At my explanation, Justice’s ivory shoulder raised with the tiniest of acknowledgments. That scintilla of remorse made me want to weep forever.
Granny Mel concurred. “. . . but what about the serious crimes that didn’t get handled, because we didn’t know we were supposed to be covering for you? Can you fix them all?”
The glistening cherry lips quirked. Justice drew the bad-ass shades down her nose like she had her own television series.
Shark’s eyes swirled metallic black.
Oil slicks.
Galaxies.
In that endless moment of awful, I felt like I’d been smeared onto a glass laboratory slide. Everything I’d ever done, or thought about doing, was inspected and dissected from the inside out. Justice wears her blindfold as a mercy.
As fast as that, the fish-faced guy paunched back into the parade video’s balding guy in a golf shirt. Charlie Chan was transformed back into a model for hair gel. Out of habit, I looked downward for the withered gnome only to find she’d gained height and lost years. The woman beside me was a real Melanie.
“One last question?” asked the rejuvenated Melanie in a whiskey voice straight from the Bronx, not Buckingham Palace. “Why today, on the quas-qui-tennial thing, and why right here, of all places, did you get the uncontrollable impulse to go AWOL?”
Justice didn’t seem to reply, but before she concealed her all-knowing orbs, they flicked toward the Morbid Anatomy Library. I’d swear it in court.
Melanie moved between Chan and Keyes, her arms bridging their shoulders. “Gentlemen, might we arrange to give Justice a spa day every so often, to avoid such mayhem in the future?”
The goddess bounced up and down, clapping her hands in delight. I nearly had an aneurysm.
No one had asked whether I was available, but Chan and Keyes agreed like bobble-heads. The new J-league members leaned together, best buddies, hands-in. I felt totally disposable.
The goddess sashayed away, scented like the best fabric softener ever. I decided watching her shimmy up the canal’s railing was more than adequate recompense for my inconvenience. She positioned herself across the plaster, and then . . .
The Great Seal of New York was perfect again.
The cityscape cleared and regained its crisp edges.
Part of the surreal magic, I guess, but none of the suddenly-visible passersby even slowed their strollers or texting to notice. Except for capturing two wobbly guys in fedoras, none of my video survived.
For all of this, I blame Joanna.
It was her doing that placed the uneasy contents of the Morbid Anatomy Library in their dangerous hinterland between hoax and science, industry and art, history and modernity, water and land. Where nothing’s clearly defined, anything goes. That’s what happened Saturday.
For an orange soda, I’ll tell you about Sunday.
ONLY PEOPLE KILL PEOPLE
Laura Curtis
FOR eight years, it was my honor to serve and protect Sam Bradley, his family, and his employers. Sam took care of me, and I took care of him. He kept me clean and dry and safe. Every morning, he would take me out, check to be sure I was in good shape, and snap me into a leather holster beneath his jacket. Then, he would kiss Consuela and the children, take the bagged lunch she had prepared, and head out.
Sam and I worked at Goldmark Jewelers, in the diamond district of New York City, where most of what glitters is compressed carbon, and the rest is platinum. We would take the subway down from our Harlem apartment, stopping on the way for coffee and a bagel with cream cheese from the deli near the station. The subway was always crowded, but even with all the jostling, I remained secure in my leather case, Sam’s jacket tightly buttoned so that no one could see me.
At work, Sam unbuttoned his jacket, unsnapped my holster, and stayed by the door, letting people in and out. Often, shoppers eyed us nervously, even though we were there to keep them safe. As long as the shop remained open, Sam stood guard. Even at lunchtime, he ate in a back room, keeping an eye on security monitors.
In the evening, Sam and I would ride back uptown with the crowds of commuters. Sometimes, we’d stop at a supermarket or deli, but most nights we went straight back to the apartment, where I would be locked up once again.
Week in and week out, very little changed. Occasionally, on weekends, Sam would take me out to a firing range and practice. Not that he needed to be such a good shot in the close confines of Goldmark Jewelers, but he was conscientious.
