Doyle doesn’t relent. Not yet.
‘Who is this guy?’
‘Calls hisself Ramone. I ain’t got no last name.’
‘What’s he look like?’
‘He’s a spic. Smart dresser. Likes the ladies. Has a gold earring.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘I don’t know. Please. I ain’t got his address.’
Another shake. Another cry.
‘Then where’d you meet him?’
‘A strip joint in Brooklyn. The Arabesque. You know it? Close to the river.’
‘He go there every night?’
‘No. Saturdays. He goes there Saturdays.’
‘Every Saturday?’
‘Yeah. Every fucking Saturday. Now will you bring me up, please?’
Shit, thinks Doyle. This is turning into a wild-fucking-goose chase. How many more of these assholes do I have to lean on before I get to Ruger himself?
What makes it worse is that this Ramone guy is Doyle’s only lead to Ruger, and Saturday night is only hours before the deadline for getting the ring back to Bartok. There’s a big time period between now and then in which Doyle could be just sitting on his hands as far as locating Ruger is concerned.
He decides that this is the most he’s going to get out of Cubo, and hauls him back into the bathroom.
Sitting on the hard floor, dripping and shivering and rubbing his ankles, Cubo looks up at his masked attacker. ‘You didn’t have to go and do that.’
Doyle pulls his gun and aims it at Cubo’s head. ‘This never happened. All right, Cubo? I hear you talked to anyone about this, then I’m coming back. And next time it won’t be your ankles I’ll use to dangle you, if you catch my drift.’ To make his point clear, he lowers his aim. Cubo hastily places his hands over his shriveled genitals.
‘I won’t say nothing. I swear.’
Doyle nods. He believes what he’s just heard. Cubo is too terrified to risk another encounter like this one.
He leaves the bathroom. On his way out of the apartment he sees that Tasha hasn’t moved from her position on the sofa. Still hasn’t bothered to cover herself up.
Seemingly oblivious to the events that have just taken place in her bathroom, she gives Doyle an idle wave and a spaced-out smile. ‘Bye,’ she says. ‘Have a nice day.’
Cubo sits on that bathroom floor for a long time. Sits there shivering until he can’t take the cold anymore.
He drags himself up and closes the window. A last glimpse of the darkness out there makes his head swim. That guy was gonna drop him. From five floors above the ground! Jesus! He would have done it, too. It was in his voice. That dude was serious.
Cubo pulls open the bathroom door. He half expects to see the intruder still there. Maybe balling Tasha or drinking his beers or stealing his stash. And it shames him that, even if the motherfucker is doing any of those things, Cubo will smile and say nothing and wait while the guy has his fun.
But the man is not there. Just Tasha, waving her arms and yelling occasional words she remembers in the song being played, the dumb bitch.
Cubo crosses the living area and goes into the bedroom. He picks up a sweatshirt and jeans from the floor and puts them on. Then he goes back into the living room and paces up and down.
The guy said he would come back if Cubo told anyone about this, and Cubo believes it. Busting down his door, dangling him out of his own window, pointing a nine at his junk – that is one scary-ass motherfucker, man.
But, scary as he is, he is only one man. And, scary as he is, he is not scarier than Ramone, and the men who work for Ramone. When the guy goes after Ramone, and Ramone wastes him, as he surely will, then Ramone will want to know how the stranger found him. He will make inquiries – persistent and forceful inquiries that will undoubtedly lead him back to Cubo. And then hovering five floors above the ground will seem like a carnival ride in comparison to what Ramone will do to him.
And if, perchance, the man in the ski mask defeats Ramone – which he won’t – then he has to go up against Anton Ruger. And then all bets are off. Ruger is the baddest of the bad. Ruger will eat this guy for breakfast. And he too will want to know which rat squealed the information that led to him.
So weigh it up, man. Who frightens you more? A guy who is too chicken-shit even to show his face to you, or an army of killers led by a man who would slice up his own mother just to avoid boredom? Which of those is likely to triumph here, hmm? Which of those would it be sensible to stay on the right side of?
