New York City Noir

by Tim McLoughlin

  Frank was surprised to see her. “What are you doing up so late?” When Frank moved toward her, she raised the gun and fired.

  * * *

  Frank had been right about Vince’s contacts. The gun was faulty and it exploded, killing Linda as Frank watched in horror.

  The family tearfully buried her in a nearby cemetery. All the neighbors came to pay their respects.

  Linda had also been right. She knew the Bronx would never let her go. She would be stuck there for all eternity.

  PART II

  IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT

  RUDE AWAKENING

  BY LAWRENCE BLOCK

  Riverdale

  She woke up abruptly—click! Like that, no warmup, no transition, no ascent into consciousness out of a dream. She was just all at once awake, brain in gear, all of her senses operating but sight. Her eyes were closed, and she let them remain that way for a moment while she picked up what information her other senses could provide.

  She felt the cotton sheet under her, smooth. A good hand, a high thread count. Her host, then, wasn’t a pauper, and had the good taste to equip himself with decent bed linen. She didn’t feel a top sheet, felt only the air on her bare skin. Cool, dry air, air-conditioned air.

  Whisper-quiet too. Probably central air-conditioning, because she couldn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear much, really. A certain amount of city noise, through windows that were no doubt shut to let the central air do its work. But less of it than she’d have heard in her own Manhattan apartment.

  And the energy level here was more muted than you would encounter in Manhattan. Hard to say what sense provided this information, and she supposed it was probably some combination of them all, some unconscious synthesis of taste and touch and smell and hearing that let you know you were in one of the outer boroughs.

  Memory filled in the rest. She’d taken the 1 train clear to the end of the line, following Broadway up into the Bronx, and she’d gone to a couple of bars in Riverdale, both of them nice preppy places where the bartenders didn’t look puzzled when you ordered a Dog’s Breakfast or a Sunday Best. And then…

  Well, that’s where it got a little fuzzy.

  She still had taste and smell to consult. Taste, well, the taste in her mouth was the taste of morning, and all it did was make her want to brush her teeth. Smell was more complicated. There would have been more to smell without airconditioning, more to smell if the humidity were higher, but nevertheless there was a good deal of information available. She noted perspiration, male and female, and sex smells.

  He was right there, she realized. In the bed beside her. If she reached out a hand she could touch him.

  For a moment, though, she let her hand stay where it was, resting on her hip. Eyes still closed, she tried to bring his image into focus, even as she tried to embrace her memory of the later portion of the evening. She didn’t know where she was, not really. She managed to figure out that she was in a relatively new apartment building, and she figured it was probably in Riverdale. But she couldn’t be sure of that. He might have had a car, and he might have brought her almost anywhere. Westchester County, say.

  Bits and pieces of memory hovered at the edge of thought. Shreds of small talk, but how could she know what was from last night and what was bubbling up from past evenings? Sense impressions: a male voice, a male touch on her upper arm.

  She’d recognize him if she opened her eyes. She couldn’t picture him, not quite, but she’d know him when her eyes had a chance to refresh her memory.

  Not yet.

  She reached out a hand, touched him.

  She had just registered the warmth of his skin when he spoke.

  “Sleeping beauty,” he said.

  Her eyes snapped open, wide open, and her pulse raced.

  “Easy,” he said. “My God, you’re terrified, aren’t you? Don’t be. Everything’s all right.”

  He was lying on his side facing her. And yes, she recognized him. Dark hair, arresting blue eyes under arched brows, a full-lipped mouth, a strong jawline. His nose had been broken once and imperfectly reset, and that saved him from being male-model handsome.

  Late thirties, maybe eight or ten years her senior. A good body. A little chest hair, but not too much. Broad shoulders. A stomach flat enough to show a six-pack of abs.

  No wonder she’d left the bar with him.

  And she remembered leaving the bar. They’d walked, so she was probably in Riverdale. Unless they’d walked to his car. Could she remember any more?

  “You don’t remember, do you?”

  Reading her mind. And how was she supposed to answer that one?

  She tried for an ironic smile. “I’m a little fuzzy,” she said.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Oh?”

  “You were hitting the Cosmos pretty good. I had the feeling, you know, that you might be in a blackout.”

  “Really? What did I do?”

  “Nothing they’d throw you in jail for.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “You didn’t stagger or slur your words, and you were able to form complete sentences. Grammatical ones too.”

  “The nuns would be proud of me.”

  “I’m sure they would. Except…”

  “Except they wouldn’t like to see me waking up in a strange bed.”

  “I’m not sure how liberal they’re getting these days,” he said. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

  “Oh.”

  “You didn’t know where you were, did you? When you opened your eyes.”

  “Not right away.”

  “Do you know now?”

  “Well, sure,” she said. “I’m here. With you.”

  “Do you know where here is? Or who I am?”

  Should she make something up? Or would the truth be easier?

  “I don’t remember getting in a car,” she said, “and I do remember walking, so my guess is we’re in Riverdale.”

  “But it’s a guess.”

  “Well, couldn’t we call it an educated guess? Or at least an informed one?”

  “Either way,” he said, “it’s right. We walked here, and we’re in Riverdale.”

