“Be my guest.” She didn’t smile; her eyes remained invitingly fixed on his, though. As Sam took a chair he felt more confident he really was going to get lucky.
She knew what he was thinking, and he knew that she knew. It made the game all the more interesting.
“Name’s Sam.” He stuck out his hand. She took it. He held hers a bit too long, making his intentions — hopes, really — all the more obvious.
She didn’t give her name. “Live around here, Sam?”
“Sure do. Near Bleeker Street. Know this area?”
“A little. Went to school around here a long time ago. Studied art.”
“No kidding?” Sam pulled his chair closer to her. “Me, too. Lived here almost all my life.” He started to explain how his parents had come here and settled, ready to relate his whole life story. She stopped him.
“I need a place to stay,” she said matter-of-factly. “Know somewhere, somebody who can put me up?”
Sam felt his belly tense. This was a live one, all right. He grinned. “You can put up at my place.”
“No wife?”
“Not even a cat.” He cleared his throat. He never in his life had it come so easy. “Shall we leave?”
She put her hand on top of his. “Not yet. I want to finish my drink. Think a while.”
He shrugged. “Fine by me.”
Nicky was washing glasses behind the bar counter when the midnight news came on the radio. Sam started to talk, but his roommate for the night hushed him as the headline story came on.
“The article carried in an exclusive by the News,” the announcer was saying, “claims that the terror bombings in New York had been threatened beforehand in a series of notes sent to the paper. The first one was received a full day before the subway blast at One Hundred And Thirty-Fifth Street, where three people were killed … ”
“Goddamn maniac, huh?” said Sam with a distasteful frown.
“Quiet,” said Nicky. “I want to hear this.”
“At the police commissioner’s press conference an hour ago, he announced that the story in the News was accurate, and that the police department indeed had been given the notes for examination. He stressed that there was no cause whatsoever for public alarm, and that the elite Terrorist Task Force, instituted two and a half years ago by the mayor, was currently following up important leads. When questioned, the commissioner refused to elaborate. Captain Joseph Winnegar, head of the TTF, assured questioning reporters that the bombings would be stopped, and that his unit, working closely together with the FBI, had begun a city-wide manhunt for the perpetrator, the most extensive in New York history. When asked if the identity of the so-called Armageddon was known, he replied that it was, but for investigative reasons no names could be released at the present time.
“The News, however, reports an exclusive break of its own, claiming that they also know the bomber’s identity, and in a pleading page one editorial asks that the bomber contact them immediately. They promise if the bomber were to come forward openly now, they would bear the expense of all legal fees.”
Sam whistled. “What do you make of that? They know who did it.”
“Bullshit.”
“What?”
“Bullshit.” The woman smiled. “It’s a fake. A phony leak. They do it on purpose. They don’t know anything.”
Sam scratched his head. “Dunno. But I sure hope they got the bastard nailed, after what he did.”
The woman agreed, rubbed the top of his hand suggestively. “Let’s get out of here, okay?”
“Huh? Sure, sure.” He jumped from his chair, gave Nicky a twenty-dollar bill, and told him to keep the change. After they reached the street, she took his arm, breathed deeply into the night air.
“I do adore this part of Greenwich Village,” she said. “So quiet. Peaceful.”
Sam pulled a dour face. “Not anymore. Nothin’ ain’t what it used to be. See that renovated brownstone near the corner? Woman was murdered there about a week ago. Hacked to death with a kitchen knife.”
His companion looked shocked. “No fooling?”
“For real, honey. Fuckin’ sicko world, if you think about it. Woman was a lezzie to boot. Imagine that? My money says it was a lover’s quarrel. Had to be. Her old woman probably found her shacked with another broad.”
The woman shook her head sadly. “Who can figure lesbians?”
“Yeah. Fuckin’ dykes.”
Unexpectedly, she stood on her toes and kissed Sam fleetingly. “You’re right. They’re nothing but fuckin’ dykes.”
*
Warren had received the call at home. Karen was still out, wouldn’t return for several hours yet.
He jotted a brief message for her, stuck it to the refrigerator. He hurried out the door.
“You look pale as a sheet,” he told Yvonne as she wearily unlatched the chain and let him in.
“I’ll be okay.”
“The hell you will. Keep this up and you’ll catch pneumonia. If you don’t have it already.”
