Absent Friends

by S. J. Rozan

  Jimmy drinks his coffee.

  That what you want? says Tom. I'll do it.

  What I want, Jimmy says, I want Markie not to be dead.

  Tom nods. Yeah, he says. Yeah, no shit, man. So do I.

  A fireboat steams by, the John J. Harvey maybe, Jimmy was on the Harvey once, doing some training. Jimmy thinks, Good for them, good for those guys, on their way to a job. He thinks about the fire under his skin that he feels at a job, not feeling it now, now he's too cold, now he can't feel anything.

  I have an idea, says Tom.

  Jimmy turns to stare. You have an idea? You have a fucking idea?

  Tom says, Jim, listen. Please, just listen.

  Fuck, says Jimmy. But he doesn't get up, he doesn't stand and go climbing over the rocks and leave Tom there alone.

  It's all my fault, says Tom, I know that, but I can't change what happened. No way I can bring Markie back. Jack, either.

  Jimmy doesn't know, he really doesn't know, how much is Tom's fault, but he knows “all” is wrong. It was Tom who shot Jack. But Jack wasn't shooting at Tom, he was shooting at Markie and at him. It was Tom who went along with Markie's unbelievably stupid idea, to say he shot Jack. But Jimmy didn't stop them. Could he have? That's another thing he doesn't know. But this is a thing he does know: it wasn't Tom's idea for Markie to go to Jack, to tell him about the cops, the story that turned out to be bullshit, the story that made Big Mike decide not to send Jack to Atlanta, the story that made Jack so mad.

  That wasn't Tom's idea. It was Jimmy's.

  Tom says, My fault, Jim. But all I can do, man, all I can do now, I can think about what's going to happen. How I can make it up.

  Jimmy doesn't see any way, how to do that, but he sips his coffee and listens.

  You know Markie didn't have any kind of insurance, Tom says, any of that shit. Since Kevin came along, Sally's been staying home, that was what her and Markie wanted. If she'd worked, they could've lived someplace nicer, but they wanted her home. Now she's gonna get a job, not be home with Kevin, he has no dad and no mom at home either?

  Yeah? says Jimmy. So?

  What was Markie making, Tom asks, down at the garage? Ten thousand? I can do that. A little more, even. Thousand a month, so she can stay home.

  Tom's not looking at Jimmy, he's staring out over the water, maybe looking for the same ship Jimmy can't find.

  No, says Jimmy.

  Tom says, Why? not like he's arguing, just like he wants to know.

  Where that money comes from, says Jimmy. That's why this happened. That's why Markie's dead.

  Tom nods slowly, drinks his coffee, is quiet for a long time. Then he says, I'll get out. My dad, says Tom. You see how old he got, the last couple months? My mom, since Jack, the way she is, he can't do anything anymore except take care of her. He's sure as hell not taking care of business. I'm supposed to be. But screw it, man. I can fold it up. Not overnight, I can't do that. I got people I have to take care of. But I'll get out. If the money's clean, you think I can give it to Sally? You think then?

  Jimmy finishes his coffee. Tom passes over the Thermos. Jimmy unscrews the cap, pours some more. He lifts the Thermos to Tom, but Tom's not done yet with what he has.

  She won't take it, says Jimmy. You know Sally. She doesn't like help.

  Not from me, Tom says. But if she doesn't know. If she thinks it's Markie.

  Markie? How the hell is it Markie?

  New York State, says Tom. They should have been protecting him. He was in their prison. What if we sue them?

  Are you crazy? We won't get shit, says Jimmy.

  No, says Tom. But if we say we sued them. And this is their money.

  Jimmy shakes his head.

  That lawyer, says Tom. Constantine. He'd go along. He could say he's the one who sued. She'd believe it if he said it.

  Why would he? Why would he do it?

  You seen the way he looks at her?

  Jimmy says, What?

  I'm just saying. Maybe he doesn't even know. Sally, I know she doesn't, all she can think about is Markie. But still. For her, he'd do it. It's not illegal. It's a lie, but it's not illegal.

  Tom stops. He sips some coffee and then says, like he doesn't want to say this part but he has to: It would have to be you who talks to him, Jimmy. He won't say yes if it's me. But if you say it's you, your money, you're borrowing against your Department insurance or something, you want Sally to have it but you know she won't take it.

