The cellar was so full of their accumulations that a ragged path was all you got when you had to make your way through. Stan and Michaelaen found enough place to do things down there. They would hammer and fiddle and come up the stairs all covered with dirt. Stan would dust his knees off proudly and say, “He’s all boy, that kid.” The only trouble was, he’d say it over and over again, as if he were trying to reassure himself.
“Shut up, Pop, willya?” Zinnie would finally look up from the TV and snap at him. And Michaelaen would busy himself with some toy car, pretending not to understand for fear their feelings would be hurt.
Claire smiled to herself. Six days home and already she knew their ways. Any minute now they’d all be back and full of the news from the park, bubbling and scandalized, each with his or her own private theory, clattering in and out and filling up the now-still rooms.
White sheets hung on the line in the yard. A small breeze rippled, and the spaces revealed the distant figure of Iris von Lillienfeld, ruby red across the street in her own very green backyard. Claire froze. Then, like a huntress stalking her prey, she crept across the room to her camera bag, whispering to herself, “Please, God, don’t let her move”; and hurriedly, trembling, she attached a zoom lens to her camera, expertly and swiftly loaded a thousand ASA color film, and turned to wait. “Come on, God, now give me back that little breeze. Oh, come on, don’t let me down.” And framed by a sudden ripple of the weightless white and sturdy clothespins was Miss von Lillienfeld, now close through the magic of zoom, standing still with brittle grace and contemplation and a pigeon on her pillbox hat.
All the mantras and the prayers and even the gange Claire had smoked trying to lose herself, and always her consciousness had been there, a leering monkey on her back, an ever-present watching, observing her efforts and plaguing her sincerity. Now here she was doing what she loved, and this was what she couldn’t feel because she wasn’t there. She was lost in what she was doing, looking out instead of in and only coming to herself when she was through—when all the frames were full.
Claire was just putting away her camera bag when they came back. Anticipating their excited chatter, she was surprised when her mother came speedily in gripping Michaelaen, her lips pressed into a hard, drawn line, her face white as chalk, the Mayor trotting busily behind.
“What’s going on?” asked Claire.
Mary, making a sign that consisted of nothing more than a nod of the head but that meant, “Not now, Claire,” and “Not in front of Michaelaen,” and “What in God’s name is the world coming to” all in one movement, marched through the rooms with a determined gait and left her standing open-mouthed and alone once again in the kitchen. A moment later Stan came in solemnly, shaking his head as he sat down at the table.
“Gee, Pop … what’s—”
“It was murder, Claire. Up in the woods. Jeez …” He covered his face with a great freckled paw.
“Who—” she whispered. “Who was murdered?” Claire remembered with fresh, cold pain the moment they’d told her that Michael was dead.
“A boy,” Zinnie answered dully from the doorway. “A little boy. It was really bad, Claire.” Zinnie looked as though she were going to be ill.
“Sit down, Zin,” Claire’s heart beat with morbid curiosity. “Did you see?”
“Yeah, I saw. The rest of them had to stay down by the monument, but they heard enough. It was up in the pine forest. An old man found the body. One of your old Jews, Claire. Taking his morning stroll. He was wailing like a banshee when we got there. They had to take him to the hospital for shock. Christ, that kid was really messed up.”
“Nothing like this ever happened before in this neighborhood,” Stan murmured. “I’ve never heard of anything like that around here.”
Mary came in swiftly. “Michaelaen’s in his room watching ‘Woody Woodpecker,’” she said to Zinnie. “I don’t want anybody talking about it in front of him. You got that?”
“Sure, Mom,” “Of course, dear,” they all nodded in agreement. You didn’t argue with Mary when she meant business, and she meant it now. She took a frozen fruit bar from the freezer and started to leave, then stopped in her tracks.
“It was drugs, wasn’t it, Stan? Only Colombians murder children for vendettas.”
“It looks like it, Mary,” Stan agreed.
Mary swept out of the room to try to further distract her grandson. They waited until the sound of her footsteps reached the top of the stairs.
“Not for nothing, Dad,” Zinnie locked eyes with her father, “but that was no Colombian’s revenge.”
