Night Life

by David C. Taylor

  There were three bills and a postcard from Peter Burchard, an army friend, in his mailbox. He stuffed the bills in his pocket and read the postcard as he went upstairs. Burchard was coming to New York on business in a month and hoped they could get together. The light on the card dimmed as he left the third floor, and he looked up to see that the bulb was out on the landing in front of Dylan’s apartment. Glass crunched underfoot. The light was out in the hall above too. Cassidy stopped and listened. A board creaked. It was an old building and it groaned and spoke as the weather changed. Not unusual. Still. He smelled cigarette smoke and something else. What was that? He shifted the groceries to his left hand and touched the gun under his arm. A noise turned him, and then the men came down from above in a rush. He got the gun out, but he lost it when they hit him, and it clattered down the stairwell. He slashed back an elbow and felt it connect, heard a grunt. Someone grabbed him from behind, and he slammed his head back into the man’s face and felt the hold loosen. He jabbed fingers at a face and felt something wet and heard a shriek, but there were too many of them, and he went down under their weight. He could feel hot breath on his face, and the smell of whiskey. He tried to get his back against the wall, but someone grabbed his legs and pulled him back to the center of the landing and then lay on his legs and pinned them. Men grabbed his arms and all he could do was buck and heave, but he could not shake them off. They beat him efficiently with fists and feet, grunting with the effort. Some part of him warned that if they did not stop soon, they would beat him to death, but there was nothing he could do, and he started to slip away.

  “Hey! What the hell’s going on out here?” Dylan McCue stood in her open door with a three-foot-long piece of steel rebar in her hand.

  Someone leaned close and said, “Franklin says hello.” A parting kick to his back. And then they were gone.

  The last thing he remembered was wondering why Dylan dripped water on him when she crouched down to say, “You’re going to be all right. Hold on. Don’t move. Just hold on. I’ll call an ambulance.”

  16

  Fucking Amado pissed him off. Fraker picked him up outside the theater after rehearsal and trailed him to a greasy spoon on Eighth Avenue and watched him eat fried crap washed down with Coca-Cola. The man clearly had no respect for food and didn’t give a damn what he put in his body. He would eat anything. What the hell was wrong with him? He was a dancer. That was like being an athlete. You had to take care of yourself. He followed him to the Village, thinking he would go home and Fraker could get on with it, but no, Amado went into the White Horse on Hudson and ordered some drink with fruit in it and took a table near the door. Fraker took a stand at the end of the bar and nursed a beer for half an hour.

  After nine o’clock, Amado started checking his watch every couple of minutes. Clearly he was meeting someone who was late. Fraker didn’t like that. He wanted to get this done, and another guy in the mix would cancel it for the night. The bartender asked him for the third time if he wanted another, so he ordered a refill that he didn’t want, and that pissed him off too. He left it half finished and went out and watched Amado from the street. Amado gave up at ten, and Fraker tailed him home and then broke into a panel truck parked among other panel trucks in a vacant lot off Christopher Street and watched Amado’s building until everyone settled in for the night. An occasional taxi went by, but it was late and there was little traffic. After midnight the waiters and cooks left the restaurant on the corner and walked east toward the subway station at West 4th carrying brown bags of leftover food and talking softly in Spanish.

  Fraker waited for the street to quiet. It did not bother him to wait. He liked the solitude and the quiet rehearsal of the action to come. He knew Amado was in an apartment on the sixth floor, and he knew the questions he had to ask, and that was all he needed to know. For Fraker it was never “why” but only “how” the job was done. He had no curiosity. The work paid well and was often interesting, and there were side benefits that suited him.

  The lights in the building went off one by one except for one window on the third floor.

  A man walked his dog past the truck and never saw Fraker waiting in the dark. The dog stopped to examine a tire, found it acceptable, and lifted his leg. The man yawned and tugged the dog away from the interesting smells. They walked back up the block and turned the corner. Fraker waited a few minutes and then got out and crossed the street. The light in the third-floor apartment stayed on, but there had been no movement past the window for over two hours, and he decided it was a lamp left on all night by someone timid about the dark.

  The lock on the outer door was broken, and he slipped the lobby door latch with his knife blade and went up the worn stairs, walking close to the wall so they would not creak. The stairwell was dim from low-watt bulbs that saved the landlord money and it smelled of old frying oil from the coffee shop next door. He paused on the third floor and listened, but there was no sound behind the door to the lighted apartment, so he went on. The bulb on the landing of the top floor had burned out and he used his penlight to examine the two locks on the door. They were no better than the lock on the front door. He held the penlight in his teeth and worked his picks until the tumblers clicked. He eased the doorknob until the tongue left the receiver and then pushed gently. The door gave inward for a couple of inches and then stopped with a muted metal clank. A security bar, one end socketed in the door, the other in a metal plate on the floor. Step back. Reassess.

