The Lonely Witness

by William Boyle

  “You’re making me nervous, sitting like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “On the edge. Like you’re gonna try to bolt any second.”

  “Tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll tell you if I’ve seen it.” Her eyes dart to the refrigerator again. She’s thinking about the knife, how she can pull it on him and chase him away. Maybe he’s just gutless. Maybe Vincent was a bad guy, and Dom reacted that way because he was scared and dumb. Scenarios play out in Amy’s mind: Vincent was bringing Dom somewhere to kill him, and Dom cut it off at the pass; Vincent had stolen something valuable from Dom and wouldn’t give it back; it was over a woman, drugs, guns, money, all of the above. Could be anything. Vincent remains a mystery. Dom’s one, too.

  “I can see your brain’s working overtime, trying to figure this shit out,” Dom says. “What’s most important is you understand I’m a decent person. What happened, it happened because of Vincent. We’re clear on that, right? You’ve gotta take me at my word. Did you know this guy at all? I’ve known him a lot of years.”

  “Tell me about him,” Amy says, and she’s surprised by her own words.

  Dom sits back. “Well, for starters, he killed a guy in high school and got away with it. This Ecuadorian at the park in Dyker Heights. No shit. I go back that far with him. We were at Our Lady of the Narrows in Bay Ridge together. We’d get off the B1 on Thirteenth Avenue every day after school and hang out in that park. There were all these Mexicans and Ecuadorians who’d started hanging out there, a lot of them old guys, in their forties. Playing soccer, drinking out of brown bags. Kept to themselves.”

  Amy’s trying to picture these younger versions of Vincent and Dom. She knows Our Lady of the Narrows. Alessandra went to its sister school, Bishop Kearney, and they often joined forces for dances and plays. She knows the uniform: blue shirt, tie with a gold emblem, dark slacks. She always sees boys from the school waiting for the bus at Twenty-Third Avenue.

  Dom continues: “One afternoon, this is junior year, Vincent gets a bone up his ass about these guys. He goes over to them. ‘You don’t belong here! Get the fuck out of this neighborhood!’ The guys don’t really give him the time of day. Vincent rallies a couple of other guys, John and Cal, and they disappear for fifteen, twenty minutes. I’m still there with my buddy Iggy. Vincent comes back, charged up. He’s got the fucking leg of a table. John’s got a bat. Cal’s got a two-by-four. Vincent starts again, waving the bat around. ‘Get the fuck out of this neighborhood!’ A few of the foreigners, they get the message and get the hell out of there. One of them—Manuel, his name was, I’ll never forget, because I read it in the paper the next day—he’s drunk, and he kind of staggers in Vincent’s direction and says something. I don’t even hear what. But Vincent clocks him right across the fucking head. The guy goes down. Vincent just keeps pounding him. John and Cal take off. They were thinking threats; they weren’t thinking ‘beat an old drunk to death.’”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “I’m just sitting there. I can’t fucking believe it. People are watching. It’s obvious he’s killing the guy. Nobody intervenes. Not me. Not nobody. You know the deal. You walk away, you don’t get involved. When Vincent’s done, the guy’s limp. Blood everywhere. Vincent books it out of the park. I walk away, go straight home. A little while later, I hear sirens. Everybody around knows it was Vincent. Nobody’s gonna rat him out. Somehow, it doesn’t get back to the cops. This poor Manuel guy was homeless. It’s all forgotten in a week. You were ever out drinking with Vincent, he’d brag about it. He’d tell you what it felt like swinging that table leg.”

  “How come you didn’t say anything to anyone?”

  “My parents would’ve killed me.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Just, you know, so you know that this is who Vincent was. This is the kind of shit he carried around with him. I did the world a favor.”

  Amy tries to reconcile this Vincent with Diane’s grade-school darling. Same kid who made that frame out of Popsicle sticks killed this homeless guy with a table leg, maybe ten years between those two things.

  She catches herself. Who’s to say Dom’s not lying? Maybe he’s the one who killed the guy in the park and got away with it, just like he killed Vincent and got away with it. Maybe he sees an opportunity to put that on Vincent, to put everything on Vincent.