  “So I got that one right. But why wouldn’t the nuns be proud of me?”

  “Forget the nuns, okay?”

  “They’re forgotten.”

  “Look, I don’t want to get preachy. And it’s none of my business. But if you’re drinking enough to leave big gaps in your memory, well, how do you know who you’re going home with?”

  Whom, she thought. The nuns wouldn’t be proud of you, buster.

  She said, “It worked out all right, didn’t it? I mean, you’re an okay guy. So I guess my judgment was in good enough shape when we hooked up.”

  “Or you were lucky.”

  “Nothing wrong with getting lucky.” She grinned as she spoke the line, but he remained serious.

  “There are a lot of guys out there,” he said, “who aren’t okay. Predators, nut cases, bad guys. If you’d gone home with one of those—”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How do I know? Well, here we are, both of us, and…What do you mean, how do I know?”

  “Do you remember my name?”

  “I’d probably recognize it if I heard it.”

  “Suppose I say three names, and you pick the one that’s mine.”

  “What do I get if I’m right?”

  “What do you want?”

  “A shower.”

  This time he grinned. “It’s a deal. Three names? Hmmm. Peter. Harley. Joel.”

  “Look into my eyes,” she said, “and say them again. Slowly.”

  “What are you, a polygraph? Peter. Harley. Joel.”

  “You’re Joel.”

  “I’m Peter.”

  “Hey, I was close.”

  “Two more tries,” he said, “and you’d have had it for sure. You told me your name was Jennifer.”
r />   “Well, I got that one right.”

  “And you told me to call you Jen.”

  “And did you?’

  “Did I what?”

  “Call me Jen.”

  “Of course. I can take direction.”

  “Are you an actor?”

  “As sure as my name is Joel. Why would you…Oh, because I said I could take direction? Actually, I had ambitions in that direction, but by the time I got out of college I smartened up. I work on Wall Street.”

  “All the way downtown. What time is it?”

  “A little after 10.”

  “Don’t you have to be at your desk by 9?” “Not on Saturday.”

  “Oh, right. Uh, Peter…or do I call you Pete?”

  “Either one.”

  “Awkward question coming up. Did we…”

  “We did,” he said, “and it was memorable for one of us.”

  “Oh.”

  “I felt a little funny about it, because I had the feeling you weren’t entirely present. But your body was really into it, no matter where your mind was, and, well…”

  “We had a good time?”

  “A very good time. And, just so that you don’t have to worry, we took precautions.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “And then you, uh, passed out.”

  “I did?”

  “It was a little scary. You just went out like a light. For a minute I thought, I don’t know…”

  “That I was dead,” she supplied.

  “But you were breathing, so I ruled that out.”

  “That keen analytical mind must serve you well on Wall Street.”

  “I tried to wake you,” he said, “but you were gone. So I let you sleep. And then I fell asleep myself, and, well, here we are.”

  “Naked and unashamed.” She yawned, stretched. “Look,” she said, “I’m going to treat myself to a shower, even if I didn’t win the right in the Name That Stud contest. Don’t go away, okay?”

  * * *

  The bathroom had a window, and one look showed that she was on a high floor, with a river view. She showered, and washed her hair with his shampoo. Then she borrowed his toothbrush and brushed her teeth diligently, and gargled with a little mouthwash.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in the big yellow towel, the aroma of fresh coffee led her into the kitchen, where he’d just finished filling two cups. He was wearing a white terry robe with a nautical motif, dark blue anchors embroidered on the pockets. His soft leather slippers were wine-colored.

  Gifts, she thought. Men didn’t buy those things for themselves, did they?

  “I made coffee,” he said.

  “So I see.”

  “There’s cream and sugar, if you take it.”

  “Just black is fine.” She picked up her cup, breathed in the steam that rose from it. “I might live,” she announced. “Do you sail?”

  “Sail?”

  “The robe. Anchors aweigh and all that.”

  “Oh. I suppose I could, because I don’t get seasick or anything. But no, I don’t sail. I have another robe, if you’d be more comfortable.”

  “With anchors? Actually, I’m comfortable enough like this.”

  “Okay.”

  “But if I wanted to be even more comfortable…” She let the towel drop to the floor, noted with satisfaction the way his eyes widened. “How about you? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you got rid of that sailor suit?”

  * * *

  Afterward she propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at him. “I feel much much better now,” she announced.

  “The perfect hangover cure?”

  “No, the shower and the coffee took care of the hangover. This let me feel better about myself. I mean, the idea of hooking up and not remembering it…”

  “You’ll remember this, you figure?”

  “You bet. What about you, Peter? Will you remember?”

  “Till my dying day.”

  “I’d better get dressed and head on home.”

  “And I can probably use a shower,” he said. “Unless you want to…”

  “You go ahead. I’ll have another cup of coffee while you’re in there.”

  Her clothes were on the chair, and she dressed quickly, then picked up her purse and checked its contents. The little glassine envelope was still in there, and unopened.

  God, she’d been drunk.

  She went into the kitchen, poured herself more coffee, and considered what was left in the pot. No, leave it, she thought, and turned her attention to the bottle of vodka on the sinkboard.

