New Haven Noir

by Amy Bloom

  I said, “But you’re not here because you’re worried I’m backing out. It’s something else.” I knew what else it was, but I wanted him to say it.

  “There’s been a leak. We think there’s been a leak. We think they might know your name. Know you’re my witness. It won’t be long before they find you.”

  “Who’s he?” I nodded toward the burly bald man Haley had left at the other end of the pier.

  “US marshal.”

  “And now you’re going to tell me to come with the two of you and you’ll put me somewhere safe . . .”

  “It’s all arranged.”

  “And when that leaks? I didn’t want to rely on you to keep me safe to start, and I certainly don’t now that you’ve proven how secure your office is. I told you how to contact me. Get me the court dates and I’ll show up.”

  “I have no case without you, Petersen.”

  “Then stay away from me, Haley.”

  He was a control freak and I could see the struggle inside him. He knew I was right, but trusting me was another matter. The case was against SteelShield, supplier of private soldiers and most everything else that can be sold in a war zone, and six of their contractors in Iraq. They were charged with raping teenage girls, imprisoning them, and eventually, and inevitably, torturing them. I saw it, spent about a minute considering who to report it to—even considered going to the owner and founder, Ian Finch—but decided I wanted to live, so I waited the two months until I got out of Iraq and then went to the US attorney when I returned home. I played a game with Haley from the start, meeting in cars, then in an apartment in Baltimore, all designed to show him that I was serious about keeping my identity secret. But I knew I would give in despite my doubts about Haley and his office. The vision of that makeshift prison nagged me with vicious, pinpoint insinuations that I could not escape. I doubted justice or peace would result from the prosecution of those six thugs or the company, but vengeance holds some satisfaction no matter what the philosophers claim.

  Haley tried again to get me to come with him. I brushed past him. “They’ll be following you, Haley. Don’t bring them to me.”

  I had come to New Haven to work as a research assistant for a professor whose specialty was post–WWII mercenaries. He had plenty of theories about the supply and flow of fighters for hire, and I was one of two assistants charged with tracking down evidence that tended to support his theories. As soon as Haley was out of sight, I called the professor and told him I wouldn’t be available for a few days. He didn’t seem to mind.

  That night and the next day at Sports Haven, I kept an eye on the door and told myself it was out of fear rather than hope. No one came in who didn’t look like he belonged. A few of the regulars tried to bring up “the fight,” but I refused to answer them and their curiosity was muted by races going off every few minutes.

  * * *

  Marsha was counting the cash, wearing her waitress uniform and her don’t-mess-with-me smile, when the door at Cody’s Diner opened. It wasn’t supposed to. She was six feet and close to 250 pounds, but her hands were quick and the gun within reach under the counter.

  “We’re closed. Get out.”

  Addie stopped. She showed her hands and pointed toward the back of the long, narrow room to the last orange booth where I sat. Marsha looked at me and I nodded.

  Addie slid onto the bench across from me. “Holyshirt won. Paid 22–1. And you said there were no sure things.”

  “Maybe see it this way: the other six horses were sure things. Yours was a happy accident.”

  “Jerry told me I’d find you here.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You look alarmed.”

  “You would too if Jerry knew where to find you.”

  She pointed to the book I had been reading. “What’s that?”

  “The Assassination of Lumumba,” I said. I told her about my research job. Her left cheek showed just a faint redness. Her eyes had lost their humor. Uncertainty ruled. Marsha set a cup of coffee in front of Addie and a piece of pumpkin pie in the middle of the table. She walked away before we could react.

  “That means she likes you . . . unless it’s poisoned. Sometimes I misread people.”

  Addie sipped her coffee. “I didn’t go to Sports Haven just to cash the ticket . . . That pie for you or me?”

  “Whoever’s first to it.”

  She pulled it toward her and took a bite. “You seem like the type of guy who doesn’t want an apology.”

  “Only when there’s something to apologize for.”

  “I’d feel better if you let me explain.”

  I said I wanted her to feel better. She started by telling who she was and I didn’t let on that I already knew. She had come to New Haven because her movie career was in the dumps—her last picture had flopped, even in Argentina—and she thought she could change the industry’s perception of her by going onstage. Tommy—that was the guy—got her an audition at the Long Wharf.