Making his decision, Cubo yells at Tasha to turn the music down, then picks up the phone.
SIXTEEN
Doyle hasn’t had a lot of sleep. Which means he’s irritable on this Friday morning. Which means that LeBlanc is not choosing the best moment to get in his face.
‘You went to see Proust yesterday,’ says LeBlanc.
Doyle thought he would be the first one in this morning, but LeBlanc has beaten him to it. In fact, Doyle gets the impression that LeBlanc has been sitting here for some time, just itching to get something off his chest.
Doyle looks down at LeBlanc behind his desk. The seriousness in the kid’s eyes seems intensified by the stark frames of his spectacles.
‘You put the coffee on?’ Doyle asks. ‘I could really do with a coffee right now.’
‘Was it worth it?’ says LeBlanc, refusing to be distracted from his agenda.
‘It’s gotta be strong, though. Plenty of caffeine. What about you, Tommy? You want some coffee?’
He starts to move away, but LeBlanc leaps from his chair and grabs him by the arm.
‘For fuck’s sake, Cal. I’m trying to talk to you, here.’
Doyle lowers his gaze to his imprisoned arm, then yanks it out of LeBlanc’s grasp. ‘Seems lately you always want to talk to me, Tommy. What the fuck is your problem?’
‘You went to see Proust.’
‘Yes. All right. I went to see Proust. Now will you get over it and move on?’
‘Move on? You act like it’s nothing. Like it’s an everyday occurrence for you. What kind of cop are you, Cal? I thought you were better than this.’
Doyle stares at him. ‘Tommy, why are you getting so bent out of shape about it? Okay, so I didn’t tell you where I was going yesterday. What’s the big deal?’
LeBlanc releases a mirthless laugh. ‘You don’t even know, do you? You don’t know what you did wrong. Have you seen what you did to Proust? Have you actually given him any thought this morning?’
‘Not since I ate my Fruit Loops, no. Tommy, what’s this about?’
LeBlanc pauses. Gathers his thoughts. ‘I went to see Proust too. A few hours after you did.’
Doyle shrugs. ‘So?’
‘Cal, he was really bad. So bad I had to take him to the hospital.’
Doyle stares again. Realizes he’s not on the same page as LeBlanc at all. Not even in the same book.
‘Bad? In what way?’
‘Bad in the way that people get when they’ve had the crap beaten out of them.’
‘What? He . . . what?’
‘I’ve seen tune-ups before, Cal, but this goes way beyond that. I don’t know what you were thinking, but—’
‘Wait. Hold up, Tommy. You’re telling me that Proust has been assaulted? And you think I did it?’
‘Are you denying it?’
‘Of course I’m denying it. Does Proust say different?’
‘Not in so many words. He made up some lame story about being mugged by a gang, but it’s bullshit.’
‘So he didn’t say it was me. But you still think it was?’
‘What am I supposed to think, Cal? You go to see him without telling me, even though you’re not supposed to. You come back with a bruise under your eye that you won’t explain. And when I go to see Proust, he looks ready for a body bag. How else am I supposed to read that?’
‘Not in the way you’re doing. I don’t know what happened to Proust, and I can’t say I feel sorry for the guy, but it w
asn’t me. I didn’t hit him. Not even once.’
Doyle can tell from the look on LeBlanc’s face that he’s not convinced. And he can’t really blame him. Doyle has already let LeBlanc see his lack of regard for Proust. Yes, maybe he did go too far when he ripped the scumbag’s shirt off him. And yes, maybe the secrets he has kept from his partner have done nothing to promote his integrity in LeBlanc’s eyes. But that doesn’t mean he would beat Proust to within an inch of his life, even though there are times when he pictures himself doing a lot more than that.
He turns away then, and starts heading out of the squadroom. LeBlanc runs past him and blocks his way.
‘Where you going, Cal?’
‘To sort this out with Proust. To get the truth from him.’
‘Uh-uh. Can’t let you do that.’
Doyle almost laughs in surprise. This kid has balls.
‘You can’t let me do it? What, are you gonna arrest me?’