  Jimmy turns to the gray water again, and the black ships. He can't think of anything to say. Anything.

  It was my story, says Tom.

  What?

  The bullshit story that got Jack so pissed? Had nothing to do with Eddie Spano. Came from me.

  What the fuck? What are you saying?

  This cop. O'Hagan. My guy. I told him, tell my dad this and that. I thought Dad would send Jack out of town. Atlanta, maybe. To cool him off.

  You told him?

  Jack was too hot, Jimmy. They weren't ready to roll him up, but they would've, sooner or later.

  Tom waits a minute, then says, But not just that. You remember, you and me, we talked about Markie? About him and Jack, we were worried about him getting in trouble because of Jack?

  Yeah, well, says Jimmy, and he's surprised how savage his own voice sounds.

  Tom drinks his coffee. Jimmy gets the strange idea that Tom's collecting himself, getting ready like a fireman does, before he charges into the flame wall.

  And not just you and me, talking about it, Tom says. Marian said to me how she was afraid, she thought Jack was going to get too deep into something, get into some kind of thing he couldn't get out of.

  Marian? I thought, says Jimmy, I thought Marian and you . . .

  Yeah, says Tom. I was surprised. I liked it that she talked to me like that, it'd been a long time.

  A long time, thinks Jimmy, looking at the bridge arching away. It's all been such a long time.

  Tom says, I looked at it, Jim. Markie, you're worried about him, Marian's worried about him and Jack, too. I'm thinking, if Jack fucks Markie up, it'll be Sally, too, and little Kev. And Vicky's been after me, I spend too much time cleaning up after my brother, worrying about my mom because of Jack, like that. Everyone's worried and everyone wants the same thing. I looked at it.

  Jimmy watches the ships, coming and going, back and forth. He wonders who's in charge, someone must be or they'd all crash, wreck each other. He thinks back to so many times when they were kids, Tom having a good idea because of something everybody wanted.

  Tom rubs his eyes like it's too bright out here, on this gray day. He says, So I went to O'Hagan. I said, Tell my dad it's like this, that you have this operation going. Jimmy, I swear, I thought Dad would send Jack, send him someplace. I thought Jack would get to go to Atlanta, that he'd get what he wanted out of this, too! Shit, Jim.

  Tom looks into his coffee cup; it's empty. He says, I don't know how the story got to Markie. It was supposed to be my dad. I don't know how.

  After that Tom doesn't say anything else. They sit on the rocks, Jimmy not saying anything either, just looking, just taking it all in. A gull screeches, soars and knifes into the water, comes up silent, flaps away. It must have caught what it wanted, Jimmy thinks.

  Jim, Tom says, you let me know. Whatever you want, I'll do it.

  Jimmy doesn't turn to watch as Tom walks away, but he hears him go.

  PHIL'S STORY

  Chapter 14

  The Old Masters

  (Sailing Calmly On)

  November 2, 2001

  On the ferry. On the way back. No, not back. That would mean a journey done. A place not home, from which he was returning. But there was no home now, and no returning.

  People stared, moved away. Because of the blood. On his face, his own. Scrubbed and stanched, but still slowly bleeding. He was still bleeding. On his shirt, on his jacket, Kevin's. So much death, death everywhere, and still people backed away, because of blood.
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br />   Phil stood in the wind outside, the Brooklyn side, and stared at the bridge. Brigadoon, Camelot, Shangri-la, all vanished. Never real, but where he'd lived. Gone now. Gone.

  His last night on Staten Island—oh yes, what else was it?—and spent in jail.

  “I love you,” he'd told Sally, calling on the prisoner's pay phone. The air was rank, the walls too close.

  She'd said—sadly, softly—“It doesn't matter.”

  When they'd let him out, he'd gone right over, but she wouldn't let him in.

  Now, on the boat, he took out his phone, tried again to call her. Again, as all morning, all day yesterday, only ringing. No connection to be made.

  He slipped the phone away, back in his pocket, his shirt stiff with blood.

  If she had answered?

  What was he thinking to say?