  “He produced my first two movies. We used to be together. I ended it last year. I should have known . . . how he is. I knew what I was doing. Thing is—”

  “Tommy thinks he got a second chance and has no intention of losing out again.”

  She nodded.

  “And you want to give me a second chance too. Where is he? Tommy.”

  She wasn’t sure. She had ditched him to get here. Last night he tried to break into her house.

  “Is he armed?”

  She shrugged.

  “I am. We can go back there if you want.”

  “I thought maybe we could hang out for a while.”

  Had anyone ever said no? I don’t know how to measure cruelty, but it seemed best to limit her humiliation. I said, “It was the slaps that gave you away. Yours was okay, but you leaned in to take his.”

  Her eyes squinted as if a sharp pain hit behind them.

  “I like the script, though. Audition at the Long Wharf? Was that meant to make you seem within reach?”

  She looked around. I thought she might run. She should have run. She seemed like a young kid caught after curfew.

  “Is it Finch himself? Did he put you up to this?” I said. “What’d he promise you? Something better than an audition in New Haven, I hope.”

  Her mouth opened but the words wouldn’t form. At last she said, “They just want to talk to you. That’s all.” She mustered all the conviction of a drunk sipping her second glass of water.

  I laughed. “These guys? They don’t want to talk to anyone. They want to fuck you and kill me—and if that means talking a little first, they’ll play along. They won’t want witnesses, no matter what they told you. Finch could make any promise because he knows you won’t be around to call him on it. They sent you into Sports Haven so people could see us together. When you’re found dead in my bed, it’ll make sense.”

  “To who?”

  “To anyone who knows me or anyone who knows you.”

  She sighed and pushed the pie away and looked down long enough to make a decision. “It’s down to which horse to bet on again, isn’t it? You want something so much, you talk yourself into believing people. Lying off the lies. Finch said he was going to finance a new movie and I wanted to believe it. Funny thing is, if he told me the sky was blue I’d look up to check. Well, I’ve been taking improv classes. Here I go off script: don’t go back to your apartment. I’m supposed to take you there, leave the door unlocked. The rest is probably more like you said than what they said. I’m sorry.”

  I checked my watch. “I have a train to catch.”

  Addie caught my arm and turned briefly to look back at Marsha, who was watching closely. “For what it’s worth, I couldn’t have gone through with it.”

  “Because I’m so . . . what? Charming? Confident?”

  “Even if it was Jerry.”

  I liked hearing that and believing it too.

  * * *

  Marsha was careful to lock up after us. Outside, Addie pulled me close.
Her voice was just a soft whisper: “Where’s your train ticket? A kiss for good luck . . .”

  I didn’t bother with the ticket.

  It was just up Union and left on Water Street, under the viaduct, to the train station. Easy enough for an ambush, but I didn’t think Finch wanted my death to look like a hit. I made a quick phone call to my professor to inform him that I wouldn’t be around for a while. I told him I was taking a train out of town right away.

  The station was quiet. A family of four was being escorted down the stairway toward the platform by a big man—one of Finch’s mercs, one of my former colleagues. Two more mercs flanked the stairway. Two more came inside behind me and guarded the door. The only other person in the huge, high-ceilinged hall was a bull-necked, crew-cut man sitting with his back to me on the middle bench. Finch. Owner of SteelShield. More petty tyrant commandeering the station than the great and humble general he wanted the world to see him as.

  I checked the board: my train wasn’t due for almost ten minutes. I went back to the bench, as Finch knew I would.

  “Sit down for a while, Pete,” he said, as if I’d run into him at lunch. His eyes were two dark threats and he had long since forgotten the difference between a smile and a sneer. I declined the invitation, though standing there only made me a better target. “I want you to take a vacation for a while. On me.”

  “Overseas?”

  “We take requests . . . when we can.”

  “Let it go, Finch. It wasn’t you who tortured those women. Just let it go. A few bad apples.”

  He had become world-famous. And he built the fortune on his own. What started out as a newsletter for former servicemen had turned into a behemoth stoking the ever-expanding demands of the government at war. Mergers had brought on-site services—food and lodging, transport and entertainment—into the fold, but mercenaries remained the top priority. He didn’t do it by letting go.

