Hurt Machine

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  HURT MACHINE

  A Moe Prager Mystery

  Reed Farrel Coleman

  Novels by Reed Farrel Coleman featuring Moe Prager:

  Walking the Perfect Square

  Redemption Street

  The James Deans

  Soul Patch

  Empty Ever After

  Innocent Monster

  featuring Dylan Klein:

  Life Goes Sleeping

  Little Easter

  They Don’t Play Stickball in Milwaukee

  as Tony Spinosa:

  Hose Monkey

  The Fourth Victim

  with Ken Bruen:

  Tower

  For my late friend and publisher David Thompson

  and for Coleman Vance, born to carry on.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would very much like to thank my cousin Paula R. Schwartz, MD, who, in the course of giving technical advice, shared the most bizarre phone conversation with me I think I’ve ever had. As always I owe a great debt to my first readers Sara J. Henry, Ellen Schare, and Judy Bobalik. Thanks to Peter Spiegelman for his patience and advice. Props to Ben LeRoy at Tyrus Books.

  As always, to Rosanne, Kaitlin, and Dylan, without whom none of this would be possible or worth it.

  Death is not an event in life:

  we do not live to experience death.

  —Wittgenstein

  ONE

  Death, not time, is probably the only lasting remedy for hurt and even that’s just an educated guess. Maybe it was wishful thinking. I’m not usually prone to wishful thinking, but since walking out of my oncologist’s office, I’d given myself license to wish away. What damage, I thought, could wishful thinking do to me that the tumor couldn’t?

  Death and hurt were pretty present on my mind. I wondered when the former would come and if the latter would ever really disappear. I wasn’t so much concerned with my hurt. I’d been long-hardened to the slings and arrows. No, I was more focused on the hurt I would leave in my wake, the damage I’d done and left unaddressed or unrepaired. Humans are like hurt machines. No matter how hard we try not to do it, we seem to inflict hurt on one another as naturally as we breathe.

  “Hurt, pain … they’re God’s way of letting you know he loves you,” my late friend and Auschwitz survivor Israel Roth once said to me, a wry smile on his face.

  “Then God must really love you a lot, Izzy.”

  “More than some, less than others.”

  “So God invented tough love. Who knew? Good thing I don’t believe in him.”

  “Is it a good thing, you think? For your sake, Mr. Moe, I hope he believes in you.”

  “We’ll see, I guess.”

  “Yes, someday.”

  Well, suddenly, that someday felt very much at hand. It’s funny, but I couldn’t make sense of what the doctor had said to me. I mean, I understood the individual words and phrases. More tests. A second opinion. Malignant. Metastatic. Surgery. Chemo. Radiation. But somehow they didn’t hang together. They didn’t add up. I couldn’t do the math. One thing he said required no math, no intricate equation. Maybe it would be a good thing to get your house in order. The one euphemism he used, I understood. That needed no further explanation. Problem was, I was at a loss for how to go about it. I could barely organize my sock drawer. How was I supposed to organize my future and my past?

  One thing I was proud of: I hadn’t walked out of the doctor’s office asking, “Why me?” I had since learned not to ask that one. You ask it once and you never stop asking it. Besides, in a Godless universe, the answer starts fourteen billion years ago as a pinpoint in the void and I didn’t have that kind of time. None of us do. I actually preferred icy randomness to thinking of God as the universal hurt machine. Still, I suppose I might have asked the question had the doctor said I would die before Sarah’s wedding.

  Sarah’s wedding. There’s a phrase I used to dread—now, not so much. As a matter of fact, as phrases go, it beats the shit out of You’ve got a golf ball-sized tumor in your stomach.

  I liked Paul, Sarah’s fiancé. More than that, I trusted him. He was solid, a state prosecutor in Vermont, and he loved my daughter so that it ached. He would take good care of her. I knew it was old-fashioned to see any woman, but especially my daughter, as someone who needed taking care of, but in a world so full of hurt, everyone needs taking care of. Anyway, since my trip to the oncologist, I didn’t give a fuck about my thoughts being out of step with the times.

