“About two weeks,” she says.
“And she never mentioned anything after that?”
“No, I don’t think we even talked again. She was never really that friendly; most of the time she just seemed to keep to herself. I don’t think she was a very happy person.”
“Why do you say that?” Kevin asks.
“Well, for instance, we both grew up near Minneapolis, but she wouldn’t talk much about it. She seemed well read and quite capable of talking about many subjects, as long as the subject wasn’t herself.”
“Any idea why that was?”
“Well, Richard mentioned one day that she had a difficult childhood. And then there were the problems with Richard. People from abusive households often enter into abusive relationships when they become adults. Don’t they?”
I’m not really up for psychobabble now; I’m in my pretuxedo bad mood. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I say. “I TiVo’d Dr. Phil.”
Kevin and I leave, and I drop him off at the office before heading home. He’s worried about my meeting with Petrone but agrees to my request to call Marcus and tell him not to interfere.
I had left a message for Laurie that I was going to a black-tie gathering, and told her she was more than welcome to come along. My investigative instincts help me anticipate her answer before she says anything; she is wearing sweatpants and has put my tuxedo out on the bed.
I don’t know much about fashion history, and as an example, I don’t know who invented the tuxedo. But whoever the father of the tuxedo might have been, he should have been neutered as a child. The tuxedo is as dumb an item as exists on the planet.
Actually, maybe the invention was a joint effort; maybe it was idiocy by committee. One dope created the bow tie, another the suspenders, another the iridescent shoes, and still another the ridiculous cummerbund.
As bad as each item is, when they are put together, especially on my body, they reach a perfect symmetry of awfulness. If you put me in Giants Stadium with sixty thousand men wearing tuxedos, I would still feel as though everybody were staring at me. I don’t just feel stupid when I wear a tuxedo. I am by definition stupid, or I wouldn’t be wearing one.
I go outside at 6:55 to wait for Vince to arrive, and he is characteristically late. That leaves me standing, penguin style, in front of the house, waving to smiling neighbors dressed in normal clothing.
Vince finally arrives, and I get in the car. He is dressed in khaki pants and a sports jacket with a shirt open at the neck.
“Well, don’t you look snappy!” he says.
I’m about to take my cummerbund off and strangle him with it. “You told me to wear a tuxedo.”
He laughs. “I was kidding. It’s a casino night. Where do you think we’re going, Monte Carlo?”
“So nobody else is going to be dressed like this?” I ask.
Another laugh. “You got that right.”
I tell Vince to wait, and I go back into the house. Within ten minutes I’m dressed like a normal human being and back in the car. “That was your idea of a joke?” I ask.
“No, the way you looked in that monkey suit is my idea of a joke.”
I’m so pissed at Vince that I don’t talk to him for the twenty-minute ride to our destination. He spends most of the time whistling and listening to the Mets game; I don’t think my silent treatment is bringing him to his knees.
The charity event is being held at a ballroom called the Fiesta, on Route 17 in Hasbrouck Heights. Vince parks in the general parking area rather than using the valet service, explaining that with the valet it will take too long to get out. The true reason is that this way there will be no one for him to have to tip.
We walk into the lobby, where we are required to pay for entry and to buy chips. It costs me five hundred dollars, plus another five hundred for Vince, who seems to have forgotten where his checkbook might be. Vince tells me that it’s tax deductible, as if I should be grateful for the opportunity he’s giving me.
Once I’ve paid we enter the ballroom, which is already quite crowded. There are bars in all four corners of the room, and blackjack, roulette, and craps tables are set up throughout. The only people wearing tuxedos are the dealers.
Casino nights are among the more ridiculous inventions of modern man. The chips we have purchased are merely props that give us something to gamble with; they are not worth any money. The only problem is that gambling is one hundred percent about money; it is essential to the process.
I glance over at a blackjack table where a woman is agonizing over whether to double down with eleven against a dealer showing nine. She just can’t decide whether she wants to risk five worthless chips or ten worthless chips. Her children’s college education might well be on the line.
Gambling without money is like playing baseball without a bat and a ball. It’s goofy. Yet everywhere I look, people are laughing and having fun. What kind of a world is this? Why can’t these people spend their time doing something productive, something worthwhile?
They need only look at me to follow my example. I am here to meet with the leading crime figure in New Jersey, to find out if he is trying to kill me. My mother would be proud.
“Where’s Petrone?” I ask Vince.
“How the hell should I know?”
“You said he’d be here and that he would talk to me.”
“And he will. Just relax; play some blackjack.”
I hold up the chips with disdain. “With these?”
“I’ll take them,” he says, and goes off to play with both his chips and mine.
“I’ll be at the bar,” I say, and that’s exactly where I head.
I’m on my third Bloody Mary when two men, each ten years younger, four inches taller, and forty pounds heavier than me, walk over. Their very presence is menacing to me, and I instantly wish I were at one of the tables playing fake blackjack.
“This way,” one of them says, and they start walking toward the back exit door. My mind decides to follow them, but my legs don’t seem to be impressed, and I just stand there without moving.
