“Yeah.” Manny laughs heartily. “That’s Marlene awright - intresting.” Which doesn’t exactly settle the issue for Goodman, but he leaves it alone.
Manny takes a huge wad of money from his back pocket and starts peeling off twenties, licking his thumb between each extraction. He hands five of them to Goodman.
“See you Monday,” he says.
“See you Monday,” says Goodman.
Back at the Four-O, Ray Abbruzzo takes part in the post-buy meeting. This is the gathering at which the undercovers and backup team members coordinate their accounts, so that when they go to fill out reports and make notes in their memo books, all of their times, locations, and descriptions will be consistent. Each buy gets rounded off to the nearest five minutes (such as 1310 hours); each arrest happens precisely five minutes later (1315); and each drive-by identification by the undercover five minutes after that (1320). Each hand-to-hand transaction is done with the right hand, and all money and drugs are recovered from the right pocket. As little as possible is left to memory.
After the post-buy, Abbruzzo begins processing his prisoners. This consists of getting pedigree information from each of them in turn: full name, address, date of birth, employment (if any), and a host of other similar questions.
Because he’s a detective, rather than a police officer, Ray takes a few minutes after each interview to pitch a deal to each prisoner: If any of them want to cooperate with him by giving him information on other dealers, he’ll make a recommendation to the DA that they be ROR’d - released on their own recognizance - when they get to court, rather than having the judge set a high bail that’s likely to keep them in jail.
J. D. Gap, the guy in the green shirt who’s missing his front teeth, tells Ray to go fuck himself. J. D. Stud, he of the gold nose stud, would love to help out, but he explains that he’s innocent and therefore doesn’t know anybody who sells drugs.
But when it comes to the third prisoner, the young kid with the Syracuse jacket, it’s a slightly different story. He’s already told Abbruzzo it’s his first arrest, and it’s the detective’s experience that “cherries” are often likely to turn: It seems the fear of jail is at its very worst the first time you’re looking at it. Once you’ve done a little time and survived, the second time’s not so scary. Beyond that, the kid seems to have a nasty habit, and already he’s showing telltale signs of hurting - he’s beginning to sweat, and he’s starting to double over like he’s got stomach cramps. Not that he’s actually in withdrawal yet - he’s only two hours off the street - but you can tell that the mere thought of it is getting to him.
“You’re lookin’ at state time here, kid,” Ray tells him. “Mandatory one to three.” It’s not exactly true, but it’ll do for now.
“How much I gotta do for you?” the kid asks.
“Coupla things,” Ray tells him. “Or one good thing.”
“How good’s it gotta be?”
“Real good. Gotta be weight.”
The kid seems to think for a minute. Then he says, “I might know a guy who’s got some pure shit.”
“Pure, as in pure?”
“Pure, as in dynamite.” The kid smiles. It’s the first time Ray’s seen him smile.
“Now you’re talking.” Ray can’t remember the kid’s name, has to look at the arrest report in front of him. “Now you’re talking, Robbie.”
* * *
Goodman’s trip home from the Bronx is uneventful: no muggings on the way to the subway, no encounters with the Russells of the world. He stops at the supermarket that’s on the corner of Ninety-sixth and picks up a few things. He’d been almost out of food, and the $100 in his pocket represents the first money he’s made in almost four weeks.
Goodman’s not yet fully used to the idea of shopping for himself. He has to make a conscious effort to refrain from buying Tampax for Shirley or Mallomars for Kelly. He picks out things like packaged macaroni and cheese, tuna fish - he settles for light rather than the more expensive white - generic toilet paper, and some more Pop-Tarts. It fills two bags and comes to $14.97. Still, he feels he’s spending too much on himself.
Fumbling for his keys at the door to his building, he feels something brush up against his legs. When he looks down, he sees a cat - or more accurately, a kitten. It’s black, though on closer inspection he decides it might actually be gray and just very dirty. It looks up at him and makes a mewing sound.