Her throat was inflamed, and it was difficult to speak. “I’ve been listening to the radio … We have to learn where … My reports … ”
“Just shut up, all right? The whole world knows the News went public with the story. There’s nothing we can do — and you’re no good to anyone sick. Especially yourself.” He refused to listen to her attempted protests; he led her by the arm back to the bedroom, and she didn’t put up any more opposition. Her face was flushed, eyes glassy and watery. Her whole body seemed wet with perspiration. “Where’s your thermometer?”
She waved her hand in opposition. “Later. Too much work.”
“Work? You can barely stand up. You’re not going anywhere except back into bed, DiPalma. You finally got yourself good and sick. Like talking to a wall.” He glanced around “Where do you keep your medicine?”
“Bathroom. In the cabinet.”
He eased her onto the queen-sized bed, fluffing a pair of down pillows and resting her head on them. He pulled the sheet and blanket over her. She let him sit her up, too ill to argue. “Stay put,” he said, pointing a finger. Minutes later he was back with antibiotics, aspirin, a small cup with lukewarm tea mixed with a dash of brandy.
Pulling a face, she swallowed the antibiotic, two plain aspirin, and a couple of vitamin C tablets. Then a tablespoon of cough syrup. Warren forced her to sip at the brandy-spiced tea. It hurt her when she swallowed. He stuck the thermometer in her mouth, waited.
It read almost 102. “Christ, why didn’t you call me?”
“I did,” she feebly protested.
“You shouldn’t be here alone, Yvonne. You need somebody to look after you for a day or two.”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“And not very bright, either,” he snapped back.
“You’ve been ill for weeks, more, letting it get worse. Maybe it’s better if I call a doctor.”
“No doctor. I don’t need it. Please.”
“We both know you do.”
“Anyway, it’s Saturday. Ever try getting a doctor over the weekend? Better call the nearest golf course.” Her attempt at wit left him cold. “I promise I’ll be well by Monday, Warren. All cured, back on my feet.” She looked at him pleadingly. “Okay?”
He sighed. He knew the way Yvonne thought, the way P.D. did as well. Knew that if a doctor officially ordered a week of bed rest, she might find herself taken off the investigation, replaced as team leader. She’d never allow that to happen.
“We’ll see how it goes,” was all he said. “But if the fever doesn’t go down, I call, understood? No matter what the consequences.”
“Understood.”
“Where’s Ellen?”
“I let her spend a few days with her mom. Spinrad’s got people watching. She’s safe.”
“Great. You let her go just when you need her the most.”
“She’s not a prisoner, Warren.”
He sat at the edge of the bed. Yvonne shut her eyes. Dark colors swam in front of her. “My head is pounding. Feels like someone’s beating me with a sledgehammer. Con Ed crews drilling in my brain.”
“You need sleep. Lots of it.”
“I need more than that.” She tried to smile. “I may be crazy but I’m not stupid.”
Warren looked at her.
She started to shiver. He made her as comfortable as he could, eased himself into a chair and watched over her. After a while she slipped off into a restless sleep. Leaving the bedroom, he searched for her keys, found them in her pocketbook. Then he quietly let himself out, locking the door behind. An hour later he was back with two heavy bags of groceries from an all-night supermarket. After putting them away, he picked up the phone and dialed. The voice came on the other end after the first ring.
“Hi, Susan.”
“Hi, Daddy.” The dog was barking in the background.
“Tell your mother they called me in. Special duty. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Not to worry, though. Just routine. I’ll call you again as soon as I can, okay love?”
“I’ll give Mommy the message. Is there a number where she can reach you?”
“Thanks, honey, but no. I won’t be Downtown. Still going to that party tonight?”
“Can’t wait. Bought my dress today. Mommy’s going to cut my hair. Leslie is picking me up and driving us over.”
“Well, have fun. And be home by midnight, understand?”
“What do you care, you’re going to be working.”
“Don’t argue, Susan.”
“No, Daddy. But no one leaves that early. Can’t I come home at one?”
“Only if your mother says so. And don’t try to con me, ’cause I’ll find out.” He could picture his daughter grimacing.
“I know you will. That’s why you’re a detective.”
He tried not to laugh. “Very cute. I’ll see you as soon as I get back.”
“Okay. Daddy, you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“I’ve been watching the news on TV. I’m scared. Be careful, all right?”