“Those Latinos have pretty short fuses, honey.”
“Cut the crap, Pop. I’m on the job, remember? I saw him.”
“I know. I know. Only not in front of your mom. Not one word.”
“That bad?” Claire caught her breath.
“The killer was a maniac.”
“Anybody who would kill a little boy is a maniac,” Stan fumed.
“Yeah, but Pop, this was as sick as they come. It was … evil.”
Claire shuddered.
Zinnie’s upper lip was beaded with sweat. “And he was … uh … abused, you know? Just a little kid. Maybe seven or eight. I used to see him up in the playground. He was a real good-looking little kid, you know? I think it was him. It was hard to tell.” Zinnie’s voice caught in her throat. “He was lying there in a clearing of pine needles … he had this look on his face, his … his eyes were open …”
“All right, Zinnie,” Stan patted her on the shoulder.
“I’m okay.” Zinnie brushed his hand away, the way she would when she was truly upset. “The press didn’t get it. Not yet. They got him out of there and into the body bag quick. You never saw those Queens boys work so fast.”
“But they’ll get the story from the old man,” said Claire.
“Sure they will. But they’ll keep him sedated so long, he won’t be giving interviews till later. They’ve got to do a positive ID on the body. At least the press won’t have pictures. They’d have a panic out there.”
“A panic is better than another murder,” Claire said.
“Not until they notify the parents, it ain’t,” Zinnie snapped. “And I don’t want Michaelaen riding his bike up there with this going on.”
“He’ll come bowling with your mother and me. And we’ll just have to take shifts keeping an eye on him.”
“Listen, Claire,” Zinnie pointed a finger at her, “You’re another one I don’t want up in the park. Not for a minute, you hear me?”
“Oh, Lord, Zinnie, I wouldn’t even think of going in deep—”
“Not even on the rim, dammit! Don’t you hear what I’m saying?!”
“Okay, okay. I won’t go into the woods till all this blows over, all right, sheriff?”
“Promise!”
“I promise.”
Zinnie stood. “Now I really gotta go.”
“You going to stop in at the one-o-two?” Stan asked her.
“I can’t do that, Pop. You know that. My precinct’s in the city.”
“I know. I know. Just unofficially, I mean.”
“No. They’ve got a whole new staff over there. I don’t know anybody in there anymore, except Furgueson. It’s all new. And look. You keep Carmela’s nose out of this. You know, ‘Miss Reporter.’ That’s all we need is her poking her nose around up there and getting into trouble.”
“God forbid,” agreed Stan.
“So just don’t tell her about it. Let her hear Mom’s version.”
“Fine,” said Claire, feeling all at once as though Zinnie were the elder and she the younger.
Zinnie went to say goodbye to Michaelaen. Then she climbed into her gray Datsun. Claire and Stan sat silently and watched her drive away. The ceiling fan went slowly round and the sink faucet dripped.
“Pop?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, but early this morning, when I was out in the hammock, I saw this
car drive by.”
“So?”
“No, I mean very early. Before the sun was quite up. An old Plymouth came down from the park.”
Stan’s eyes focused on her own. “You see the driver?”
“No, but I remember part of the license. I remember because it had three numbers from … well, three numbers or three other numbers. They were either Buddha’s estimated year of ascension or the year of his birth. I don’t know which of the two it was, now, because I went right back to sleep, but it was definitely either one or the other.”
“Jesus, Claire, which numbers??!”
“Well, it was either 563 or 473.”
“You’re sure?”
“I don’t remember which, but it was definitely one of those. I’m sure of that.”
“We’d better go over to the precinct.”
“Oh no, Dad, not me. I don’t want any part of detectives. You go. You tell them, all right? Don’t get me involved.”
“I understand.” He put his big hand on top of her small one. “I’ll go. And not a word to your mother. Tell her I just ran over to the store. Tell her I went to look in on how the new kid is doing and I’ll be back in half an hour. She’ll fall for it.”
“Pop?”
“Yuh?”
“Don’t bring any cops home, all right? I don’t want to go through it.” She stood on the back stoop and watched him until he was out of sight. When she turned to go back in the kitchen she could have sworn she saw Iris von Lillienfeld looking dead at her from a half-closed window across the street.
