Little by little, the parade approached. We heard the applause of those gathered north of us and the distant sound of a marching band. We craned our necks and saw the first of the gigantic balloons floating down the street like bloated tethered birds. The kids around us grew increasingly frantic, flailing their arms and asking their parents to lift them up on their shoulders.
“Do you think we should lift our kids?” Tony asked.
I laughed and thought about it, but decided that was even too crazy for me. “Just keep a hand on each of their heads.”
The parade finally reached us, resulting in a general pandemonium in the crowd. I wasn’t really interested in what was happening on the route. What interested me was the goings-on in the crowd. A loud marching band from Alabama with twirlers and a color guard had just passed by when Tony tapped my hip with his hand.
“Look,” he whispered, trying to talk without moving his lips. “Directly across. A man in a camouflage jacket.”
Tony was right. A man with short dark hair weaved through the crowd. He was wearing sunglasses and popped in and out of my vision like a target in a shooting gallery. Every time his head appeared he was looking at us. He ended up under a darkened theater marquee.
“There’s one way to find out,” I said. “Stay here.”
The police didn’t like it, but I had noticed people crossing the streets at various times, mostly to take photographs. I hopped over the barrier and was immediately hailed by a cop.
I smiled and shouted, “My wife and kids are across the street.”
He scowled, but waved me on.
The man I was after reacted like a hunted deer and disappeared in the throng. I found my way through an opening in the barriers and craned my head. My height was a disadvantage. The crowd against the barrier slowed me down, but eventually I caught sight of the man I wanted. He was running south toward Forty-Fifth at a good clip, then he turned left heading east toward Sixth Avenue. The crowd was thinner there and the cops had less of a presence.
I rounded the corner and yelled, “Bozelle.”
He broke his stride and stopped next to a woman who was walking in the same direction with her daughter. He grabbed the girl from behind like a sack of groceries, turned, and held her in front of him. He pulled a pistol out of his coat and held it to her head. The woman screamed and he shouted, “Shut up or she’s dead.”
I stopped.
“Get back, Harper,” he said. “You know what I want.”
Sobbing, the woman fell to her knees like a supplicant in church. She reached out with clasped hands toward her child.
Bozelle stepped into a small alley, hidden enough that he could hold the girl without being seen. She was remarkably calm; her eyes were fixated on her mother.
“Let the girl go,” I said. “Whatever you want, work it out with me.”
“You’re a fool,” he shouted. “A fucking faggot fool. You have no idea what’s happened.” He laughed and then pointed his gun toward me. “You hated the bastard, too.”
“Let her go,” I said. “I’ll meet you wherever you want.”
He smiled. “That’s an opportunity too good to pass up. I’ll let you know where. But bring the kids with you.”
He disappeared down the alley, clutching the girl against his chest.
I ran to her mother and put my hand over her mouth. “Please, be calm. Stay here and don’t say a word. I’ll get her back.”
I peered into the passageway. It ran between two relatively tall brick buildings and then opened into another larger alley that ran east and west. Bozelle and the girl were gone.
I wished I’d holstered my .357. I crept down the cramped space, dodging electrical outlets and decaying cardboard boxes. It smelled like stale urine and puke, which reminded me of where I’d spent some nights in my New York City hustling days. It wasn’t a pleasant memory. I reached the intersection of the two alleys and peered cautiously to my left. I saw nothing but a long corridor, which I assumed opened somewhere near Broadway. Looking right would be riskier. Bozelle could be around the corner and I could end up with a gun in my face—a chance I had to take.
Better my hand than my head. I stuck my left hand out in the space and moved it up and down. Nothing.
I looked around the rough edge of the building and saw two tiny feet connected to two tiny legs in a doorway about twenty-five feet away. I ran to the kid and scooped her up in my arms. Bozelle was gone. She grasped my neck and hung on, sobbing as I took her back to her mother. When I stepped out of the alley, the woman enfolded us in a bear hug. I released the child and she collapsed in her mother’s arms.
“I’m going after that man,” I said. “Take care of your daughter.”
I had already decided not to wait for the police. Their presence around my apartment might be comforting, but I didn’t want New York cops getting involved in my business. I knew what Tony would think, but my internal distrust of the police was still strong.
“Thank you for saving her,” the woman said, barely catching a breath. She kissed my cheek.
I ran into the alley and this time turned left. It did indeed open into a narrow passageway at Broadway very near the theater marquee where we had first spotted Bozelle. The parade was still going on. I waved at Tony. He spotted me and waved back. I managed to weave my way across the streets and stood huffing next to him. I told him what had happened.
“You didn’t wait for the police?” he said. He was giving me another of those, “You’re crazy, you’ve really fucked up” looks. I should have expected it from an ex-cop.
“No. Pardon my French—but they’ll fuck things up.”
“Yeah, fucking things up by saving our lives and giving us and the kids police protection.”
I glared at him. “One thing you have to realize about me is that cops have made my life hell. Their intervention in this case will only prolong the inevitable and probably lead to someone’s death. There’s no need to get the New York City Police involved.”
