Red on Red

by Edward Conlon

  Esposito looked over, bemused, as they moved up Broadway.

  “I’m glad to see you happy, Nick, I am, but if you start singing show tunes, I’m dropping you off right here. Unless it’s Grease. I liked that one.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep the song in my heart.”

  “Jeez, Nick, that was cute! I gotta get you laid more often.”

  “Hang on. Look over there—”

  There was a scuffle on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building. A scrawny white man flailed away at a smaller black man, who parried stiffly. The white man—Jamie Barry, yes, it was—threw loose, useless punches, his arms slapping around like windblown sheets, while his opponent held himself with awkward intensity, hitting back with jerky, almost rusty-jointed jabs. The Scarecrow versus the Tin Man, Nick thought, unfearful for either’s safety. It had the squared-off look of a bar fight, but it was the wrong place, the wrong time of day. They were on the far side of the street, and there was traffic; no opportunity to rush over, and no need.

  “You know these characters?” Esposito asked.

  “The white junkie. Lives in the building. The black kid, I don’t know.”

  “No? He looks like Michael Cole.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Livery cab after livery cab dodged in and out, the fares few and the competition savage. Esposito didn’t want to hit the siren, but as he cut in, then cut over to make a U-turn, the tires screeched and the horns began to blare. Jamie dropped his hands to watch, poor dope, and the black kid landed one on the temple, dropping him. The kid looked back quickly—half-profile, half a second, Nick couldn’t make him—before he jetted, sprinted back into traffic, now filled with stopped cabs, honking and angry, some of the drivers stepping out to shout and curse.

  Esposito parked the car and waved on the cabbies. He leaned over Jamie and tapped him on his face. The eyes blinked, rapidly then slowly, before opening altogether. He took in the sight of Esposito, the burly white guy in the suit; he could smell cop.

  “Hey, thanks, Officer…. That black bastard tried to rob me!”

  “Come off it, Jamie.”

  “What? Come on, I mean—Hey, Nick! Nicky, how you doin’?”

  “Just fine, Jamie. How you doin’?”

  “Not so good, nah. I mean, not too bad, I guess. He got a cheap shot in. I got distracted for a second, and it was like, Pow! I think he pistol-whipped me.”

  “Come on. Let’s get you up.”

  Each of them took an arm and helped Jamie to his feet. He was happy with the attention, and he stamped a little on each leg, trying them out, as if they were new. Nick wanted to talk to him before he could think. Sweat flowed from Jamie in ominous profusion, like the first leaks before the dam broke. Skinny and pale, slackness in his skin; the hippie-Jesus look, lank locks of hair curling over the shoulder, pubic beard. Nick tapped Esposito on the arm, to let him know to stay back. Jamie’s eye had begun to swell.

  “What happened, Jamie? What happened with this guy?”

  “I think … What I think he was gonna do, was—”

  “Hang on. Start from the start. Where were you coming from?”

  “Home. My dad, he always asks about you, Nick—”

  “Your father’s a good guy, Jamie, but let’s start from the start. Today, this morning. You woke up—when?”

  “Like, an hour ago. My father made breakfast, but I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Why? You have your wake-up shot today, Jamie? You get well yet?”

  “What? I don’t know what—Hey, Nick, you know me—”

  Jamie wasn’t really offended by Nick’s question, but he had a junkie’s obligation to deny everything. Esposito grabbed him by the back of the neck, and they walked into the lobby. The front door opened, without resistance, without a key. So much for security. Nick checked the lock as Esposito walked Jamie in. The bolt was in the mechanism, flush, hidden like a turtle’s head. It could have been Jamie who had jammed it, to get back in late at night, to spare himself an hour of lost-key weeping on the stoop. Or it could have been Michael Cole, if it even was Michael who’d been there. Or it could have been one of the ordinary things that happen to old places. But the lock had worked the day before. Esposito put Jamie against the wall, and Nick made a show of trying to calm him down.

  “Easy, Espo, I know this guy. It’s all good here—Jamie, let’s cut the bullshit, though. You need help, and I can help you. You need?”

  “Yeah! No! Shit, Nick, I don’t—”

  “Take it easy. You walked outside when?”