Michaelaen sat quietly on his bed. He listened. Grandma was down in the cellar putting in the laundry. Aunt Claire would not come walking in without knocking. He shook his head to himself. She acted like he was a grown-up. Michaelaen went into his closet bottom, carefully moved his folder of Spider Man stickers, and pulled out the tackle box Grandpa had given him for his very own. He carried the box back to the bed. For a moment he just sat there and held the box fondly. Then he blew on it. A nice powder of dust made a storm in the sunshine. He watched it settle on the wooden floor and then opened the box. There was Daddy’s fine school ring, safe and sound. There was the ivory elephant Aunt Claire had sent from India, the insect corpses he loved best, a magic blue jay feather, an abacus from Chinatown, and a cat’s eye marble. It was the best cat’s eye marble he had ever seen. Probably worth a lot of money. Ah, there it was. The cufflink. A genuine roulette wheel. He gave it a good spin and his eyes lit up to follow the golden ball round and around. Eleven. Red. He laughed out loud. It was a shame he couldn’t show it off. But he had sworn he’d never tell, right before Miguel had pressed it into his hand. That was the deal. He wouldn’t tell what they were up to, looking at those pictures and all, and Miguel would let him keep the cufflink. Only he must never tell. No matter what.
Johnny Benedetto parked the silver Triumph Stag on the hill behind the pizza place. It was still broiling at three PM. He loosened his tie and removed his jacket. A large big-jointed man, he never felt comfortable in a suit and there were days he forgot he wasn’t still wearing a uniform. Johnny took off his shoulder strap and slipped his gun into the Velcro holder in his sock. He needed a shave. His thick black hair curled onto his collar. The sharp hazel green eyes caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror. That was another thing. A haircut.
Swiftly and with a thin-waisted grace for one so broad and hulkish as himself, Johnny sprang from the car and headed for the Row. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday and this wasn’t the kind of man who took his appetite lightly. There came a point when he had to eat.
Regents Row was dark and cool, was reasonably priced, served magnificent steaks, and catered to the force. Not that you were treated special in there, mind you. You waited your turn for a table no matter who you were. Hizzy ran that place the same way Captain Furgueson ran the station house: no favors for no one, no freebies. And Hizzy never forgot your name. Johnny respected that, too. It showed control.
He slung his jacket over one shoulder and crossed the street, oblivious to the admiring glances of the housewives coming and going from the supermarket and the Homestead Deli. His shin was throbbing like a bastard but he hardly noticed. One more medal from Nam that congratulated him every time rain was expected.
Johnny opened the door and his heart sank. The bar was filled with women, church social women, waiting to be seated for their Rosary Society lunch. Hizzy came right over and extended his plump hand. “How ya been, Johnny?”
Johnny gave him one of his rare, disarming smiles. “Yourself?”
“Hey, I’m fine,” Hizzy pumped his hand, then waved in a broad, all-encompassing sweep. “Sorry about all this. Every month, like a clock. You can’t get ’em seated and then you can’t get ’em to leave.” He squinted at Johnny. “Bad doings up in the park, huh?”
Johnny looked at his feet and said nothing. Hizzy knew better than that. “I gotta go, Hizzy. Good to see ya an all but I gotta get something to eat real quick and then get some sleep.”
“Why doncha come back in the kitchen and I’ll have Irwin fix you up a couple a sandwiches to go … how bout it?”
“That’s okay, Hizzy. Next time. I’ll get something at the pizza place. Short and sweet.” He knew Hizzy was dying to get some inside dope on the murder. So it had spread this far that quick, eh? Terrific. Nice can a worms this was gonna be. He left as fast as he’d come in and walked across the hot white boulevard. Johnny slapped himself in the head. He must be punchy. He’d told Furgueson he’d try and check out that crackpot license number story. Furgueson had said it was probably a waste of time but Johnny had said he’d look into it anyway. It could wait until he’d had some sleep. It was gonna have to.