  “You don’t believe me?” Dom says.

  “Why should I?”

  “I’m a good guy, I’m telling you.”

  “I don’t think guys who keep insisting they’re good can be very good.”

  “That’s not nice,” Dom says, looking down at the floor. “Can I tell you a story?”

  “I got a choice?”

  “You’re free, Amy. Come on. Don’t do that. You’re free.”

  “I’m so free, why do I feel like a prisoner?”

  “We’re all prisoners to an extent, right?” He sips some coffee. “I’m getting too philosophical. Fuck it. You don’t mind, I’m gonna tell you this quick story. Short one. When my grandma was in hospice, I’d go see her every day. I’d get off work—I was working construction then—and I’d go over and I’d sit with her. She was half-dead. I’d just hold her hand. Sometimes I’d read to her. I’m not a very good reader, but she seemed to like it. She didn’t say much to me. A few words here and there. Water. Nurse. I don’t remember what else. Right near the end, I was with her, and she looked at me and somehow managed to say, ‘Get out of here. Get away from everything.’ She knew me. She knew how trapped I felt by my old man. That’s what she wanted for me. That kind of freedom. I’m telling you this because I want you to understand. Vincent got in my way. I was close. This fucking close.” He pinches his thumb and index finger together.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Let me backtrack. To understand, you gotta understand my old man. Tony Mescolotto, that’s my old man. You heard of him?”

  “No,” Amy says.

  “He’s kind of well-known around these parts. He’s a big-shot jeweler, but he used to play piano in a lot of clubs in the city and whatnot. I don’t know shit about piano, but I’ve always been told he’s great. Anyhow, you wanna talk bad guys, my old man’s a bad motherfucker. Drunk. Gambler. Womanizer. Beat the shit out of me all growing up. Especially on Sundays.” Dom stops. “I can see what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m gonna talk you to death. I’m not trying to, I swear. I just got a lot to put in context in terms of the whys and hows. You’re bored?”

  “Just tell me what you’re gonna tell me.”

  “I can be honest with you, Amy. It’s a good feeling.”

  They sit there in silence for a few seconds. Dom seems to be chewing over where the story’s going. A sort of white noise feeling has settled in Amy. A knock on the front door shakes them.

  “Who’s that?” Dom says in a whisper. “Your landlord?”

  “Probably,” Amy says.

  “What’s he want?”

  “I don’t know. He likes to check up on me.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  She parrots the line back: “What do you want me to do?”

  Dom stands. “You’re not my hostage.”

  Another knock. Harder this time.

  “I’ll go in the bathroom,” Dom says. “How’s that? I’ll hide in the bathroom.” He raises his finger, as if he’s warning her of something, but he doesn’t say anything else. No threats. No directions to not reveal he’s there. He closes the door behind him, and she can hear him sit on the toilet.

  Amy goes to the door, playing through her options. Let Mr. Pezzolanti know she’s in trouble? Or just push him out of the way and take off, away from Dom and the whole mess? Forget what little stuff she wants—just go to Gwen’s. But Dom would probably know to look for her in Williamsburg. She has to remind herself that he actually was following her, at least for a while.

  Amy puts her hand on the knob and slowly opens the door. Mr. Pezzolanti’s there,
but he’s not alone. Diane is standing next to him. She’s red-eyed, sniffling. A handkerchief dangles from her closed hand. She’s in the same clothes and smells stale. “Amy?” she says.

  “Looks different, huh?” Mr. Pezzolanti says. “I didn’t even recognize her.”

  “What’s going on?” Diane asks.

  “I’m sorry I missed your calls.”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “Poor lady,” Mr. Pezzolanti says. “I was just saying how sorry I was about Vincent. A tragedy. I hope they get the bastard who did it.”

  “Can I talk to you?” Diane says to Amy.

  Amy doesn’t say anything. She’s stuck on thinking about Dom in the bathroom.

  “If it’s a bad time, we can talk later,” Diane says. “It’s fine,” Mr. Pezzolanti says. “Right, Amy? You can talk to Diane.”