  MARIAN'S STORY

  Chapter 16

  First In, Last Out

  November 2, 2001

  Marian walked out onto the deck of the ferry, on the east side. The boat seemed to lurch; she thought she might fall, but did not. She stood in shadow, aware of people moving uneasily away: something in her face, her eyes, making them uncomfortable, making them uncertain. Marian was uncertain, also: uncertain how she'd come to be on the boat, uncertain where she was going. Uncertain of everything, and yet it was all so clear, every minute, every second.

  The phone ringing, Kevin in his room picking up before Sally could. A few minutes later, Kevin, dressed but not shaved, reaching into the kitchen for his keys.

  “That was Uncle Phil.” Sally flushed; Kevin went on, “He wants me to meet him.”

  “Why?”

  “He wants to show me something. Be back later, Mom. Goodbye, Aunt Marian.” His smile, not the sunburst, but a sweet, sweet one. It seemed slightly sad to Marian, this smile, but of course she didn't say that to Sally. Sally had enough on her mind.

  Goodbye, Aunt Marian.

  More tea in Sally's kitchen, Marian and Sally talking, at first about Jimmy's papers, where they could be, what could be in them. Then their mood lightening, trading gossip, then just talking, as best friends, as they always had.

  The phone ringing, high-pitched, Sally laughing at a joke Marian had made as she reached for it.

  Racing to the hospital, Marian driving Sally's car, Marian no more fit to drive than Sally, her skin cold and her stomach churning, but she knew it was right. (Strangely, frighteningly, she took the keys, she took the wheel, because she heard Jimmy tell her to, heard Jimmy saying it was right.)

  The hours there, and then the doctor, and then Sally in Marian's arms, wailing, sobbing, and Marian, too, and nothing she could do.

  And the hours since. At the hospital, police officers with questions. Back at Sally's house, family, friends. Firefighters. The telephone ringing, nonstop, unbearable, finally silenced, turned off, still ringing and ringing, thought Marian, but no one could hear. Sally, white, silent, motionless.

  Sally's mother, finally, asking everyone to leave, thanking them all, asking them to go home. But not me, surely, Marian thought, not me, to leave, to be alone now. Not me, too. Marian the last friend remaining, as she'd been the first, Marian expecting to stay.

  Sally, green eyes finding Marian from across a vast, lifeless desert. Sally saying nothing, shaking her head.

  Marian spending the night at her father's house, sitting in the yard for a long time before going to bed. Her mother's flower beds were overgrown with grass.

  Now, on the ferry, Marian watched the clouds, the ships, the hills. The place where she'd grown up, where her heart had remained, grew unimaginably distant as the boat plowed without remorse toward the opposite shore.

  If only, she thought: if only she could have spoken to Sally, across the desert of Sally's eyes, if only she could have found words. If only she'd found words for Kevin: Where are you going, Kevin, what are you planning, I'm sorry if I upset you, Kevin, don't go.

  Why hadn't she found the words?

  And so she stood now by the rail of the ferry, watching the gulls circle, watching the bridge, watching, on this perfect, beautiful day, watching everything slip away.

  LAURA'S STORY

  Chapter 17

  Abraham Lincoln and the Pig

  November 2, 2001

  In the gathering twilight, Laura sat on the deck of the ferry. Not the front, to see the glittering towers of Manhattan reach for her; not the back, to see Staten Island's angry hills grimly cheering her departure. Not the west side, where the Statue of Liberty still welcomed the wretched. Laura sat outside on a wooden bench on the ferry's east side and stared at the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, the last place where Harry had stood.

  She saw the bridge waver, she felt the tears hot on her cheeks, and she knew her fellow passengers were aware that she was crying. But in New York now, people burst into tears in public places. No one knew why, but everyone knew why. Strangers would comfort you if you let them, and they would leave you alone if that was what you wanted, and that was what Laura wanted, and people must have seen that because they left her alone.

  “Harry?” Laura whispered.

  The sun was setting, the sky had gone cold.

  “Harry?”

  The wind blew over her and was sharp as a blade.

  “Harry?”

  Yes, I'm here, came the gentle answer.

  “Harry!”

  He asked, Do you see now?

  Laura swallowed. Her throat was parched. “We were wrong.”

  No, Harry said softly, I was wrong. That is to say: years ago, when the fact finally dawned on my thick brain that the truth was—contrary to the sermon I'd been preaching all my life—neither obtainable nor by any means the highest good, at that time I was right. And when I met you, my little starfish, I should have told you that. But you were so beautiful.