  Not only did I like Paul, we were connected. Paul was the biological son of Rico Tripoli, my precinct mate at the Six-O in Coney Island when I was on the job in the seventies. Rico had once been my best friend, closer to me even than my own brother Aaron. It was Rico who, back in ’78, had gotten me involved in my first case as a PI: the search for Patrick Maloney, a college kid gone missing after a school fundraiser at a Tribeca bar. While searching for Patrick, I fell in love with his sister Katy. Katy and I were married for twenty years and Sarah was our only child. So although Rico had pissed away his gold shield, committed slow-motion suicide with drugs and alcohol, and betrayed our friendship more than once, he was, in his way, responsible for both bride and groom.

  At the moment, I was too busy checking my watch to worry about the train wreck that had been Rico Tripoli’s life. Pam was late for the pre-wedding party and that was pissing me off to no end. It was actually comforting to be pissed off, to be able to focus my anger on something or someone other than the fucking cancer. I reached into my pocket for my cell phone, but stopped as I noticed a woman turn the corner, heading for the restaurant. I put the cell phone back, not because it was Pam. It wasn’t. No, this woman was a piece of my past, someone who had first come into my life in 1972 and walked out of it eight years ago, taking a chunk of my soul with her.

  TWO

  Carmella Melendez and I had gotten married for all the wrong reasons, but with the best intentions. Perhaps it might have worked out better the other way around. The fact is, it didn’t work out. Thankfully, we dissolved things before we could chew each other up or do any lasting damage. Well, before I could do lasting damage to her. I hadn’t been lucky enough to escape unscathed. I’d been a father to Carmella’s newborn for the first year of his life and although Israel—named for Mr. Roth—wasn’t mine, I was the first man to change his diapers, to dry his tears, to tickle his belly. I didn’t know what the now nine-year-old Israel remembered of me, if anything, but I could still hear him coo and feel his tiny fingers latch onto my nose as I cradled him in my arms.

  My heart was thumping in my chest. My throat was dry. I hadn’t seen Carmella for the better part of a decade and we’d barely spoken since she moved up to Toronto. The one conversation we’d had was about her changing Israel’s last name to hers, thereby erasing all traces of me in the boy’s life. Yet the sight of her still made me weak, the hurt and baggage being beside the point. The nearly twenty years in age that separated us was as meaningless now as it was the first time we met as adults. She was a young precinct detective in those days and I was investigating a corruption and murder case in Coney Island’s Soul Patch. I didn’t know then that our paths had crossed before, when she was a little girl with a different name and that I had saved her from certain death. Then it struck me that I hadn’t saved Carmella from it at all. I’d only given her a temporary reprieve. I guess every day from the day we’re born is a kind of reprieve. I wondered if I too might get a reprieve or if my ticket had already been punched.

  We hugged. It was a silent, awkward embrace, both too long and not long enough, too distant, but too close. I recognized the once familiar feel of silk when the wind blew her hair against my cheek. The back of her cotton floral-print dress was damp and the raw scent of her perspiration cutting aga
inst the grassy fragrance of her perfume was intoxicating. It made me want to give in to the moment. Still, as willfully indulgent as I’d been lately, this was neither the time nor the place. And frankly, I was pretty curious about what she was doing here at all. I put my hands around her bare, light brown biceps, gently pushing her away. I needed some distance between us and, at the moment, arm’s length was the best I could do.

  And for the first time since I noticed her rounding the corner, I saw Carmella Melendez with my eyes instead of my heart. Her hair, once so impossibly black, was now salted with threads of gray. She was still fit and as perfectly curved as she had been in her mid-twenties, but some of the fierceness in her eyes had vanished and the sun-darkened skin of her face showed age beyond her years. There are all kinds of aging. Time ages us more gracefully than heartache. The lines in her face, around her eyes and mouth, were etched in tears, many tears.

  “I hear Sarah is getting married,” she said, her voice flat and distracted.