  Had they had drinks when they got to his place? Probably. There were two glasses next to the bottle, and he hadn’t gotten around to washing them.

  What a shock he’d given her! The touch, the unexpected warmth of his skin. And then his voice.

  She hadn’t expected that.

  She uncapped the bottle, opened the glassine envelope, poured its contents in with the vodka. The crystals dissolved immediately. She replaced the cap on the bottle, returned the empty envelope to her purse.

  * * *

  She made her cup of coffee last until he was out of the shower and dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, which was evidently what a Wall Street guy wore on the weekend. “I’ll get out of your hair now,” she told him. “And I’m sorry about last night. I’m going to make it a point not to get quite that drunk again.”

  “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Jen. You were running a risk, that’s all. For your own sake—”

  “I know.”

  “Hang on and I’ll walk you to the subway.”

  She shook her head. “Really, there’s no need. I can find it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “If you say so. Uh, can I have your number?”

  “You really want it?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

  “Next time I won’t pass out. I promise.”

  He handed her a pen and a notepad, and she wrote down her area code, 212, and picked seven digits at random to keep it company. And then they kissed, and he said something sweet, and she said something clever in response, and she was out the door.

  The streets were twisty and weird in that part of Riverdale, but she asked directions and somebody pointed her toward the subway. She waited on the elevated platform and thought about how shocked she’d been when she opened her eyes.

  Because he was supposed to be dead. That was how it worked—she put something in the guy’s drink and it took effect one or two hours later. After they’d had sex, after he’d dozed off or not. His heart stopped, and that was that.

  Usually she’d stay awake herself, and a couple of times she’d been able to watch it happen. Then, when he was gone, she’d go through the apartment at leisure and take what was worth taking.

  It worked like a charm. But it only worked if you put the crystals in the guy’s drink, and if you were too drunk to manage that, well, you woke up and there he was.

  Bummer.

  Sooner or later, she thought, he’d take the cap off the vodka bottle. Today or tomorrow or next week, whenever he got around to it. And he’d take a drink, and one or two hours later he’d be cooling down to room temperature. She wouldn’t be there to scoop up his cash or go through his dresser drawers, but that was all right. The money wasn’t really the point.

  Maybe he’d have some other girl with him. Maybe they’d both have a drink before hitting the mattress, and they could die in each other’s arms. Like Romeo and Juliet, sort of.

  Or maybe she’d have a drink and he wouldn’t. That would be kind of interesting, when he tried to explain it all to the cops.

  A pity she couldn’t be a fly on the wall. But she’d find out what happened. Sooner or later, there’d be something in the papers. All she had to do was wait for it.

  BURNOUT

  BY SUZANNE CHAZIN

  Jerome Avenue

  When does something happ
en for the last time? Do you get a sign that Mike Boyle missed somewheres? For sure, it was that way with Gina. One minute, they were doing the usual dance—fighting and screaming and her throwing the lasagna pan at him and then making up and making out and all the sweet heat in between. And then bam, it’s all different. Like a Yankee’s pitching streak gone south. Instead of throwing the pan, she throws his duffel bag. “Go live with your other family!” she yells. “You like them better anyways.” She means the guys down at the firehouse on Jerome Avenue. That was six weeks ago. Forty-three days. More than a thousand hours and counting. And sex wasn’t the only thing that died for Mike Boyle that night. Something else died too—something even more important, if there was such a thing.

  Mike Boyle forgot how to sleep.

  Oh, he could lie down on his bunk. He could slip blinders over his eyes to shut out the fluorescents that automatically flick on when there’s a run. He could stuff foam plugs in his ears to mute the peal of sirens and the deep throttle of the diesel engines. But the plugs were about as useful as a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. Who could stop noise that reverberated through every pore of your body? If it wasn’t the static-charged dispatch reports over the department airwaves, then it was the gut-wrenching roar of the roof saws the firefighters started every morning. Or the air horn jackhammering the nerves as the truck or engine (this was a double house) barreled out of quarters. Slamming lockers. Ringing phones. Guys snoring. Guys farting. Rufus, the firehouse dog, barking. All of it twenty-four-seven in the tiled echo chamber of an FDNY firehouse.

  “You look like hell,” Captain Russo had told Mike just before he started his shift the other evening. Mike was at the kitchen table, slumped over a chipped mug of coffee, stirring in spoonfuls of Cremora. Whole worlds of thought went into each swirl so that when he finally looked up at the captain, it seemed he was being lip-synced in a foreign film.

  “I’m good,” said Mike, already unsure what remarks he was addressing. He noticed he had difficulty following conversations these days. Time seemed to compress and expand randomly, like pulled taffy. Espresso—that’s what he’d ask the guys to buy next time they shopped on Arthur Avenue. Maybe a dark roast that he could drink with a little lemon peel the way some of the old Italians who still live over in Belmont do. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket and lit one, watching the smoke curl upwards, a gray plume to go with the white one in his coffee. Smoking was banned in city firehouses. It said so right on the bulletin board behind him—the one with all the burn marks in it. There are city laws. And then there are firehouse laws.