One weekend, Sam had to work because the store had a big sale. He told Consuela he wouldn’t be home much, so she decided to take the children to visit her parents in New Jersey. She made him two casseroles for dinner while they were gone. There was a lot of teasing and tickling that morning before we left for work, and when we got home the house was unbearably quiet.
Sam flopped onto the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, a habit I’d often heard Consuela nag about. He unstrapped my holster and laid me next to a pile of decorating magazines, quite a different view than the usual gun safe. Using a worn remote control, he began flipping channels on the television. Before he could settle on one, the phone rang, and he levered himself up with a groan and headed into the kitchen.
“Sure,” I heard him say, over the voice of a woman confessing something to television detectives. “Come on up.”
A few minutes later, the buzzer rang, and Sam pressed the intercom button to open the downstairs door.
“Hey, Sammy.” The guy at the door was skinny, looked shifty. Even his smile flickered on and off like Sam’s old television did before it went dark forever. But Sam welcomed him with a slap on the back and his usual broad grin.
“Where you been, Tommy-boy?”
“Here and there.” The man shrugged. “Consuela and the kids not home?”
“Nope. Jersey, visiting her folks. I managed to dodge that bullet by having to work this weekend. Can I get you a beer?”
“Yeah, sure, that would be great.” Sam stepped back into the kitchen, and the man eyed me for a minute, before settling on the couch right by where Sam had placed my holster.
“So,” Sam said, taking a spot on the couch, popping a beer for himself and one for Tommy, “what brings you by?”
“I need to borrow some money.”
Sam sighed. “You know I can’t lend you any more. Consuela would kill me. I thought you were in Gamblers Anonymous.”
“I was. I am. I wasn’t really gambling. It was just a couple little poker games.”
“Right. And how much do you owe?”
Tommy mumbled something.
“What?”
“Nine grand.”
“Nine thousand dollars? Jeez, Tommy. If I wanted to lend you that, I couldn’t. I don’t have that kind of cash.”
“Your bosses do. Hell, one little diamond from Goldmark would cover my debts and then some.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They trust you. There must be times no one is watching you, times when they leave the stuff in the back room or whatever.”
“No, there aren’t. Mr. Janowicz is careful to put the diamonds in the vault whenever the store isn’t open.”
“So, trip or something while he’s laying them in the displays. Make a mess and swallow one or two while helping clean up.”
“It doesn’t work that way.” Sam shook his head, and little wrinkles formed around his eyes.
“Sammy, these guys, they’re going to kill me. I’m telling you, I need your help.”
Sam stood and began to pace. “I could help you get a loan, maybe. You got anything to put up as collateral?”
“No. And I . . . I lost my job. That’s why I went to the poker games. I just wanted to make enough to get by. And you know if I don’t bring in a steady paycheck, Cheryl will leave. You gotta help me, Sammy. You’re my only hope.”
“I can’t. Look. I’ll take you to see a guy I know at Midtown North. Maybe they can do something for you in return for you ID’ing the guy
running the games, or the guy you borrowed from.”
“The police? That’s your idea of help?”
“Calm down, Tommy,” said Sam. “We’ll get through this.”
“I only have four days! Four fucking days! How are we going to get through it?”
“They only gave you four days?”
“No. They gave me two weeks. But I couldn’t come up with it. And I then I saw Goldmark’s ad in the paper, and I knew you’d be working this weekend, so I took the chance I could catch you alone. But what good does it do if you won’t help?”
“I won’t steal for you. I can’t.”
“You can!” Wildly, Tommy snatched me off the table and wrenched me from my holster. Shaking hands pointed me at Sam. “You just won’t! High-and-mighty Sam! So much better than the rest of the family!”
“Jesus, Tommy—” Sam raised his hands to ward Tommy off, but it was too late. In an instant, Tommy pulled the trigger. A harsh yank rather than a smooth squeeze, but with the same result.
Two lives are over: Sam is dead, and I have become a killer.