  “Well, you’ve gotten to the heart of it, Pete. It’s about loyalty. I have to stand by my men. You don’t seem to get that concept. You could have come to me. Directly to me. And I would have taken care of the problem. The boys let off some steam. They’re under pressure. Not everyone reacts the way you and I do. But—”

  “You would have done what you’re doing now—tried to kill me.”

  “I don’t want to kill you, Pete. But I can’t let you testify, either. The company is too big for that now.”

  “I have a train to catch. C’mon. You’ll walk me out there.”

  I reached back and brought out my gun and pointed it at him. I didn’t try to hide it from anyone.

  Finch was not impressed. He stood. He was about my height but had gotten thick through the middle. For some reason it dawned on me that he was close to sixty years old.

  “Arms up?” he asked.

  “If you want to.”

  He raised his right hand. It was a signal. One of the men at the door went outside for a moment and seconds later two of his comrades escorted Addie inside.

  “They have their orders,” Finch said.

  I maneuvered Finch toward the stairs, keeping his men in front of me. Addie was working to hide her fear. This was the moment for her slick moves, vicious flying kicks. The moment for me to shoot five men before they could shoot me. Neither of us thought we could pull it off.

  “Let her go, Finch. You don’t want to die in this train station. Not your style.”

  I ordered the two mercs guarding the stairs to move aside. I gripped Finch tighter and stood with my back to the staircase facing the other mercs. The one with the gun on Addie had sleepy, calm eyes, the kind that don’t panic.

  Finch said, “Hold her. Just hold her. He has to catch his train and he’s not going to shoot me like this. Not Pete. He’s not up to it.”

  The clock was out of sight and that was fine because I had no idea how to proceed. I listened, hoping the train would arrive and force me into a decision. Instead, I heard footsteps behind me. Coming closer. Coming up the stairs. I remembered the merc who had escorted the family downstairs but couldn’t remember seeing him come up.

  “Go ahead, Pete, prove me wrong. Show the boys you’re better than them,” Finch said. “You’ll save the girl. Give yourself up to save her.” But it seemed more for the mercs’ sake than mine.

  The footsteps came closer. More than one set. I’m sure Finch heard them too. I don’t know what they did to him but each step was like an ice pick creeping up my spine disc by disc.

  Suddenly the mercs lowered their guns and the front doors opened and four men with US Marshal windbreakers swept in.

  From behind me, a hand rested on my shoulder and I heard Haley say, “Thanks for the tip, Pete. We’ll take it from here.”

  My grip on Finch had gone rigid and the US marshals had to yank him free.

  Addie stood alone, in limbo, looking at me, but before I got to her, Haley pulled me aside. “How did you know the professor would contact me?”

  “C’mon, Haley. Who tipped you I was in New Haven? I have to go now.”

  “Where?”

  I stepped away. He grabbed my arm.

  “And what about her?”

  I shook my head and avoided her eyes. “She doesn’t know anything. They told her to go to Sports Haven and wait for that little jerk. She came around tonight on her own to apologize to me. They caught her and tried to use her. That’s all.”

  * * *

  Addie reached me at the top of the stairs. I took her hand and we walked down and then out to the platform. The red lights began blinking. The tracks curved just out of the station so I couldn’t see the light of the train yet. Now I hoped it would be late.

  “You didn’t look scared,” I said.

  “I tried not to lean in too much. Do they sell tickets on the train?”

  I shook my head. “I have to try to lay low. Running around with a beautiful movie star is probably not the best way.”

  The train came in sight but we both turned back to each other at the same moment.

  “Maybe when it’s all over I’ll look you up. If you’re still interested . . .”

  “Count on it,” she said. “It’s a sure thing.”

  I boarded that train and rode a long way wondering whether I wanted the trial to come soon so I could find out if she was right, or to come later so I could hope she was.