He grinned. “Will do. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Daddy.”
Hot vegetable soup was waiting when she awoke. It was already long dark. Warren brought it in to her on a tray. Yvonne looked at him with wide, surprised eyes.
“You don’t remember calling me?”
She thought for a moment. “Think so.” The aroma of the steaming bowl was good. She managed to sit up.
“Feel any better?”
She weakly nodded. “Dancing later, first the soup.”
“First the temperature. Then the meal.” He stuck the thermometer into her mouth before she could refuse. The fever had dropped several notches.
“How am I, doc?”
“Physically? Drained. Totaled. Mentally — beyond burnout. Ready to be committed. DiPalma’s sanitarium.”
Yvonne laughed. The laugh turned into a coughing seizure. She spit it up, blew her nose, and sat up straight as Warren placed the tray on her lap. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t spoon-feed me,” she quipped.
“Shut up and eat.”
“Yes, sir.” The soup was hot and good. She ate slowly. More hot tea with brandy was waiting when she finished. She let it cool, drank it down. Then she fell back against the pillows, exhausted. “What time is it?”
“Late.”
“How late?”
“Nearly midnight.”
“Oh God, whole day is shot. Listen, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Maybe you’d better get home, though. They’ll be worrying about you.”
He shook his head. “It’s covered. I’ll be staying here with you.”
She cast him a sidelong glance. “You don’t have to do this, Warren.”
“I know I don’t. I want to.” He reached out and took her hand. It was limp. She tried her best to squeeze, then interlocked her fingers with his. “Above and beyond the call of duty, Resnick. Thank you.”
“Goes with the job, DiPalma.”
She suddenly felt self-conscious, lying here in her bed, dressed only in a nightgown, Warren beside her.
“I’ll deck myself out in the living room,” he said, realizing. “Now why don’t you go back to sleep?”
She couldn’t stop yawning. “Sounds good.”
He leaned over and kissed her lightly. “Good night, Yvonne.”
He remained awake through most of the night. He read the editions of all the newspapers, caught a late news broadcast on TV. He felt his stomach churn as the story unfolded. Graphic copies of all the Armageddon notes flashing on the screen, followed by countless interviews with city politicians, experts in crime and terrorism,
even one with a famous psychologist. All glowing in the public limelight, presenting different points of view, attitudes, ideas of what might be expected next. The combination of facts, hearsay, and misrepresentations did little else other than frighten listeners. It was intended to. New York was a city under siege, he knew. And would remain that way until the fear could be diffused. At this juncture, though, little short of stopping Armageddon cold would diffuse anything. The speculation had only begun.
It was almost dawn when he woke from his own uneasy sleep. His dreams had been turbulent, although he couldn’t remember any of them. He checked on Yvonne. She was resting more peacefully. Thank God, he thought. Quietly he slipped toward her bed, gently put his palm to her forehead. She stirred slightly. The fever seemed to be down, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he wouldn’t have to get the medics involved after all. A mixed blessing for Yvonne. She had driven herself hard — too hard — on this one, he knew. Perhaps it would be better if she were pulled off the case. Hell, if Winnegar wants to play God, let Winnegar be the one to break his back.
“Warren?”
Her voice was weak.
“Shhh.” Early morning light had begun to spill into the room, and he went to shut the curtains more tightly.
He felt her hand clasp around his arm. “ … I’m scared, Warren.” Her eyes were overflowing with tears. She was biting at a trembling lip. “I was dreaming. My mother. She died in the dream.”
“It’s just a dream.”
“I know. But she is going to die, Warren. I know it. I know it.”
“No, Yvonne. She’s as tough and tumble as you. You told me that a hundred times yourself.”
“Not anymore. She’s tired, old … ” She closed her eyes as the tears streamed down her face. “And I’m so damned alone. I don’t want to be, Warren. I’m tired to my bones. Sometimes I think I just want to die.” She looked like a terrified little girl to him. Innocent, unblemished by scars. His hand brushed gently at her tousled hair. “I pretty much gave you a bum rap two years ago, didn’t I?” he said softly. “Ran out, left you holding my dirty laundry.”
“We both knew what we were doing. At least we thought we did.” She heaved a sigh. Outside, the first patters of rain beat against her window. “I still love the rain.”
Black Midnight Page 20