He tries to push it away without kicking it, but it seems intent on attaching its side to his ankle. He gives up and turns his attention back to his keys. He locates the right one, inserts it in the lock, and manages to push the door open with his shoulder. But as he wedges his body inside, the kitten darts between his feet and slips through the opening, just before the door closes.
“You can’t come in,” he tells it, feeling foolish to hear himself talking to an animal. The only pets he ever had growing up were canaries, fish, and a one-eyed turtle named Max. Then Shirley had turned out to be allergic to fur, so Kelly’s only pet has been the inanimate Larus.
The kitten gives him another mewww and continues to rub up against him. When he opens the door to let it out, it moves behind him instead, keeping Goodman’s body between it and the door. He gives up and lets the door close again.
“Okay,” he tells it, “you can come in. But just for a minute, that’s all.” Not realizing, of course, that the first part of that message is something universally understood by kittens, while the second part is totally incomprehensible.
In obvious appreciation, the creature remains virtually attached to Goodman’s ankles as they climb the four flights to his apartment and is inside the instant he opens the door.
* * *
Russell Bradford gets home around the same time. His brothers and his sister are already there, and his mother’s due soon.
Right away, Russell forgets all the good intentions he had earlier in the day. He retrieves the baggie from where he’s hidden it underneath the sofa, then heads to the bathroom. He figures a sniff or two won’t hurt him. In fact, he’s heard that it’s best to cut down a little at a time.
It’s almost midnight by the time Robbie McCray gets home. Good to his word, Ray Abbruzzo “cut him loose,” spared Robbie from being officially arrested and having to go through the system. This isn’t something that Abbruzzo had the legal power to do: The law says that once a person is arrested, only the district attorney can “unarrest” him, by filing a form with the court, stating his intention to decline prosecution.
But Abbruzzo simply took things into his own hands, taking the cuffs off Robbie, quietly letting him out the side door of the station house, and deleting his name from the paperwork. Other than the members of the backup team, no one will ever know about Ray’s decision, much less complain about it.
Of course, before any of that could happen, Robbie had to spend a little time with Ray, telling him what he knew about a friend of his who’s been walking around with a bag of pure heroin. Not that there was much to tell, really. No big deal or anything.
Goodman is awakened Friday morning by tiny, sharp teeth biting his toes through the blanket, and he’s reminded that he relented last night and couldn’t quite bring himself to put a certain kitten out. But he’d remembered reading somewhere that you were okay until you fed them, and he’d ignored its cries and refused to share his macaroni and cheese. A night’s lodging was one thing, but that didn’t mean that dinner was included.
This morning, however, the kitten’s cries are more persistent. Well rested but hungrier than ever, it manages to coax a bite of Pop-Tart out of him, first licking the sticky filling and then gobbling down the crust.
“You’re eating a Pop-Tart!” Goodman exclaims, impressed by his guest’s appetite. He opens a second one and downs half of it himself before breaking the remainder into little pieces. He watches in amazement as the kitten inhales them like a vacuum cleaner.
“Pop-Tart,” he marvels again, and his new friend looks up, apparently
recognizing the name its host has unwittingly conferred upon it.
Before the hour is up, Goodman will make another trip to the supermarket and return with his arms full of cat food, milk, a plastic tray, and five pounds of Kitty Litter, $22.56 poorer.
Robbie McCray is up early, too. He knows there’s something he needs to do today, something important, but he can’t quite remember what. He thinks back to yesterday: the meeting with Big Red, going to work in Tito’s crew, getting arrested, being let go - and then it comes to him: He’s got to go warn Russell.
But Robbie’s tired; he didn’t get home till late. And he knows that as soon as he gets up, he’s gonna have to go out and try to cop.
So in order to put that off as long as he can, he turns over and goes back to sleep.
Goodman gets an inspiration. He calls the lawyer who helped him out when his wife died. He’s a little embarrassed about doing this, because he still owes the guy money, but he figures he’s got nothing to lose but a lecture.