  The fire door to the roof opened with a squeal. He stopped and waited. No doors opened below. No one yelled. He stepped out and waited until his eyes adjusted and he could see the vent pipes that stuck up through the tar, dark on dark, shin breakers. Three shirts and four pairs of pants danced on a clothesline in the breeze off the river. The skyscrapers sparkled in the night city, but to Fraker light was an enemy. He moved carefully from the doorway past the clothes on the line to the broad coping and the top of the fire escape that dropped along the rear of the building to the alley. A slow and deliberate check. No lights in the building opposite. No sleepless wanderers on the roofs nearby. He grabbed the rusted railings and swung to the iron steps and went down.

  Trust a man with two locks and a security bar to leave his bedroom window open for air. Fraker crouched to look in over the sill. He could make out the bulk of the bed against the far wall of the dark room. The man in the bed breathed with a long steady rhythm. In … out … in … out.

  A breath ended in a snort and rattle. For a moment there was silence, and then the rhythm began again. Fraker slipped through the open window, straightened, and took a step to the side so he wouldn’t be silhouetted if Amado woke. He waited there for a moment to assess.

  The lingering scent of cologne.

  The tick of the clock on the bedside table, its numbers and hands glowing yellow-green.

  The warmth of the room, and the man’s steady breathing, which matched Fraker’s own.

  Complicity.

  What was going to happen here offered an intimacy that made Fraker’s cock stir. He took a step toward the bed. A floorboard creaked under him and the man in the bed shifted and groaned, turned over on his back, and flung an arm across his chest. Fraker waited until he settled again and then crossed to the bed. He bent close and the wash of city light showed him Amado in repose, as peaceful as a child. Fraker took the knife from his pocket and let the blade out. He pinched the sleeping man’s nose closed between thumb and forefinger and covered his mouth with his palm. For a moment nothing happened. Then Amado bucked against his hand, trying to draw breath. Fraker touched the point of his knife to Amado’s throat and looked down into his terrified eyes. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right,” he lied.

  17

  Cassidy awoke to pulsing pain and a drugged stupor.

  “You’re lucky,” the young doctor said. He had a shock of straw-colored hair, big hands that were gentle as they probed, and he loped around the bed with a forward lean as if walking in
to a strong wind. “A few cracked ribs. Some bruises that are going to be wonderfully colorful. A concussion. Heavy contusions around the kidney area. We’re going to keep you with us a few days, make sure you’re not passing blood.”

  There was nothing Cassidy could do. It was out of his hands. He let himself drift away on the painkillers.

  When he awoke again, Dylan was sitting by the bed reading. She looked up when he moved. “Hey, look who’s back.” She marked her place. “How do you feel?”

  “Great. Never better.”

  “Atta boy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “I was almost finished when you came out.”

  “What are friends for?” She had just gotten out of the shower when she heard the fight in the hall. That explained the dripping he remembered as he went under. “I thought it was kids fighting on the landing or something. Who were they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “All right, don’t tell me.” But he could tell that she did not like the dismissal.

  “They were cops.” He wanted her to know. He told her about Franklin.

  “Good for you.” She leaned down and brushed a kiss across his lips. “You lead an interesting life, Cassidy. One week the FBI tears your place apart. The next a bunch of your fellow cops beat you up in your own building. Are you sure you’re on the side of the law?”

  “Am I sure the law’s on my side?”

  “I’m glad I was there.”

  “I am too.”

  “Are they going to come back?” She was anxious, and she put a hand on his arm. “I mean, what if they do?”

  “They won’t be back. They gave me their message.”

  “And what are you going to do about them? I mean once you’re better.”

  “Nothing. It ends now.” Maybe that was the truth. Maybe it was just the way it should be, but he wasn’t going to think about that now.

  “It didn’t have anything to do with what the FBI was looking for?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “How are you doing on that one? Did you figure out where the photographs might be?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Dead ends.” He did not want to talk about it.

  He knew he was shutting her out, and that she did not like it, but after a moment her face cleared. “I have to go, but I’ll come back. I’ll bring Ribera. He wants to come cheer you up.”

  She started to go, but he took her hand and tugged her back. She bent down and kissed again just as Leah entered the room.

  “Oops. Sorry. Bad timing. One of my specialties.”

  “That’s okay. I was just leaving.” A cool look at Leah and then down at Cassidy.

  “My sister, Leah.” The cool look warmed. “Leah, this is Dylan McCue, my downstairs neighbor, my rescuer. She came out of her apartment swinging a club, and the guys on me took off running.”

  The two women shook hands and looked each other over carefully. They liked what they saw.

  “Thank you. I’ve gotten used to having him around.”

  “Is he usually this much trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  They both laughed.

  Cassidy, not for the first time, wondered at how quickly women could connect. They were without the big dog wariness with which men first approached each other.

  “I’ll leave you two alone.” She left.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “She’s beautiful, Michael.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed. I’ll take a closer look when she comes back.”

  “You’ve noticed, and you’ve already taken a close look.” Leah sat on the edge of the bed and examined him. “You look awful. Does it hurt much?”

  “They’re feeding me pills. It’s not too bad.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “Cops.”

  “Why?”

  “A long story not worth the telling.”

  “Does it have anything to do with Dad?”

  “No.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise. I got into something with some other cops. They didn’t like what I did. This was their way of showing it. It’s over now.”