  “I dunno … twenty minutes ago?”

  “Where was the black kid?”

  “I started to walk out, he walked in, but not like he was goin’ anywhere, you know? He was lookin’ around, snoopin’ at the mailboxes. I stepped to him, you know. I live here….”

  Esposito grabbed Jamie by a handful of shirt, and Nick didn’t stop him.

  “So, you work security here, do ya? So why were you fighting outside?”

  “Hey! Nick!”

  “What did you say to him, Jamie? He wasn’t inside, was he? Was he outside?”

  “Yeah, he was outside … but he was gonna come in…. Lemme go!”

  “Easy there. Sorry, Jamie. Tempers are hot here. Espo knows my father. He’s concerned about anything in the building—I am, too. Jamie, how about this? Ten bucks for the truth. Price of freedom, here and now, as long as I don’t smell a bit of bullshit in it, okay?”

  Jamie and Nick looked at each other, both of them trying to put on a mask of sympathy, to cover the cutthroat need. Nick put a hand on Jamie’s shoulder and squeezed, gently, as if they were old friends, the agreed-upon conceit. Neither of them had ever met the other in their present roles. Nick always quickened his step when he saw Jamie, offering a curt hello and an occasional dollar. Jamie had noticed Nick’s new act as well, and gave him his due credit.

  “Ahhhh … Okay, Nicky. I come out to clear my head, to sit on the stoop, and the kid’s standing there. Just standing. So I stand, too, to see what’s up—what’s his hustle, is he a junkie, a freak? He don’t belong, you know? And he looks nervous, not nervous but pissed off, but he acts like he’s just there, and if there’s a problem, it’s my problem. So I wait, standing there, knowing I can stand on the stoop with the best of ’em. It’s all I done, half my life! And it’s like he’s trying to outdo doing nothing, going head-to-head against me. Doin’ more nothin’! Doin’ less! Now he has challenged the black belt!”

  Jamie crouched down into a martial arts pose, and Esposito covered his mouth with his hand, to hide his smile. Jamie’s eye had started to darken and close, but he began to play to the audience. He had a connection to something now, other than a needle in his arm. When he was on the mooch, at least with Nick, he always traded on secondhand sentiment instead of second-rate comedy. Still, Nick was impressed by the workmanlike performance, even with the hackneyed lines, pitched to the middle of the crowd.

  “Easy, Jamie. Ten bucks, bullshit-free, you understand?”

  Esposito scratched his belly, then rubbed the gun on his hip, and scowled, growling low. “What set it off?”

  “You ask him for a buck?” Nick asked. “Jamie, we’re friends here, till we’re not.”

  “No! Yeah, but not really …”

  “What you offer? What he ask?”

  “He didn’t ask for anything…. I said it was my building. If he wanted to hang, he had to pay, it was my spot.”

  “And what did you ask him for, playing like you’re Pablo Escobar?”

  “Who?”

  “Like you’re a big shot. How much?”

  “Five bucks.”

  “You play kingpin, and ask him for five bucks?”

  “He thought about it! I had him for a minute! He ain’t tough. He ain’t a street kid!”

  “Neither are you,” said Esposito. “All you’re gonna be on the street is a skid mark. Cut it out. What happened? You wanna hook him up, or hook up with him? What about the doo
r? When did the lock break? Did the kid break it?”

  Jamie began to mumble and deny, and Esposito’s hand went up to Jamie’s throat. Nick let it stay there for a minute. Jamie could tell the truth about as well as he spoke Swahili. He needed quick lessons.

  “Nick,” Jamie said, “you know my game….”

  “No, Jamie, tell me. Tell me about the lock. Did he break it, or did you?”

  “The lock? I don’t know. He was waiting to come in, so I guess he didn’t know it was broke. I didn’t know it was broke.”

  The spirit of buffoonish bravado had left him, and Nick was sorry it had. A funny junkie wasn’t worth much, but it was better than the other kinds.