  “Of course,” Amy says.

  “I think that blond hair’s turning you a little ditzy.” Mr. Pezzolanti forces a laugh.

  Amy’s about to step outside. “Let’s go get some coffee somewhere,” she says to Diane.

  “You mind if I just come in?” Diane says. “I’m not in any condition to go anywhere. I can’t stand on lines. I can’t be around other people. I keep seeing Vincent everywhere.”

  Amy moves aside to let Diane in.

  “I’m here, you two need me,” Mr. Pezzolanti says, retreating toward the gate.

  Amy closes the door.

  “Nice little place,” Diane says.

  “It’s not much,” Amy says, trying to keep her eyes away from the bathroom door. She’s sure she can hear Dom breathing. She’s sure Diane can hear him breathing.

  Diane sits down at the table, the seat probably still warm from Dom. Amy notices that the venti coffee is right there in front of her, his name on the side of the cup. Diane must know Dom. He said that he went to high school with Vincent. They might’ve even gone to grade school together. The name is facing Amy. Diane doesn’t see it. Amy scoops it up and drops it in the garbage even though it’s half-full of lukewarm coffee.

  “Thank you again for being with me during such a hard time,” Diane says.

  Amy sits across from her, rubbing her hands together. She’s sure Diane can tell that she’s on edge. Then again, she’s probably too preoccupied thinking about Vincent. “I’m just so sorry you’re going through this,” Amy says.

  “Thanks.” Diane leans forward on her elbows. “Can I ask you to do me a favor? It might be strange. It’s probably not a decent thing to ask.”

  Amy, interest peaked, leans in, too. “What is it?”

  “Can you take the wig off? I know we don’t know each other well, but I don’t even feel like I’m talking to you.”

  “Sure. Of course.” Amy unfastens the clips and takes off the wig, setting it in front of her and clutching it like a bouquet of shiny fake flowers. She leaves the wig cap on, bobby pins poking through the nylon. She feels like an actress again, sitting in a trailer, about to be made up or taken apart.

  “You don’t mind me asking, what’s that all about?”

  “The wig?”

  Diane nods. “And the clothes.”

  “I was with a friend of mine,” Amy says. “She’s a musician. She likes wigs. She put it on me, and I liked it. It reminded me a little of the way I had my hair years ago. And the clothes, well, they’re mine. This is the way I used to dress.”

  “You had a whole other life, huh? Vincent had a friend in high school who went through a—whaddayacallit?—goth phase. Like that?”

  “I guess.”

  “What I said in my message, I wanted to ask you about when you were at Vincent’s to get the suit.”

  “Right. I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to call back. I got swept up with my friends.”

  “It’s okay. It’s just my brain won’t stop working. Who would do this? I’m going through every possibility. I can’t accept it’s random.”

  “Sure. That’s natural. You’ve gotta believe the police are doing their job.”

  “I went down to the precinct. I didn’t like that captain. I’ve seen enough shows; I know the way these things end. ‘We tried everything, ma’am. No murder weapon. No witnesses. No leads. Zilch. We’re sorry for your loss.’”

  Amy thinks of the murder weapon, right there in the freezer, just a few feet away. Diane so close to it that Amy’s amazed she can’t feel some magnetic pull to it. Forget the fact that the man who stabbed Vincent with it is also so close Diane can probably smell his breath if she tries hard enough.

  “They’ll turn up something,” Amy says.

  “When you were over there,” Diane says, “did you see anything weird? I remembered that the last time I saw Vincent, he was on the phone with someone and he was agitated. I didn’t get what they were talking about. Vincent never liked to think I was eavesdropping on him, so I tried to tune out. But did it look like anybody else had been in there? Did you see anything out of the ordinary at all? I know you weren’t looking for anything other than the suit, but you never know.”

  “You can go over there,” Amy says. “You can see for yourself.”

  “I did that.”

  “And?”