The secretary tells him Mr. Dubin’s on the other line, would he like to leave his name and number? No, Goodman says, he’ll hold on.
He listens to music while he waits. The theme song from The Godfather comes and goes. The one from Elvira Madigan is halfway through when he hears Dubin’s voice. He likes that song and is a little disappointed to have it interrupted.
“Hello, Michael, how are you? What can I do for you?”
“Hello, Mr. Dubin,” Goodman says. “First, you can accept my apology for not having finished paying your fee yet. I just got a new job, and I’m working on it.”
“Good.”
“I need to ask you a favor.”
“Ask away.”
“My little girl’s sick. She had some tests, an MRI?”
“Yes?”
“Well, it turns out my medical insurance got a little screwed up, what with the job change and everything. The place that did the test won’t release the results to the doctor. And the thing is, Kelly’s been having these headaches, and I’m scared to death she’s got-” And right here, Goodman’s voice cracks, and he has to stop in midsentence.
“Why don’t you give me the number of the MRI place?” Dubin says in a voice so self-assured that to Michael Goodman, it sounds like the charge of the calvary.
* * *
Within twenty minutes, Dubin has called back.
“They’re sending the films over to your doctor later this morning,” he says.
Goodman is incredulous. “How’d you do that?”
“I reminded them that this could be a life-threatening situation and that if they withheld test results, they could very well end up being liable in a wrongful-death action.”
“Thanks, Mr. Dubin,” Goodman says.
“You’re welcome. Just be sure you pay their bill, okay? I promised them you’d take care of it by the end of next week.”
“No problem.”
He hangs up the phone. But when he goes to rise from the sofa, he discovers his knees are suddenly weak, and he has to sink back down. It’s not the promise to pay the bill to which his lawyer has committed him without his permission; that doesn’t bother him. No, it’s Dubin’s earlier words that echo in his ears: “life-threatening situation,” “wrongful-death action.” Goodman sits there stunned, unable to move. Finally, Pop-Tart comes over and jumps up into his lap.
Russell Bradford gets up around ten o’clock. Today’s the day he’s supposed to meet with the white guy again, tell him he’s got a buyer for the kilo.
Russell showers, humming softly to himself. The way he figures, a couple days from now, he should be $15,000 richer. Of course, for Russell, being $15,000 richer will mean he’ll have exactly $15,000. Which, when you think about it, is a lot less than Big Red will have, even less than the white guy. Which hardly seems right, seeing as Russell is really the important guy in this deal. After all, without Russell, Big Red and the white guy don’t even know each other; without Russell, they could never pull this deal off.
He gets dressed and watches a little TV, keeping one eye on the clock until it’s time to head out for the meeting. Just before he leaves, he pulls out the baggie and takes a couple of quick sniffs, just to brace himself up. No harm in that, certainly.
Goodman leaves his apartment at 11:30. He knows that’ll get him to the park too early but he can’t help himself, so strong is his compulsion to be punctual.
As soon as he gets outside, he sees it’s overcast, something he couldn’t tell from his apartment. He thinks about going back for an umbrella but decides against it. He remembers how his father used to refuse to go back inside once he’d left a place - it was supposed to be bad luck. He smiles at recalling how that little superstition had caused his father to show up at Goodman’s wedding without his false teeth, so that Goodman himself had been forced to make an emergency trip across town to retrieve them. He misses his father, misses both his parents. He wonders if his decision now not to go back for his umbrella is some sort of homage to them.
He purposely walks slowly, figuring that Russell will show up late again. He stops to look in the windows of little shops, even though there’s not much of interest on the way: a shoemaker, a bagel place, a little grocery store. At one point, he becomes vaguely aware of two men across the street, whose pace doesn’t seem to be much faster than his. It just goes to show you the things you begin to notice when you slow down a little in life, he tells himself. And thinks nothing more of it.