  “C’mon, Nick. I’m a bum, next to a bum, but I don’t hurt nobody…. I couldn’t figure this kid. I didn’t know why he was here, so I pushed it a little. I asked him for dope, and then I said I could get him some—and he went off. But you know, this is our building, you know? Guys like me and you, the old neighborhood—”

  “All right, Jamie, I believe you. Take it easy.”

  “Yeah, cool. And … I mean … Nick, you said ten bucks, right?”

  “Yeah, Jamie, ten bucks. I said it and I mean it. Now take a walk around the block for twenty minutes, and then come back here. I’ll have it for you. I still need you.”

  “What’s up, Nick? Is everything okay?”

  “Hit the road. Take a walk now. Wait.” Esposito was severe in his voice, and Jamie obeyed each instruction, taking two paces before going rigid on command. “C’mere. Empty your pockets.”

  “What? C’mon …”

  When Jamie hesitated, Esposito took him by the shoulders and put him against the wall, patting him down. “You don’t got nothing sharp, right? Nothing that’s gonna cut me? You do, you forget, and I’ll put you in the hospital….”

  “Yeah, jacket.”

  “Hand it over.”

  Jamie removed the syringe and handed it to Nick; he handled it gingerly, pinching it in the middle, as if the tip might whirl around and try to bite. Esposito pulled Jamie’s pockets out from the inside—snot rags, empty books of matches, three buttons and six pennies, a dollar bill and a ten. Esposito pocketed the money and gave him two dollars. It was the standard drill for untested informants, to make sure they didn’t do a side business with their own cash.

  “Here. Get coffee. I’ll hold the rest. I don’t want you getting distracted.”

  “Hey! C’mon! That’s my—”

  “That’s your situation, Jamie.” Esposito’s voice was a feral purr. Nick handed him back the syringe. Jamie looked at Nick, nodded, and walked outside. Esposito kicked the garbage from Jamie’s pockets to the side of the lobby.

  “Whaddaya wanna do?”

  “Change my clothes. Don’t tell my father about it. Michael Cole’s never been collared, right? We don’t have any pictures of him. Can you go back to the precinct, get a picture of Malcolm? They do look alike, right? We can’t really rule him in, rule him out. What do you suppose is going on here?”

  “Listen, Nick, I don’t mean to spoil your day, but are you kidding me, kidding yourself? It’s Michael. He was waiting here, and there’s nobody to wait for here but you. This kid, he’s changed the game. They’re supposed to be afraid of us, looking over their shoulder when they walk home, not the other way around. You know? You know I’m right. I’m heading back for the picture, meet you in a few. I’m glad I set it up to see Malcolm today.”

  “Yeah.”

  Esposito walked out, and Nick waited for him to leave before going into his apartment, as if Michael might still be lurking outside. Michael couldn’t know which apartment they lived in. There was nothing on the door, and the name had peeled off the mailbox years ago. Nick knocked on the door to give warning before he went in.

  His father was at the kitchen table, tuna fish on toast, cup of tea. Noon exactly, by the clock on the wall. Nick could have used more coffee. His father got up to fill the pot, as if reading his mind.

  “Late night, Nicky? At work all night? I looked in on you, and you weren’t there. You look fine, though, refreshed and relaxed.”

  So much for mind reading; or maybe he had only read until the last page. But his father was right, Nick thought; Nick wasn’t as concerned as he might have been. If it had been Michael Cole outside, it was more of a challenge than a threat. Barely that, despite everything. Nick had to fight himself not to make light of it. Lightness was the problem, the lack of gravity in the feel of the situation. If fear were a gas, it would be heavier than air; Nick had breathed it before, knew the pressure, the weight. But Malcolm had been so persuasive in his portrait of Michael’s futilities, traipsing from failure to failure, quitting the violin and then disinvited from the war, where all manner of convicts and mouth-breathers had been made welcome. And then there was a knock at the door. That felt heavy, a burden on his back and a choked quiet in his throat. The old man looked up from filling the pot at the sink. “Who could that be?”

  Nick stepped quickly from the kitchen before pulling the gun and walking along the edges of the hall, where the floorboards creaked less. The peephole had a brass lid like a little sewer cap—What genius thought of that?—that you had to lift to see through. Nick stayed on the side and jiggled it without looking, pulling his hand away quickly, so the shooter would go for the sound, center mass.