  “In Vermont in a few weeks, yeah. This party is for the people who can’t make it up there.”

  “You must be proud.”

  “Of course I am. I’ve always been proud of Sarah.”

  “She has forgiven you for Katy’s death?”

  “Let’s just say that the last case I worked helped Sarah understand that the fault lines can get awfully blurry and the closer you are to things the harder it is to assign blame.”

  “That was the case of the little girl, the artist? You rescued her the way you rescued me once.”

  “That’s the way the media played it, but it wasn’t like that at all. I’m not sure she wasn’t better off away from her parents. But what’s this got to do with anything, Carmella? What are you doing here? How did you—”

  “It’s Carmella now, not Carm?”

  “It stopped being Carm the day you left for Canada.”

  “I had to go, for all of us. You know that. We were starting to hate each other and I could never let that happen. You only married me to get over Katy and to give Israel a name. Somewhere you know that is the truth.”

  “How is he?”

  She was young again, a beatific smile washing over her face. “He’s amazing, so smart, so handsome.” She reached into her bag and came out with an envelope. “These are pictures of him for you to keep. I could have emailed them, but I know how you are old-fashioned.”

  “No, Carmella, not old-fashioned, just old. Thank you for these.” I slid the envelope into my suit pocket. “But you haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

  “You have not changed, Moe. Still persistent.” Her smile changed, turning to rueful and sad. She was older again. “I always admired that about you. You never lost track of things no matter how confusing the situation would get. No, you have not changed.”

  “Do any of us change, really, even if everything else changes around us?”

  “You are very philosophical today.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “With Sarah getting married …”

  “That too,” I said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Carmella, for chrissakes!” I clapped my hands together in anger.

  Her face turned dead serious. “I want to hire you. I need you.”

  I laughed. “You don’t need me. You proved that when you moved up to Canada. Besides, you were the best detective and PI I ever knew. When we were business partners, you always did the heavy lifting. And if you can’t do it yourself, hire Brian Doyle and Devo. They run their own shop now.”

  “No, not them. You.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help.”

  “You have to.”

  “What the hell is so important that you come to me after all this time?”

  I regretted asking almost before the words were out of my mouth. She took a small framed photo out of her bag and handed it to me. The woman in the photo looked a little like Carmella. She was older, heavier, but with the same fiery eyes and rich mouth. I handed the picture back.

  “She’s lovely,” I said.

  “My big sister, Alta.”

  “I thought you didn’t have any more contact with the Consecos.”

  “I did not. I don’t.”

  “Look, Carmella, what’s this got to do—”

  “I thought you might have heard. Alta was murdered last month. She was stabbed dead in the street outside a pizzeria in Gravesend.”

  I’d grown up in Coney Island, not too far from Gravesend, and I don’t think I’d ever given the name much thought. Gravesend was just another neighborhood. I mean, you don’t say Sheepshead Bay, Brighton Beach, or Brownsville and contemplate the origin of the names. They were neighborhoods with names, names like any other names … until now, until I found out there was a time bomb ticking in my belly. Tick … tick … tick … A long time ago in a cemetery, Mr. Roth told me that he didn’t want to be buried, that to be cold in the ground wasn’t for him. And now the time had come for me to think about that. I didn’t suppose it mattered. When you’re dead, you’re dead, but when you can see the end in sight, it does matter. Gravesend. For as long as I had left, I wouldn’t be able to hear the name again without considering its implications.

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” I said.

  “I cut my family out of my life so many years ago and now …” Carmella was crying. “Here, take this.” She handed me a slip of paper. “Get back to your party. Give your family my love and wish Sarah all happiness. Call me, please.”

  She was in my arms again and I was stroking her hair. When I looked up, Pam was standing a few feet away, glaring.