LeBlanc chews on his lip for a moment. Doyle can see how nervous he is, and in a way he both admires him and feels sorry for him.
‘The lieutenant has already given strict instructions for you not to go anywhere near Proust. You disobey that now, and I’ll have to talk to the boss.’
‘You’d do that? Why? You think I’m gonna take another pop at Proust?’
‘No. Because somebody needs to protect you from yourself.’
‘Nice of you to care, Tommy, but I don’t need no protection. Get out of my way.’
Doyle takes a step forward, but LeBlanc doesn’t budge.
‘Okay, then, if you won’t listen to me for your own sake, then do it for the case.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Proust is your number-one suspect, Cal. You got a real hard-on for this guy as the perp. And maybe you’re right. Maybe he did do it. But you going at him like this won’t prove anything. In fact, it could jeopardize the whole case. Let’s take it slow and easy. We’ll follow the leads and we’ll find the evidence. But you need to keep him at arm’s length while we do that. Okay?’
Doyle thinks about it. He wants to shoulder LeBlanc aside and storm out of here. Go straight over to Proust’s place and squeeze the truth out of him. And it’s not LeBlanc’s words of wisdom that are stopping him. If anything, the kid’s patronizing tone is irritating him to the point of making Doyle want to pull off his partner’s spectacles and stomp on them. No, what’s holding him back is LeBlanc’s earlier threat. Doyle believes it. The kid will go straight to Cesario as soon as Doyle leaves the building. And that will be it. He will be off the case.
He can’t risk that.
‘I haven’t had that coffee yet,’ he tells LeBlanc. Then he turns around and heads back into the squadroom.
‘Go ahead, Mom. Get your ass up there.’
Nicole turns. Megan is standing just a few feet away, grinning, showing her dimples. Her blond curls are tucked up under her swimming cap. She is wearing her favorite swimsuit – the black Speedo with the cut-outs. God, she’s so shapely now. Going to be a real heartbreaker.
Nicole tilts her head back and gazes up that staircase that seems high enough to take her to the moon, then looks across at Megan again. Megan urges her on with a wave.
‘Go on. You can do it.’
Nicole gives her the subtlest of nods. A nod which says, I’m doing what you say but I’m not convinced in the least. Biting her lip, she starts up the steps of the tower. When she gets to the first platform, she pauses and looks down.
‘Uh-uh, Mother,’ calls Megan. ‘All the way up.’
Nicole continues her ascent. She feels the fluttering starting in her stomach. Her teeth begin to chatter, more from nerves than the cold. She thinks she may vomit. She goes up and up and up until the roof of the building seems close enough to touch.
On the top platform she grabs the handrails and looks directly ahead. She doesn’t want to look down, because her thoughts are already starting to swirl with the knowledge that there’s a vast space beneath her, just waiting to swallow her up.
But Megan is yelling for her attention: ‘Mom! Mom!’
Nicole grips the handrails tighter and risks a quick glance downward. Tries to focus on the tiny figure of her daughter rather than the fact that she’s a million miles straight down.
Okay, so not a million miles. But ten meters is still pretty damned high. That’s thirty-three feet. It would be like falling off the roof of a house.
Megan is gesticulating wildly, urging her mother to move along the platform.
Nicole gives another tentative nod, more for her own benefit than for Megan’s. She faces forward again, starts to step gingerly along the board. Keeps forcing herself onward until the handrails disappear and there is only a narrow rectangle of solidity preventing her from plunging into the depths below.
Somehow – she’s not sure how – she makes it to the end of the platform. Even manages to curl her toes over its front edge. She’s breathing hard, but not through exertion. Her pulse is pounding in her head. She tries to focus. She knows exactly what to do, what the technique is. She has seen Megan do this a thousand times. Has even acted as her daughter’s sternest judge and critic of her efforts.
Megan is good, though. Superb. Nicole can picture her now. Launching herself into space, her arms out, her spine arched. Sailing through the air for what seems like an age. Then, at the last possible moment, bringing her palms together in the flat-hand position, her arms tight against her ears. A perfect ‘rip’ entry into the water with barely a splash. And throughout this, her mother watching from the benches, unable to breathe through both admiration and fear.