  “Nick? Sean? It’s me, Espo.”

  Nick reholstered just before his father stuck his head out from the kitchen—“Lots of company today!”—and opened the door for Esposito, who held up his hands like a surgeon.

  “I just wanna wash my hands quick. Sorry. Hey, Sean, how you doin’? I’d shake your hand, but … a pigeon just shit on me!”

  The improvisation was less than inspired, but it appeared to be satisfactory.

  “How about that! A pigeon! Dirty things. Will you have coffee?”

  “Maybe after. I gotta run to the precinct. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

  Esposito walked to the bathroom, which he had examined so closely yesterday. There was no pigeon, there was Jamie; Esposito had remembered he’d touched him, and he wanted to wash him off. Nick went into his room to take off his jacket, and Esposito was gone again before Nick came out. The coffee was waiting, and he sat with his father. He had finished his sandwich, and had put on another cup of tea. Twelve ten, another milestone in the day done. Six hours until dinner.

  “So! A pigeon! Of all things …”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you ever see a baby one?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Me neither. Nor anyone I know. Odd, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet, it only holds that there have to be.”

  When his father’s eyes narrowed, heralding the arrival of another thought, Nick began to drift toward the door, preparing to dodge the next daft digression. But his father surprised him, even more than Jamie had, and Nick worried he might have read his mind after all, and seen how much of it was still on Daysi.

  “Ah, well. I know you and Allison struggled, Nick. You can put up with more than you think you can. Still … Hard, I know, for both of you. Harder on her. It’s always worse for the woman. Your mother and I had almost given up, when we had you. Not given up, but resigned … Well, you know—God’s hands …

  “D’ye think we should go to Galway first? Her sister Mary, I always liked. She was the best of the bunch. Second best! A widow. No children, either. She’d be touched to see you. Take Allison, if you want—my treat. I have money now, and I don’t know what to do with it. If not—I don’t mean to pry, you understand—why not Esposito? He seems like a good man, good fun. Does he eat normal food? I don’t suppose we’d have to pack for him, the … spaghetti and such? We’ll make do. Ireland’s a very modern country now, Nick, it can’t be helped. Ah! That reminds me, would you have some stew?”

  “Sure, Da.”

  The last question was the easiest, and Nick had no trouble with the answer. He fo
und that he was already sitting at the kitchen table, drawn back, drawn in. He enjoyed his stew, and didn’t speak until it was finished. Digestion would come in time.

  “Da, how long has the front door been broken?”

  “Is it? I didn’t know it was. I used the key only this morning, when I went for the newspapers. But then, I always put the key in the door, without thinking.”

  “Any strange phone calls lately? Or anybody call and hang up?”

  “No, not so I noticed. Wait, last week, a woman called. She yelled at me in Spanish. Very angry about something, she was. She didn’t listen when I tried to interrupt, to say I wasn’t … Well, in truth I never caught the name.”

  “I see … but no hang-ups?”

  “No, not that I recall. Why?”

  “Well … burglars … the door. Sometimes they break a door, make phone calls in a building to see if anybody’s home.”

  “Aren’t they devious, then! The criminal mind!”

  Another knock on the door, and then footsteps inside the apartment, in the hall, but before Nick could react, Esposito called out to announce his return—“Hey, Seanee, it’s me!”—as if he lived there. He shouldn’t barge in like that, Nick thought, given the circumstances. That Esposito called his father by his first name was slightly jarring, notwithstanding that it was by request, but “Seanee” struck Nick as extravagant. Mr. Meehan responded in kind, greeting him like an old fraternity brother. “Espo! Hello, lad!” Nick was bemused by the enthusiasm, mostly, and also felt a twinge of something between envy and chagrin that his relations with his father rarely showed such camaraderie and cheer. That was foolish, he knew. He was his father’s son, and neither of them were much inclined toward emotional display. And it was worse than foolish to begrudge any exuberance in the house, as if his father were a museum piece around which his partner was throwing a football. The thought of museums reminded Nick of Daysi, and it warmed him, relaxed him. He left the two of them in the kitchen and went to change clothes.