  “Me? I've never—”

  Beautiful. So alive. It wasn't even that you'd never lost hope. You didn't need hope. You had religion. You wanted nothing but the truth. And my good fortune, when you consented to spend your time with me, astounded me. But I was sly. I knew. I knew which man you loved. Not the old and tired one who'd dedicated himself to not making waves. He wasn't the man you loved, Laura. You were in love with the crusading truth-seeker. Harry Randall, star reporter. For you—for you—I became that man again.

  “Harry? Harry . . .”

  Harry waited politely, but Laura could find no words. He resumed: And then Owen McCardle gave me Jimmy McCaffery's papers. I read them, as you have. And I could see. Yes, the scales fell from my eyes, the clouds lifted, the floodwaters of illusion receded. Write it however you want. I saw the harm I'd done and the harm that was coming. I saw my selfishness and my guilt. So much destroyed, so that a washed-up drunk could keep a love that was never really his.

  “It was yours!”

  No. The man you loved died long ago. He should never have returned. Look at the mess he made.

  “But couldn't . . . Couldn't you have . . . Once you knew . . . A retraction . . . ?”

  You said it yourself, Harry's voice came sadly. “First in, last out.” A retraction wouldn't have mattered. Or even been read. I'd destroyed a hero. I'd deliberately broken hearts. Given people who never even knew Captain McCaffery one more reason for hopelessness in a season of despair. Harry, invisible in the clear autumn air, spread his arms wide.

  “You can't have known. You can't have seen this coming.”

  The shrug. Harry's shrug. Not this exactly. Something like it. It doesn't matter.

  “Harry?” Laura's throat hurt so much, ached so badly, she hoped, after this, to never have to speak again. But she had to ask: “What they said. It was true?”

  What I said—what I said and you, my love, echoed and elaborated after I was gone—was not true. What they said was.

  Laura, speaking what felt like her last words: “You jumped.”

  Harry, replying, confirming, pronouncing sentence: I jumped.

  BOYS' OWN BOOK

>   Chapter 18

  The Invisible Man

  Steps Between You and the Mirror

  September 11, 2001

  Jimmy folds his T-shirt and shorts into his gym bag, slings it over his shoulder as he leaves the basement apartment that's been his for twenty years. Since spring he's been going to yoga classes at a place around the corner from the firehouse, will be heading there today at the end of his shift. Needs to stay flexible, Jimmy does: he's forty-six, and though he's got his eye on a Battalion Chief's spot in the next year or two (and been told over the back fence he has a good shot at it), at Ladder 62 he's Captain. He's got to be ready, when the bell rings, for the ax, the flames, the smothering smoke and heat like a wall. He's got men depending on him, men who follow him.

  Some of the guys, they rag on him about it—Hey, when you do the stork one, they give you a baby to deliver?—but the guys rag on the officers anyway, it's part of what makes the firehouse what it is, your brothers yanking your chain. And Jimmy has to admit, you need a good laugh, you could do worse than watch him try to stand on his head. But, he tells the guys, there's a dozen twenty-five-year-old girls there standing on their heads, so maybe it's not so bad.

  And delivering babies, he's done that seven times already since he came on the Job.

  Jimmy's up early today so he can take the long way, down around the tip of the island. This is something he does sometimes, just walk and look and think. He's got a lot on his mind, nothing he can't handle, but he needs to think what to do, make a plan for each thing. Two of his guys are out for a couple of days—Doherty's sick, and Logan's wife just had twins—so he's got to work their replacements into the rotation. He's got a probie, Adams, three months out of the Academy, green like Kevin; Jimmy'll have to come up with some drills for the kid, doesn't want him just sitting around. And Gino Aiello: Jimmy needs to call him, to see how the Deputy Chief's coming on that favor he promised, getting Kevin assigned to 62 for a few months. Kev asked for 168 in Pleasant Hills, same as Jimmy did out of the Academy, and Jimmy thinks that's great, a good place for him. He can serve out his whole time in that house the way Jimmy'd been planning to before; but first he needs experience, he needs knowledge. Kev's up for the transfer, and Jimmy wants to get him here, show him, teach him, before it's too late. Because when Jimmy moves to the Battalion, he won't be running a house day-to-day anymore.