TOMMY’S hands sweat, shake even more than when he first picked me up. He leans over Sam, who is lying still, so still on the floor, a huge stain spreading across his chest. His fingers clench reactively, and I think he may fire once more, but he does not. Instead, he shakes Sam’s body with his free hand.
“Sammy? Sammy! Don’t do this to me, man, please. I didn’t mean it, Sammy.” After a long minute, he stuffs me in the pocket of his windbreaker and takes off. As he runs, I bounce up and down, longing for the security of my leather holster. Everything is foreign and frightening. I have just killed my only friend.
After a few bouncing, bobbing minutes, the air changes, and I recognize the gritty, oily humidity of the subway. Tommy’s hand settles tightly over me, forcing me deeper into the slick fabric of his jacket pocket. He fears that one of the many bodies pressing around us will discover my presence. If only I had the power to call out and accuse him!
We stay on the train as others leave. The conductor’s voice— which I’ve never been able to make much sense of, and which is even less clear with a clammy hand pressing me into the depths of a pocket— announces stops that have names, not numbers. We have abandoned Manhattan, with its neat grid of comforting, rectangular blocks.
Eventually, Tommy stumbles out of the subway. He climbs a long set of stairs, not releasing his hold on me until we are above ground. His walk slows, but his steps remain jerky. We enter a building and a heavy door slams behind us. Tommy jogs up flight after flight of stairs. When he stops, he is out of breath. Heaving. He hesitates, and then I hear the click and snick of a key in a lock and the creak of an un-oiled hinge.
“What did he say?” The woman’s voice is like the hinge, scratchy and metallic. “Is he gonna lend you the cash?”
“No.”
“I hope you told him where to get off.”
“I . . . I killed him, Cheryl.” He pulls me out and holds me toward the woman. “His gun was lying there on the table. I didn’t mean to do it. I was just so pissed.”
“And you brought the gun home with you? What kind of fucking moron are you? Never mind. I know what kind of fucking moron you are. Give it here. It’s not worth much, but someone will give us a couple bucks for it.”
“I thought about that on the way home. Little Joe will take it.”
“I said, give it here.” He hands me across, and she stuffs me into the waistband of her jeans. I hear a smack, and realize she has hit him.
“Little Joe? That’s your idea? Yeah, he’ll want it, all right. And he’ll use it. And then there’ll be a murder in Morrisania with a bullet from the same gun as killed Sam. And who would an upstanding citizen like Sam know living in the south Bronx? Why, his lowlife cousin, Tommy, that’s who.”
Tommy mumbles something I cannot make out.
“Go take a shower. I’ll call a bouncer I know in the meat-packing district. He’s always looking for a little extra firepower. That way, even if it’s used, the damn thing shows up back in Manhattan where it belongs.”
Cheryl pulls me out and examines me. Her long, thin fingers are cool and steady as she carries me into a kitchen reeking of old food and desperation. She grabs a cloth off the counter. It is dingy and spotted with unidentifiable stains, and when she rubs it over me, I wish I could shrink away. She is particularly careful to wipe off fingerprints around my trigger.
The sound of water running in another room seems a signal, and she lays me on the table and picks up a portable phone. She pokes her head out of the kitchen to check the hallway before dialing, then taps her foot impatiently until someone picks up on the other end.
“Serge, it’s me. Yeah, I know you’re working. But I have something for you and I want to get rid of it tonight. Yeah. A nine.”
I know she is talking about me, for that is my size, though more accurately I should be called a “point nine.”
She walks to the door and checks to be sure Tommy is not nearby.
“I told him I knew a guy who was a bouncer. That’s it.” She paces as she speaks. “Of course I didn’t give him your name! For Christ’s sake, d’ya think I’m stupid? I can be there in an hour.”
Obviously, an hour is not to Serge’s liking, for she huffs angrily at his response. “Why can’t I just meet you in the club?” Impatient and nervous, she checks Tommy’s whereabouts again while she listens to Serge. “You have a girlfriend, don’t you? That’s why you don’t want anyone to see me.” Her voice drops. “I told you I’d leave him. All you have to do is ask. But you never do.”