At the water’s edge, Goodman looks out over the river, to the factories and red brick buildings of Queens. The water is different from how it looked last time. Today it’s choppy, with occasional whitecaps. The breeze is backing in from the east, a sure sign that rain’s on the way. It feels good against his face, even if it makes his eyes begin to tear.
A uniformed policeman walks by just behind him. Goodman half-turns and their eyes meet, and they exchange nods and small smiles. Goodman can’t help wondering what the cop’s reaction would be if he knew Goodman was here waiting to meet a black kid from the Bronx about a major heroin deal. He smiles; the thought is truly mind-boggling.
His thoughts go to Kelly again, and how - no matter how criminal, no matter how immoral what he’s about to do may be - he’s doing it in order to save her life. But he knows there’s more to it than that. The way he’s begun to look at it is that, at one of life’s darkest moments, just when his situation seemed totally hopeless - when he’d seemed trapped on an endless merry-go-round to nowhere - here he’s suddenly been given a once-in-a-lifetime chance to reach for the brass ring. Only in this particular case, the ring happens to be pure gold, turns out to be worth a couple million dollars. How can he not reach for it?
He tries to shut his mind off by watching the river. There’s a strong current today, moving from left to right, down toward the Battery and out into the Atlantic. He watches a log, a timber of some sort, being swept along by it. He imagines himself in the water, trying to swim across to the other side. You’d have to try to do it at an angle, he decides, aiming for landfall far to the south, past Roosevelt Island, past Long Island City all the way down to Brooklyn.
Goodman the accountant reduces it to numbers: It’s maybe a half a mile to the other side, he estimates. It would be a matter of trying to cross that half a mile before being carried past the tip of Brooklyn and out into the open ocean. He’s at Ninetieth Street; at twenty blocks per mile, it’s four and a half miles until you run out of numbers around Houston Street, another mile or so after that. Figure six miles. You’d have to make one foot east for every dozen you’d be swept south. Doesn’t sound too hard. Until you figure in fatigue and cold, that is. It’s October; the water’s got to be 60 degrees, maybe even colder. You’d need a drysuit; even in a wetsuit, you’d cramp up before you could make it. And then there’re the waves; all it would take would be one good mouthful, and down you’d go.
The truth is that Goodman - despite his three years in the navy - has always been a weak swimmer, has
a difficult time making it across a good-sized pool and back without resting halfway to tread water. Yet he now manages to push that reality aside, and he stands there, continuing to imagine himself fighting the current, defying all the odds, desperately trying to make it to the other side as the current speeds him downriver.
“Hey, man.”
He wheels around, to see Russell standing next to him. He’s so embarrassed at being caught off guard that he’s afraid Russell’s aware of what he’s been thinking. He even wonders if he’s been talking out loud to himself.
But if Russell’s aware of Goodman’s reverie, he shows no sign of it, to Goodman’s relief.
“Hello, Russell,” he says.
“Hello.”
Neither of them says anything else. Russell takes his place alongside Goodman at the rail, and they watch the river together. It’s as though neither of them wants to be the first to bring up the subject that’s brought them both back here.
A full five minutes goes by, and Goodman has the thought that the two of them will just stand here, looking out over the water and watching the whitecaps until it’s time to leave, and with that, his notion of selling the drugs will pass forever.
But Russell breaks the silence. “I talked to a guy,” he says simply.
“Oh?” And with that one syllable, that one syllable with a barely raised inflection at the end of it, Goodman picks it up again.
“Yeah,” Russell says. “He’s real innerested.”
“Who is he?”
Russell seems to ponder this one a moment. “He’s a guy with serious money is who he be,” he says. “Serious money.”
“Fifty thousand?” Goodman’s voice cracks over the first part of thousand.
“Naw,” Russell says. “I was off about the numbers. Turns out a key’s only worth about twenny, twenny-five.”
Goodman absorbs this news. He knew fifty was probably too good to be true. But he doesn’t need to be greedy: Twenty thousand should be more than enough to pay for the MRI, Kelly’s other medical bills, the balance of Dubin’s fee-
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