Tony looked down and whispered under his breath, “I think you’ve made a big mistake.”
“That’s the difference between you and me. I take those chances.”
He glared back. “Well, I don’t.” He grabbed his fake child and stormed away.
I yelled after him to come back.
“Don’t bother asking,” he said. There was more anger in his voice than I’d ever heard.
I grabbed my fake kid and moved through the crowd. “Where are you going?”
“To the garage to get Vicky. I’ll be by to get my stuff and then I’m heading over to Ophelia’s. I’ll find a place to park until she and the kids get home.”
“Don’t be crazy,” I said.
He laughed while his eyes spit fire. “Me? Crazy?” He turned and I heard him say, “Have a nice life.”
I put the kid down on the sidewalk and watched as Tony walked away. I was alone again. A sinking feeling hit my stomach and my heart turned over in my chest. I wanted to call out for him, but I couldn’t. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe I had a better chance of getting Bozelle than I would if Tony hung around. I picked up the duffel bag kid and felt stupid as I walked back down a crowded Seventh Avenue. Bozelle could have been following me and I couldn’t have cared less. Damn. The hardest part of getting emotionally involved with someone was allowing yourself to be vulnerable. I questioned myself and my reasons for falling for Tony. If our relationship continued I would have to adjust the way I cooked, the way I slept, the way I spent my free time. Maybe even change the way I would die. Was it worth it? I wasn’t sure as I walked back the few blocks to my now lonely apartment.
Tony barely spoke to me when he picked up his luggage. He was in and out in less than five minutes. I attempted to hide my disappointment and confusion in the guise of getting ready for work at Han’s. Tony would be spending the night with Ruthie and John because Ophelia had already made it clear she needed to work Thanksgiving weekend. Club Leo would be open and ready for business at te
n p.m.
Norm could tell something was wrong when I arrived at work. “You look like you lost your best friend.” He patted my back.
“I did. Tony.”
“Ouch. Let’s talk when it’s closing time.”
We did. The evening was busy and there were piles of dishes, pots, and pans to be washed. Why so many people wanted Chinese food on Thanksgiving was beyond me, but Han’s was packed. While I was scrubbing, I told Norm the whole story: what was on the tape he gave me, Rodney Jessup’s death, who was behind the shooting at the restaurant, my trip to Richmond, and my encounter with the deranged marine at the parade. Norm was fascinated and astounded that I had been involved in the whole Rodney Jessup affair from the beginning.
“It’s like I’ve been working with a celebrity all this time,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What good would it have done? My checkered history has no relationship to this job. I gave up my bodyguard dreams to be a dishwasher.” I looked at him, judging his reaction. “It was a good choice. I thought the Combat Zone murders and Jessup were part of the past—chapters to be forgotten.”
“The past is not easy to be rid of,” Norm said, and then smiled. “One often has to ride on it, be it a black or white horse.”
“Ancient Chinese proverb?”
“No, but the past can come back to haunt you.”
“Tell me about it. Today was a prime example. I pissed off Tony because of the way I feel about cops. Maybe he was right. Maybe I am crazy . . . and stupid.”
Norm smiled with his whole face; his eyes lit up. “You could always apologize. You’re not used to living with someone. God knows I am, with a wife and three kids. Sometimes you have to bend in order not to break.”
I scowled and stuck my hands in the dishwater. The warm suds felt slick against my skin and in their own way they were comforting. “Enough platitudes. You’ve been reading too many fortune cookies.”
“Those little printed pieces of paper are just common sense. Try it. You might like it. On the other hand, the lucky numbers suck.”
“Thanks for the advice, Ms. Landers, but I have to work this out on my own. In my gut, I feel I did the right thing.”
As the hour neared eleven, I closed the restaurant with Norm and the crew. We all went our separate ways. I wanted to run home and call Ophelia’s, hoping Tony would pick up the phone, but I thought better of it. He needed time to cool off and I needed time to think. A scarier thought arose in my mind. Carol and Tony’s sister were supposed to arrive in New York the next day. There was no way to head them off. I would have to deal with them on my own.
I was careful as I rounded the corner to my apartment, but everything looked calm on the rooftops and sidewalks of Forty-Seventh Street. I was pretty sure Bozelle knew Tony had been hanging out at my apartment and therefore I wasn’t as easy a target as he might have wanted me to be.
I walked down the stoop, opened the door, and locked it behind me. I switched on the lights and threw my keys on the couch. My apartment was back to its lonely, cavernous state after days of being vibrant and full of life. I sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. If I’d had any booze in the house, I would have dragged it out and broken my sobriety. I watched the white smoke drift toward the lightbulb over the kitchen sink. There was no need to sit on it and blow smoke out through the window. Tears stung my eyes. I wiped my cheeks with my free hand.
“Pull yourself together, Cody,” I said to the empty room. “Just because your boyfriend left you and a killer wants you dead, doesn’t mean you have to get all verklempt.” I stubbed out the cigarette and headed for bed, suddenly feeling very drained by the day. “Tomorrow will be another day.” I looked at a red dress, very similar to Ophelia’s, hanging in my closet. It reminded me of the times I used to hustle in drag, when every action I took was numbed by drugs or alcohol. I was so high I hardly knew up from down. Those days didn’t seem so bad now. For the first time, I felt I was losing control of my life to love and it scared the crap out of me.