The pizza place was pretty empty; at least it was cool and shaded under the canopy on the street. He ordered three slices and a large Coke and sat down at one of the little tables outside. Johnny rubbed his eyes with both hands and looked down the street. He wished the weather would make up its mind. One minute dark clouds threatened and the next you thought you should be at the beach. He was tired. Real tired. He’d just been going off duty when this whole mess had started, and this was the first moment he’d had to sit down and think.
A group of young paisan, the criminal sort with nothing much to do with their daylight hours, cavorted like Gay Parisians at the next two tables. Coke spoons dangled from 18 karat gold chains and silk shirts were opened the obligatory four buttons.
Each passing female was graded with uproarious detail. Plans were made for Saturday night’s rent-a-limo. A blond flight attendant’s phone number changed hands.
They didn’t know who Johnny was (what cop drove a 1972 Triumph Stag?) and so they spoke openly, sometimes in Sicilian, among themselves. He understood most of what they said and on another day would have been remarking every word. As it was, he had other things on his mind, some sort of psychopathic, child-molesting monster whose evil he could still see in his mind’s eye and probably always would, and he wasn’t paying them much mind.
The boy came out with his pizza and Johnny inhaled two of them, swallowed his entire Coke, ordered another, then sat back and enjoyed the third slice. God, he loved good pizza. In all his thirty-three years he must have consumed seven thousand pizzas. Nobody cooked for him, that was for sure. Nobody ever had.
Johnny Benedetto had no family to speak of, unless you counted his old friend Red Torneo. He’d had a wife for about four months. She was lucky she was still alive. He’d found her in bed with her hairdresser. Jesus. He’d put all his clothes in one lousy suitcase while the two of them cowered in the bed like the little pieces of shit that they were, and he’d walked out and he’d never gone back. The next time he’s seen her, and the last, had been at the divorce hearing six months ago. That was it.
Johnny played a hard game of handball, racquets, anything that would keep his massive frame in check and his mind from exploding. He didn’t drink much—once in a while, but not too often. He knew he had to watch
his temper. When he was younger, he had often found himself out of control. There were plenty of broken noses walking around New York thanks to him as it was.
What Johnny loved, what made him really tick, were cars. Or, more precisely, engines. Lately he hadn’t even had time for that. Nowadays when he got home to his apartment after work he had all he could do just to climb into bed, roll over, and drift off to sleep, all-encompassing sleep, far away in the land of nod, where there were no murders, no body bags, and no ten-year-old broken bodies, no bodies at all … just the vapor-held swell of a fine-tuned machine doing ninety and the cut-and-dry hum of perfection.
Johnny was a born mechanic, and when he had a problem or just wanted to wind down, that’s what he’d do, go down to Jojenny’s Garage and work on a wreck. If he had nothing of his own to work on, he’d work on somebody else’s. By the time he’d have the thing running, he’d usually have his own problem sorted out in his head.
As a matter of fact, if Johnny hadn’t met Red Torneo as a kid, that’s probably what he would have been, a mechanic.
Red Torneo had been a cop in Bensonhurst, where Johnny’d grown up. Red was a “big brother,” a term used for men who donated their spare time to fatherless kids in the neighborhood. Although Johnny had hated Red with a passion at the beginning, Red had kept after him long after another man would have figured good riddance to bad rubbish, for that was the sort of riffraff Johnny had chosen to hang out with and emulate in his street corner days. Red had taken a real interest, bringing Johnny down to the precinct garage when he’d recognized Johnny’s potential as a mechanic. Though he’d hated to admit it, Johnny was happy. Covered in grease, he’d found acceptance among the “hair bags,” or old-timers, once they’d noticed that suddenly, their crummy cars were running without a hitch. For the first time in his short life, Johnny had had a family of sorts. Red had thought that Johnny was the best damn mechanic he’d ever known, and it’d knocked him for a loop when he’d found out through the desk sergeant that Johnny was taking the police academy test. The more he’d thought about it, though, the more sense it had made. Johnny was the kind of guy you might call extreme, or fanatic, depending on your point of view. Once he made a decision, it was absolute. Better he should stay on this side of the law than the other.
Park Lane South, Queens Page 3