  From the Daily News, May 6, 2009

  Cold-hearted EMT murdered in Gravesend, Brooklyn

  By Henry Leroy

  One of two FDNY EMTs accused of ignoring a man who died of a stroke at a Manhattan bistro was stabbed to death outside a popular Brooklyn eatery. According to a spokesman for the NYPD, Alta Conseco, 48, of East New York was accosted by an unknown assailant or assailants in close proximity of the Gelato Grotto on 86th Street in the Gravesend section of the borough. Stabbed several times, she managed to crawl to the famous pizzeria where she collapsed. No further details about the attack were released. She was off duty at the time of the assault.

  Conseco was taken to Coney Island Hospital where she was pronounced dead. On March 12, Conseco and another EMT, Maya Watson, made international headlines after witnesses claimed the EMTs ignored pleas for help from the bistro staff after Robert Tillman, a cook at the High Line Bistro, seemed to faint. When they were asked to help, the two off-duty EMTs are reported to have told the bistro staff to call 911 and then left. Both EMTs have consistently refused comment.

  Conseco and Watson have been vilified by New Yorkers for what many perceive as a callous decision and a dereliction of duty. They were both suspended for thirty days and put on desk duty upon their return to active status. Both the Manhattan district attorney’s office and the FDNY have investigations pending.

  THREE

  I had to wade through a lot of shit before I could get to any credible media reports on Alta Conseco’s murder. During the last case I worked—the abduction of Sashi Bluntstone, an eleven-year-old art prodigy—I’d learned some hard lessons about the ugly side of the worldwide web. The internet could be a magical place, but it was a sewer too. It was a place where people with axes to grind could hide behind screen names and ceaselessly vent their spleens in the most vicious and brutal ways imaginable without ever having to justify their points of view or answer for their screeds. Sashi had been a particularly favorite target of a group of frustrated art bloggers who posted invective-laden rants and altered photos of her being crucified, raped, and flayed alive. All of that aimed at a prepubescent girl because she had managed to make some money with her paintings, so you can imagine the harsh and varied expressions of loathing that lay in store for Alta Conseco and Maya Watson.

  When I finally did climb out of the sludge at the bottom o
f the sewer pipe, most of the media reports I found weren’t very good and were pretty much the same. They spent about an equal amount of space or time presenting the scant details of Alta’s murder and rehashing Robert Tillman’s death. The reports that came a few days later weren’t much better. No, actually, they were worse. They shed little if any light on Alta’s homicide. In fact, as the week wore on, reportage of her murder became more of a pretext for the papers and TV outlets to sensationalize Robert Tillman’s unfortunate end and to further vilify Alta and her partner. There was an almost inexhaustible number of articles, opinion pieces, and rants by TV talking heads, many of them delighting in portraying the two EMTs as representative of New York City itself.

  Over the last few years I’d noticed that all the goodwill the rest of the country had shown New York City since 9/11 had steadily eroded and Robert Tillman’s death was like the last nail in the coffin. It was Kitty Genovese all over again. New York was that cold uncaring place, the place where neighbors hear the screams of a young woman being murdered and turn their heads, the place where EMTs basically tell a dying man to go fuck himself.

  I shut the computer down. There wasn’t anything else there for me to know.

  I’d had a long day, a happy day, for the most part. Just as I’d been able to put some distance between Carmella and me earlier in the day, I’d done a good job of keeping thoughts of the cancer at arm’s length during the party. I toasted Sarah and Paul. I watched them dance. I danced with Pam, with my sister Miriam, with Paul’s mom, and with Sarah. Still, it didn’t take much for my thoughts to shift back to my pending mortality. The level of my obsession with the disease really surprised me. During the few days since the diagnosis, I would sometimes look down to find myself rubbing my palm across my abdomen. It was as if I was trying to make a silent peace with the damned cancer or reach an accommodation with it. Come on, we can get along, you and me. Gimme a few more years. Let me see some grandchildren. No, okay, that was greedy. How about a grandson? Fuck me, this was going to be harder to deal with than I thought. I was an ex-cop, for chrissakes, a pragmatic SOB, but here I was trying to do a deal with a malignant lump growing inside my belly.