The two men are out the door before they realize I’m not behind them, and they come back. “You coming, or what?”
I nod, and with an enormous effort, I actually start moving. I follow them out the door and down a corridor. They stop, and one of the men frisks me to make sure I’m not armed or wearing a wire.
I’m not a big frisking fan, whether I’m the frisker or the friskee. I prefer the honor system, but these two guys don’t seem familiar with that system. They probably didn’t go to West Point.
Satisfied that I’m not carrying an M-16 in my pocket, they then open a door and stand by it, waiting for me to enter. I do so, and they follow me in.
Petrone sits in an armchair, watching the Mets game on a large-screen television. It appears that we are in some kind of reception area where pictures are taken of wedding couples or Bar Mitzvah boys who have their parties in this facility.
Both men take positions, standing with their backs to the walls. “What’s the score?” I ask.
Petrone doesn’t answer or even acknowledge my presence. It’s not until the end of the inning leads to a commercial that he looks at me. “I understand you want to talk to me,” he says. “You have three minutes.”
I nod; right now three minutes feels like two too many. “I am representing Richard Evans. He did not murder his fiancée.”
Petrone doesn’t say a word, just waits for me to continue.
“I need to find out what really happened, and I think the truth is tied into his job with U.S. Customs.”
Still no response, which is not unreasonable, since I haven’t asked a question.
“I’ve been followed, shot at, and had my phone tapped, and I have reason to believe that you know a great deal about what is going on, and why.”
Still no response; he just stares at me. I don’t think it’s with admiration.
“You can jump in whenever you want,” I say.
“I have not ordered that you be killed; it is not something that interests me either way,” he says. “That is why you are still alive. But you have the potential to interfere with something that does interest me, and you would be well advised to be very careful.”
“So you didn’t have me shot at on the turnpike?”
He doesn’t respond, and I assume it’s because he’s already answered the question by saying he didn’t order me killed. Instead he looks at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”
“Okay. I have no desire to interfere in your activities; all I want to do is get an innocent man out of jail. But to help me in my noninterference, can you tell me anything about the night of the murder?”
He thinks for a few moments, as if measuring his response. “You lawyers have a tendency to go from A to B to C to D. Sometimes A doesn’t lead to D. Sometimes they are on two entirely different roads.”
“That might be a little cryptic for me,” I say. “Can I assume you have no interest in the Evans case? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“That is what I’m telling you. But I am also telling you to be very careful.”
He turns back to the game, thus announcing that my presence is no longer welcome. I turn and leave, and the two men follow me until I’m back in the main casino room.
I spot Vince at a craps table, his arm around the woman standing next to him. There is a large pile of chips in front of them. “Okay,” I say. “I spoke to him. Let’s get out of here.”
He turns and looks at me, then at the woman he has his arm around, then back at me. Finally he picks up one of his chips and hands it to me. “Here, kid. Get yourself a cab.”
* * * * *
I WAKE UP to the whirring sound of my exercise bike.
It is not a sound that I hear frequently, since I have long treated the bike as a piece of furniture. Of course, it has more than just aesthetic value; I use the handlebars as a place to hang shirts.
Once I am able to pry my eyes open, I look over and see Laurie pedaling furiously. Her energy level is now inversely proportional to my self-esteem. We made love last night, and it left me so exhausted that it feels as if it will take someone with a shovel to get me out of bed. Yet either I have been unable to remotely tire Laurie out, or she is in a desperate rush to get somewhere but isn’t aware that the bike is stationary.
“What time is it?” I ask.
Laurie looks over at me, then at her watch, while continuing to pedal. “Four thirty.”
I look toward the window. “And it’s dark already?”
“In the morning, Andy. It’s four thirty in the morning.”
Tara and Reggie are paying no attention to this repartee; they are sound asleep on their beds. “Are you delivering newspapers or just out for a scenic ride?”
“I’m sorry, Andy. I exercise when I’m feeling stress.”
“You exercise every day of your life.”
“But I usually wait until six.”
“Why so stressed?” I ask.
She stops pedaling, comes over and sits on the side of the bed. “Today is my last day here. I leave tomorrow morning.”
I knew that, but it still hits me like a two-by-four in the head. I say this despite having no idea what a two-by-four actually is.
“How about if we spend it together?” I ask.
She smiles. “I’d like that. What did you have in mind?”
“Well, how about if we get dressed and go into the city?” I don’t have to specify which city; any time someone in North Jersey mentions “the city,” they’re talking about New York.
Laurie reacts, surprised that I would say that, since she knows I’m not a big fan of driving into the city. “What for?”
“I thought maybe we could spend some time in the Bronx talking to people who knew one of the guys that tried to kill me.”
She smiles again. “You really know how to show a girl a good time.”
I shrug. “I’m just an incurable romantic.”
Antwan Cooper, the driver for Archie Durelle the night they shot at Sam Willis and me, lived on Andrews Avenue in the Bronx. It is just across the street from the campus of Bronx Community College, which took it over from NYU in the seventies.