  “That landlord of his, Marie, she’d been in there. Cleaning the place. Piling his stuff up in one corner, getting it ready to go. You believe that? If there was any trace of anything, it’s gone now. She even threw things out, things she’d determined to be trash. I can’t get over the gall. I was in my right mind, I’d sue her.”

  “Jeez, that’s awful.”

  “I’ve got your memory to go on, that’s it.”

  “I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary. I got the suit, and that was all.” Dom was in Vincent’s apartment; Dom’s in the picture she found of Vincent and a strange woman; Dom’s in her bathroom right now. All these choices she’s made, they’ve led her to protecting Dom.

  “I figured it was a long shot.” Diane slumps in the chair. Defeat after defeat.

  “Did you tell the police about his apartment yet?”

  Diane nods. “They were with me when I went. They didn’t do anything about Marie.”

  “You want something to drink? Tea?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re taking care of yourself? You feeling any better?”

  “Trying. I think I’m just about over this flu.”

  Dom’s phone rings in the bathroom, “Eye of the Tiger” blasting through the door. Jesus Christ. To Dom’s credit, he doesn’t make any additional noise. He doesn’t even silence the ringer. Amy’s sure she can play it off as no big deal. Just left my phone in the bathroom, Diane, that’s all.

  “What’s that?” Diane says.

  Amy remembers that Diane saw her basic little old-school flip phone when she was over there. She borrowed it in the My Way car to call Andy Capelli. She’d probably be able to guess that this ringtone couldn’t possibly match that phone. “Just the phone,” Amy says, not specifying which phone. “I left it in the bathroom.”

  “You can answer it.”

  “It’s okay.”

  The song stops. Silence. “Vincent’s wake is today, four to six,” Diane says. “At Capelli’s. I decided on the one visitation. I don’t know who’s going to come. Maybe more people than I thought since it’s been in the news. Will you come?”

  Amy nods.

  “And the service is at St. Mary’s tomorrow morning at ten.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve got to figure out how to get dressed. I don’t even have anything to wear. Probably I’ll have to go down to Kohl’s. My son’s funeral, and that’s what I’m thinking about.”

  “I can come with you, if you want.”

  “That’s kind. But it’s okay. I’ll be okay.” Diane gets up, leaning against the table. She’s a little unsteady.

  “I’m sorry, Diane,” Amy says. “About all of this. If I remember anything from the apartment, I’ll let you know. The cops will get thi
s guy.” She stands and accompanies Diane to the door. When she opens up, she sees that Mr. Pezzolanti is still out by the front gate. He catches a glimpse of her in the wig cap and seems scandalized.

  “I’ll try not to bug you anymore,” Diane says.

  “You’re not bugging me at all,” Amy says.

  Diane leaves, stopping to talk to Mr. Pezzolanti. Amy closes the door. She lets out a sigh of relief. Dom stirs in the bathroom. He comes out, iPhone in hand, tapping the screen. He looks up when he’s done writing. “What the hell was that all about? Vincent’s mother? You went to see her?”

  Amy nods. “Jesus Christ, your fucking phone.”

  “Whoops.”

  “What if she knew that was your ringtone?”

  “She doesn’t. No way. Why’d you go see her?”

  “I don’t know. Guilt? I didn’t say anything to her about you.”

  “I appreciate that, I do. Maybe we’re on the same page.”

  “We’re not on the same page. I was just thinking what a bad position that’d put me in.” She tunes her voice to a whisper. “Vincent’s killer in my fucking bathroom.”

  “You know, one time I watched her shower. Diane. No shit. She used to be nice—to look at, I mean, before the years beat her down. I was over at Vincent’s. We were in his room, playing Grand Theft Auto, me, him, and our friend Mikal. I go out to the kitchen to get a soda. I pass the bathroom twice. On the way there, the door’s closed. I can hear the shower running. Way back, the door’s open a crack and I can see in. Damn right, I take a peek. She’s under the water. I can see in because she’s got one of those see-through shower doors. It’s steamy, but I’m looking real hard through that steam. I always figured she opened the door. She wanted me to see her.”

  “We done yet?” Amy says.

  “Not yet. You went to Diane’s place, what else did you do you didn’t mention?”