Love sucked.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
AT THREE A.M. THE PHONE RANG. THE VOICE WAS rough and phlegm-filled, as if the caller had smoked a pack of cigarettes within a few hours. I shook my head awake, wondering who was on the line. It wasn’t Tony—it was too late for him to be awake. The guy’s speech was slurred, too. A pack of fags and half a bottle of booze under his belt.
“You know who I am,” he said and then chuckled.
Before I could get a word out, he continued, “And I know who you are and where you live. But I knew that a long time ago.” He drew out the word “long” to its ultimate length and then stumbled over “time ago.” The man was having his own private party.
“Bozelle?”
“None other.”
I didn’t respond hoping he’d bumble forward giving me some clue to his whereabouts.
“What’s the matter,” he said. “Cat got your cock?”
He laughed at his own miserably twisted cliché. I still was holding out hope that he’d hang himself.
“Or maybe that pretty cop boyfriend of yours is having a late night snack at dick diner. If he can find it!”
That pissed me off. No one insults my privates.
“Leave my dick out of this—and he’s not my boyfriend. What do you want?”
The line fell silent. When he spoke next he sounded like a sober man with deadly intent.
“I want those kids.”
“Why?”
“None of your business.”
“You’re getting nothing from me, and the kids are going to stay safe until you’re in jail.”
He breathed in deeply. “Okay, let me put it this way. You hated that bastard as much as I did. I read the papers about the Combat Zone murders. I know you found your faggot friend frozen to a cross. One way or another, Rodney Jessup killed him through his inaction. Well, he also killed something I valued as well.”
“Go on.”
He exhaled. “That’s as far as I go. If you want an explanation, make up your own story. I’m giving you one last chance. Deliver the kids to St. Patrick’s Cathedral today at sunset. Most of the tourists should be out of the way by then. Leave them in the pews near the Fifth Avenue entrance while you go up front to pray or whatever the hell you want. Don’t turn around for five minutes or they die. If you do as I say, I promise the kids won’t get hurt, and I’ll get what’s coming to me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then your sorry ass is dead. And your pretty boy when I find him, too. I’ll kill you both. Rodney couldn’t escape—you won’t either.”
The line clicked and died.
Great. A megalomaniac marine. My head swam and my nerves tingled. I wanted to ask him one last question: “How did you get my number?” I’d asked the same question of Rodney who told me he had his ways. Apparently, Bozelle had his ways, too; my brain was beginning to fit together the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle. And it wasn’t a pretty scene.
I tossed and turned until about six and then fell into a fitful sleep until eight. A sickly gray light filtered through the blinds. I jolted awake and felt for Tony, but my bed was empty.
I pulled myself out of the warmth, slipped into my favorite silk slip, and settled on the couch. I stared at the phone and, in my head, dialed Ophelia’s number. A conversation with Tony was a must, but somehow my pride was getting in the way. The kids were more important than my stubbornness, however. I picked up the phone and dialed.
Tony answered, sounding as sleepy as I felt.
“I’m calling to apologize for yesterday,” I said.
“You take too many chances,” Tony said, his voice an angry growl. “You’re going to get yourself killed, or worse yet, the kids.” He stopped. “I don’t want to see you dead.” He choked on his words.
I sighed. “Give me one last shot. If things don’t work out we’ll call in the blue.”
Tony didn’t have to say anything. I could feel
his relief through the phone.
“Bozelle’s brought things to a boil, but I don’t want you around. It’s too dangerous. Whatever you do, don’t let the kids out of the house today, keep them in sight at all times. Get hold of Abby and tell her to check Carol in at the Waldorf or some other ritzy hotel. Don’t let them come here or go to Ophelia’s. Everything will be settled tonight. Despite what Abby or Carol say, follow my instructions. Got it?”
“Cody, tell me what’s going on. Now!”
“Just do what I say. Everything’s going to be okay.”
I heard him shout my name when I hung up the phone, but, at that point, my mind was already racing ahead to sunset because I had to pick out the right dress and makeup for my visit to St. Patrick’s.
My door thudded several times during the day, but I didn’t answer. I assumed it was Tony, but I didn’t want him to know I was at home. I felt pretty certain that Tony was safe from Bozelle. He wouldn’t try anything until after his deadline with me had passed. But all hell would break loose after the sun slipped below the horizon.
I called Norm and asked for the day off. He wasn’t happy because I’d only worked a few nights since I’d come back from Virginia. But when I told him it was a matter of life and death— and I meant it—he relented. He made me promise to call him as soon as whatever it was I was going through was over. Because of what had happened at the restaurant, I think he was anxious for everything to be over.
I had another call to make—to Janice Carpenter—a necessary conversation if my hunch was correct. I was beginning to put the pieces in place, but I still couldn’t be sure.
“For the last time, never contact me again,” she said when she picked up the phone. “I don’t want to change my number.”
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