Nicole ventures a snap glance into the dive well. Jesus, it’s high up here.
She can’t back out now. She has driven twenty miles to get here. She’s at the Nassau County Aquatic Center in East Meadow. It’s only eight-forty. The place isn’t even open to the public yet. But that’s okay. The staff here know her well. The countless hours she spent here with Megan while she trained and competed.
‘Go, Mom! Nothing fancy. A simple dive, just like all the others.’
Simple. Easy for you to say. I’m crapping myself just standing here.
Focus, Nicole tells herself. She has limbered up with twenty lengths in the main pool. She has done several practice dives from the three-meter springboard. She has worked her way up the tower to the 7.5-meter platform. What’s this but just a little extra height?
She purses her lips and exhales hard, trying to control her breathing. She flicks water from her fingers at her sides. Curls her toes over the platform edge again. I’m ready, she thinks.
‘Stop thinking about it. Just do it.’
Nicole looks down. This time, she thinks. I can do this.
And then she turns around and almost runs back to the safety of the handrails.
‘Jeez, Mom! What are you doing?’
But Megan isn’t annoyed. She’s laughing. And Nicole is laughing too. They are both laughing because it’s the same every time. Nicole goes up, Nicole comes down. But it’s always via the stairs. It’s become a running joke between mother and daughter. Something Nicole will never forget.
As she clambers her way down the steps, she can hear Megan practically screaming with laughter. And Nicole cannot help but join in. They will laugh together until the tears run down their faces, and Megan will refuse to let it lie. She will tease her parent all the way home. Tell her that she cannot believe how her own mother cannot even—
The laughter stops.
It stops because Nicole cannot see Megan anywhere on the poolside. She is not here.
She was never here.
And now Nicole knows why she came all the way to the Aquatic Center in East Meadow. When she got up this morning she told herself she needed to get out of the house. She needed some exercise. Something to take her mind away from the horrors of reality.
Swimming, she decided. She has always been a good swimmer.
But now she knows it was her mind p
laying tricks on itself. She didn’t really have to settle on swimming as a distraction. And even if that was all she could come up with, she could have visited a pool closer to home.
No, she came here not to forget but to remember. To make a connection. This is Megan’s place. This is where she spent a huge portion of her free time outside school hours. Not hanging around on street corners. Not going off to places like the East Village. Why would she? This sport was her life.
And now Nicole knows why she didn’t execute her dive. It wasn’t just her fear. It was the fact that it wasn’t right. It wasn’t what was expected. By either of them. If Nicole had dived, there would have been no laughter, no ribbing. It would have been the end. It would have closed a door.
‘Nic? Are you okay?’
Phil. One of the pool guards.
‘I . . . I heard about Megan,’ he says. ‘I’m real sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ she replies. But then she hurries away. Back to the changing rooms. She doesn’t want to lament; she wants to celebrate. She wants to keep the laughter of Megan ringing in her ears for ever.
A crap.
That’s all he’d gone for. A quick dump.
It’s always the same when he drinks strong coffee. It pushes everything else out of his system. He couldn’t contain himself any longer.
Besides, he’s not a nursemaid. He’s not paid to sit here minding Doyle all day.
But he can guess where Doyle has gone. His choice of the very moment that LeBlanc slips out of the squadroom to do his own disappearing act is no coincidence.
Of that LeBlanc is certain.
He is angry, but his anger is tempered by a sense of sadness. He feels he has given Doyle every opportunity to do things in the right way and, every time, Doyle has insisted on shrugging off his partner’s helping hand.
I can’t stop Doyle’s march of destruction, thinks LeBlanc.
All I can do is make sure the only one destroyed by Doyle is himself.
SEVENTEEN
‘Jesus, Stan! What the hell happened to you?’
He’s not concerned, thinks Proust. Curious, yes. But Doyle doesn’t care about my welfare. Wouldn’t matter to him if I was dead.
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