Her voice drops even lower. “Fine. I’ll be there. Be sure to have the cash.”
She hangs up, puts the phone down next to me, and leaves the room, only to return a minute later with a small purse. She wraps me in the dirty cloth, and I feel her stuff me into the bag. A few minutes later, she calls out goodbye to Tommy. My new receptacle is dark and close, scented with fruit gum and tobacco, but at least this time when the shifting and jerking of the subway begins, I am secure.
When she takes me out at last, shadows surround us. Buildings rise on either side, obscuring the view. Cars pass rapidly, lights flashing past the mouth of the alley, illuminating Cheryl and her companion in strobes. Music pulses nearby.
“Give it here,” says the tall man I assume to be Serge. She hands me over.
“It’s got a body on it?”
“Yeah, but it’s no biggie. Guy’s a nobody. Tommy’s cousin.”
Sam was not a nobody! He was my friend, my protector. But these two don’t care.
“Where’s the money?” she asks. “I can’t go home without it, or he’ll know something’s up.”
He hands her a wad of bills and she begins counting while he checks my magazine. Like Sam’s, his calloused hands are practiced in the motions. But they are neither respectful nor attentive.
“Hey,” she protests. “There’s only a hundred bucks here. We agreed—”
He fires three times, then watches as she sinks to the ground.
“Serge?” She reaches out for him and for a moment I think he’s going to help her, but he just leans over and picks up the money she has dropped. He wipes me clean on his black T-shirt, drops me next to her, and walks away.
Night fades into day, and I lie there in the cooling blood of my second victim. A man comes by with a huge black and tan dog. The beast begins to howl before he even gets to the mouth of the alley, and pulls his master towards us as soon as we are in sight.
“Get away from her, Cujo!” The man has his cell phone out, and is trying to make a phone call. “Yeah,” he says into the receiver, “I . . . my dog found a dead body. A woman. Thirteenth just east of Tenth Avenue.” He continues to drag the dog away, until I can no longer hear him speaking.
Before long, the alley is filled with cops. A ginger-haired man, in a blue jacket with N.Y.C. POLICE CRIME SCENE UNIT on the back, picks me up and squints at my registration number. He calls it ou
t to another man, who copies it into a notebook before Ginger secures me in a cardboard box with plastic zip ties. I wish he would wipe me off. My victim’s blood has coated me, and is crusting the grooves in my grip as it begins to dry.
Notebook man is on a radio, and after a minute, his slouching posture straightens, and he waves Ginger over. “Hey, Mike, check it out. That gun belongs to a murder victim. Guy was shot to death last night up in Harlem. More ’n likely, same weapon.”
“Dumbass,” opines Ginger Mike. “Another civvie who shouldn’t have a gun.”
“Nah. Guy was a security guard. Worked in the diamond district. Needed the gun for work.”
“Really?” For the first time, Mike sounds interested. “Any leads? He ever take the diamonds home?” He stares at Cheryl’s body as if she might be hiding a stash of precious gems.
“No leads. And no on the diamonds. His bosses took full inventory. Nothing’s missing.”
“Well, shit.” Mike pops my box open and looks at me as if I should explain the puzzle of a gun traveling all over the city to him. I wish I could, but at least I know as soon as they identify Cheryl, they’ll connect her to Tommy and him to Sam.
For hours, nothing seems to happen. At last, I am tucked in a box with other paper and plastic bags containing wet and dry evidence and placed in the back of a van. The bags rustle and bounce each time the van hits a pothole. Though I am desperately uncomfortable, I am also relieved: no more evil acts will be required of me.
In the following days and weeks, without Sam’s routine or even a window on the sun, I lose all sense of time. I spend most of my time in a cool, dark box along with the rest of the evidence gathered at Cheryl’s murder. Occasionally, I am taken out to be swabbed or dusted, but I have no idea how long passes between these brief flashes of light. I am fired three times, and I understand they will be comparing the bullets to those that killed Sam and Cheryl.
Fresh Slices Page 9