  She took her cigarette case from her purse, selected a cigarette, tapped it down on the case, and lit it with a gold lighter. She watched Cassidy while she went through the ritual, and he could tell she was working up to something. She blew smoke at the ceiling. “I’m sorry about what I said the other night.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That it was your fault that Dad is in trouble.”

  “I didn’t need you to tell me that.” He knew it was the wrong thing the moment it came out of his mouth.

  “I’m trying to apologize for saying it.” She stubbed her half-smoked cigarette out angrily. Leah did not like to be wrong and did not like to be called on it. “But if you hadn’t pushed Cohn—”

  “Hey.”

  She stopped.

  “It’ll work out. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Don’t do that. I’m not a child.”

  “Right. Sorry. I’m working on something. When it comes together, we’ll have some leverage.”

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you. It’s part of the Ingram case. Just let me work it out.”

  “They can’t send him back, can they? He’s been here since he was a kid. He’s an American citizen.”

  “They can do anything they want these days. It’s the times we live in. We came out of the war thinking everything was going to be all right, and the next thing you know things are worse than ever. Russia. The bomb. Everyone’s living with the idea that the world could blow up and we could all die tomorrow. People are scared. The guys like McCarthy and Cohn know that, and they know it works for them. If you scare people enough, they’ll let you do anything you want as long as you promise it’s for their protection.”

  She patted his hand. “Thanks. That cheered me up.” She twisted her wedding ring, looked away, and then looked back. “Have you had a chance to…? The problem I mentioned?”

  “As soon as I get out.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you all right? Really?”

  “I am. I’m fine. Really.”

  They had been trained early never to complain. It was part of their mother’s legacy, the idea that if you saved the surface, you saved all. But it caused internal bleeding.

  The nurse came in after Leah left and gave him a shot, and he drifted off.

  In the dream he was on a dark street. The buildings were featureless, but it was someplace he walked often. He knew it but did not recognize it. He carried something heavy in one arm, but when he looked to see what it was, he could not see it. Something dreadful was about to happen. What was it? He was scared. Why was he scared? There was a deeper darkness ahead of him where something waited. He wanted to stop, but he kept walking. If he stopped, it wouldn’t happen. What wouldn’t? He did not know. Victor Amado stood on the sidewalk ahead of him and told him to go back. What was Amado doing here? Amado was dead. Wait. How could Amado be dead? This was a dream. Amado could be dead in a dream. Why was Amado telling him to go back? He kept walking. Amado disappeared. Now he was at the point of danger. Stop. Go back. Turn around. It’s here. Turn around!

  Cassidy awoke soaked with sweat. A dream. Just a dream. Don’t worry. Victor Amado was dead in the dream, but he had spoken to him two days ago. What did that mean?

  Dawn, and rain streaked the window.

  * * *

  The doctor probed Cassidy with stiff fingers. When Cassidy grunted or winced, the doctor nodded, murmured, “Uh-huh,” as if something he suspected had been confirmed, and went on. He finished and stood leaning forward with his hands clasped behind his back. “I think we’re doing very well here. If nothing changes, I don’t see why we can’t go home tomorrow. I was a
bit worried about kidney function, but your urine’s been clear, and that’s a good sign.”

  “Doctor, have you ever heard of anyone having dreams that come true?”

  “Dreams that come true. Like see the girl across the room, and then live happily ever after?”

  “No. You dream of something, and then later it seems to happen the way you dreamed it.”

  “Hmm. No, no. Not part of my medical education. Maybe the psychs run across that. I don’t know. Still, I believe we have no idea of the capabilities of the human brain. No idea at all. Is this something that has happened to you?”

  “I was just wondering.” The last thing he needed was to talk to a shrink. If the department heard about that, he’d be gone. All they needed was the excuse.

  “Anything else bothering you?”

  “I’m a little worried about the hydrogen bomb. And I think that television is ruining the jazz clubs in New York.”

  “Well, then.” The doctor nodded to Orso, who was coming in the door, and loped out of the room.

  Orso carried a box of chocolates tied with a red ribbon. “Schrafft’s finest.” He put the box on the bed. “You want me to open it?”

  “Could I stop you?”

  Orso grunted and ripped the cellophane off. He offered the open box. “The square ones are hard in the middle. The round ones are soft.”

  Cassidy ate one and then waved the box away. Orso ate two of each and put the box within reach.

  “They worked you over pretty good. You look like crap.”

  “I feel like crap.” Every time he moved, something hurt. His ribs punished him when he coughed. There was a bruise on his left thigh from knee to hip where someone had kicked him that ached even through the pills.

  “So the word is it was all them fucking micks Franklin hangs with, big surprise. O’Brian, Allie Milliken, Ham Logan, he’s got a broken nose, McGill, and that guy who’s always hanging around with Franklin, the guy from Jones Beach?”

  “Malachy?”

  “Yeah, him. It looks like you got him a good one in the eye. He’s out on medical leave.” He ate two more chocolates. “It’s not like they’re trying to keep it a secret. What do you want to do?”