  I’ve Never Been to Paris

  by Amy Bloom

  East Rock

  I liked her right away. Or, I saw that she liked me right away, and I liked that. It’d been a bad year and any little expression of enthusiasm was gratifying. We walked into the East Rock Café at the same time, women in our thirties, double-knotted summer scarves and flat sandals on our dirty feet. We ordered identical lattes and avocado on toast. We rolled our eyes at the always likable yet glacially slow counter girl and took note of each other. She claimed a shaky little table and managed to drop her latte, step on her backpack, and trip over her pile of papers. I handed her a wad of napkins, smiled, and sat down at the opposite table, laying out David Gates in front of me, Khloe Kardashian’s secret heartache next to my latte, and the second section of the New York Times to my left. Who wouldn’t like me?

  She glanced at my newspaper. “My God,” she said, “Oliver Bullfinch was killed. I knew him. I mean, I worked with him.” She looked tense and queasy. She told me he was her colleague, a lovable old coot. What a terrible, terrible thing, she said.

  It was a terrible thing. It was also not a surprising thing. People had been hating Oliver Bullfinch for forty years (not always the same group of people, but always a robust cohort of colleagues and students and probably waitresses, bookstore clerks, and garage mechanics). I’d been hanging around New Haven for a long time and I’d never heard anyone call him lovable. I had taken a class with him (“Whales and Wilderness,” properly known as Melville and Thoreau, nineteenth-century American literary blah-blah) a million years ago. I’d sat in the same office in which Bullfinch had been found (310 Linsley-Chitt
enden, on High Street) while his grad student gave me an unmistakable smile and an A on a paper I’d written in the time it took to type it. I accepted the A. I returned the smile and my senior year was more fun than I’d expected.

  “It says here bludgeoned to death with a bronze bust—” I began.

  “Of Melville,” she interrupted flatly.

  I liked the flatness. “—of Herman Melville. Yesterday afternoon. I mean, they’re guesstimating, I’m sure.”

  “How are you sure?”

  This was the embarrassing part. “I’m, like, I mean . . . I’m a private investigator. Custody, corporate stuff. Unfit parents, paranoid bosses. Not murder. I mean, I’m interested, but—”

  “You’re a private eye?” Her eyes got warm and swimmy. “That’s cool.”

  I liked that too. It didn’t feel cool. It felt pathetic. It felt hand-me-down, which it was. I have a PhD in psychology and I had a job at Wesleyan and then I made a series of errors in judgment (sexual, alcoholic, and vehicular) and did not get tenure. Worse than that, but let’s stick to the essentials. My Uncle Luis saw me through the bad times and, having used me to run his office and all googling since I was twelve, he died and left me Luis Gutierrez Private Investigations. So, boom. I had an office and a license and a copier from the eighties, and every once in a while people who had known my uncle called me for a job. Once in a while is the important phrase here. I needed an in with the police. I needed my fifteen minutes. I needed to pay my rent.

  She held her phone to mine and we exchanged details. Then her phone beeped a reminder and she jumped up. “Jesus, that’s all I need. Late for my own class. Allison Marx.”

  “Dell Chandler,” I mumbled.

  * * *

  I didn’t see her for a week. I made myself call three divorce lawyers about possible work, in a fast-paced game of Who’s the Better Bottom-Feeder? I let a nervous young wife know that her suspicions about her husband were well founded (that what he’d done to her predecessor, he was now doing to her) and I sent her to a better lawyer than the ones who used me. I played gin with Big Betty, making enough money to pay for one of her pulled pork platters, and I followed the Bullfinch case the way I read Travel and Leisure: glamorous places I wanted to go and delightful experiences I wanted to have (in this case, a regionally famous homicide investigation)—but couldn’t. I snooped around about Oliver Bullfinch, in case I could find a tidbit to bring to the police and worm my way into the investigation. I heard about ancient and deep office ressentiments, classic misogyny, garden-variety racism, and no sexual intrigue at all. He must have been one of the few old men, gay or straight, who had never laid a paw, even lightly, on an undergraduate in all Yale’s history. He was largely retired, with a dead wife, no kids—and however terrible his feuds may have been, most of the people who might have killed him were already dead and those who were alive were pretty firmly in the life of the mind, not the body. The New Haven Register stayed on it, sharing every police crumb with me. People’s alibis were intact. For two days, there was some steam over the Vietnamese woman on the cleaning staff who found his body, but once the police (and then the Register) had interviewed her 4’10’’ self and were persuaded that she had had no personal contact with Oliver Bullfinch, ever, things settled down.