The campus seems like an idyllic oasis in the midst of what is a very depressed, run-down area. The people who live in houses like Antwan’s have a hell of a lot more to worry about in their daily lives than chemistry homework.
Laurie and I pull up in front of the house, which seems to defy the laws of physical construction just by the fact that it is standing. There are holes in the structure where there should not be holes, and boards over where there should be holes, such as the windows. Above the front door there is the outline of Greek lettering, indicating that this was once a fraternity or sorority house.
Sitting on the stairs is a very large young man who looks frozen in time, like a statue. His 250 or so pounds are sort of folded over, his chin resting almost on his knees. His clothing is nondescript except for a Mets hat and outlandish new sneakers that probably set him back two hundred and fifty dollars. He gives absolutely no indication that he has even seen us pull up, or that he is alive.
We get out of the car, and I immediately realize that Laurie and I are about to reverse the traditional male-female roles, as we always do in situations like this. I am by nature a physical coward, and what I perceive to be dangerous surroundings intimidate me. She is a trained police officer, used to threatening situations, and if she is worried, she certainly does not show it. Laurie and I both know that I’m glad she’s here.
I am still somewhat nervous about this. We are going to try to talk to people who were friends or family of a man who tried to murder me, who was killed in the process, and we are doing so in a place that does not exactly look open and inviting.
“We don’t need to be doing this,” I say.
“It’ll be fine, Andy.”
“We haven’t even gotten the new trial.”
Before she can answer, a car pulls up behind ours, and Marcus gets out. He most likely has judged this to be a time when staying in the background is not enough, and he wants to be present and accounted for if unpleasantness should break out. Suffice it to say that his presence changes my outlook somewhat.
I dare somebody to mess with Marcus and me.
Laurie and I approach the house, and Statue Man finally moves, albeit slightly. He tilts his head to follow our progress, and the look on his face is not particularly welcoming.
“Can you tell us what apartment Antwan Cooper lived in?”
“Get lost.”
“We’re looking for someone who knew him, maybe a family member that we can talk to.”
“Get fucking lost,” he says, slowly standing up. This is not going well.
“Tell him the number.” It’s Marcus’s voice; he has approached and is standing just behind us.
Statue Man looks over and sees Marcus. He sizes him up for a moment, then looks back at me. “Two B,” says Statue Man.
We reach the front door and I attempt to ring the bell, though no sound can be heard. Laurie doesn’t do or say anything, so I knock on the door a few times, but it doesn’t seem to attract any attention. “We appear to be thwarted,” I say.
Laurie frowns and turns the doorknob. The door swings wide open. I graciously let her enter first. The interior is predictably depressing, with a narrow, dark corridor with six apartment doors, and a staircase leading upstairs. Since Statue Man said we should go to 2-B, we head up the stairs. As we climb, I look back and see that Marcus has taken a position at the bottom of the stairs, thereby positioning himself as an impenetrable barrier between Statue Man and us. If the Alamo walls were that reliable, Davy Crockett would have spent his declining years in a condo in Boca Raton.
The second floor is identical to the first, and the B apartment is the second door on the right. Since I am apparently the designated knocker, I try my luck.
“Yeah?” a voice calls out fr
om within the apartment.
“We want to talk to you about Antwan Cooper,” I say through the door.
“You cops?”
That’s a tough question to answer, and not just because Laurie is a cop and I’m not. It’s tough because I’m not sure which answer will get whoever’s inside to open the door and talk to us.
I decide to avoid the question. “Can we come in?”
“Nobody’s stopping you.”
I take that as an invitation to open the door, but Laurie motions for me to wait a moment. She has apparently decided that caution is called for, and she takes out her handgun, concealing it at her side. She gives me the okay, and I open the door.
The apartment is sparsely furnished but looks neat and cared for. Sitting at a small table is a teenager, maybe fifteen years old. He is obviously whom we were speaking with, but his voice sounds older. His eyes look even older than that.
“So, you cops?”
“I’m a lawyer,” I say. “Did you know Antwan Cooper?”
“They want to talk about Pops,” he says, and I realize he’s talking to someone else. I look over, and there’s a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway between this room and the kitchen. She is holding a kitchen towel in her hand.
She looks at us. “What about?”
“Was he your husband?”
She looks at me evenly and says with considerable pride, “He was. Now, who are you?”
“My name is Andy Carpenter. This is Laurie Collins. Just before your husband died, the passenger in the car he was driving tried to kill me.”
“I’m sorry about that. I’m sure Antwan meant you no harm.”
“Do you know why he was driving the car?”
“That man paid him five hundred dollars.”
“Archie Durelle?”
“I didn’t know his name,” she says. “But Antwan knew him. He trusted him. Said when you fight next to a man, that was all you needed to know about him.”
“Were they in the Army together?” Laurie asks.
“Yes. But Antwan didn’t recognize him at first. I think ’cause he hadn’t seen him in a long time. He just showed up one day, said he needed a favor, and that he would pay Antwan five hundred dollars.”
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