by Chris Knopf
I was about to let him go when he pushed up off the hard surface, and with surprising agility, rose to his feet. I wrapped my arms around his neck and hung on. Somehow he managed to get a piece of my forearm in his mouth. As he clamped down, I ripped my arm clear, leaving a piece of me behind. He reached back and grasped at my head, which upset our tenuous balance and caused him to fall backward like a felled tree. No problem for him, with me as a cushion. The air in my lungs whooshed out, and it was a painful thing to suck in the next breath.
Mustafa pushed off the ground with his feet, arching his back and driving me farther into the pavement. Before he could do it again, I managed to partially twist out from under, which did little to stop him from rolling back on top of me. We repeated the same maneuver a few times, which an impartial observer might have thought a choreographed attempt by two angry men to tumble in tandem across the parking lot.
Wrestling is a contest most professional boxers eagerly avoid. Whatever skills and advantages we may have in throwing a punch, or dodging the other guy’s, is entirely neutralized in a tight clench. Instead of bobbing and weaving, we’re stuck wiggling and clutching, causing considerable damage to efficiency and dignity alike.
Not that Mustafa was any medal winner in heavyweight wrestling. His basic technique was to grab, claw, and toss ineffectual jabs, though his extra weight was a clear benefit, even if he squandered much of it with grossly inefficient flailing about.
“Gelsene sikik! Götüne koyarım senin!” he yelled, in evident frustration. It didn’t take fluent Turkish to get the gist.
Suddenly he stopped writhing, took a deep breath, and lurched to his feet. He managed to break what I thought was an unbreakable lock around his neck with a massive heave of his thick shoulders. This in turn had the Newtonian effect of throwing us in opposite directions. Mustafa landed face down, and I landed on my back. In the race to our feet, Mustafa got there just ahead of me, so before I could regain my balance, he’d already launched himself like a linebacker straight into my midsection.
Down we went again, this time face to face, Mustafa’s arms wrapped around my body and his shoulder stuck in my gut. I think the plan was to squeeze my torso until my head popped off like a cork. Workable if it weren’t for my fists, which were now blessedly free.
It wasn’t the best punch to the head, all arm and shoulder, with no body weight behind it, but enough to alert Mustafa to his strategic mistake. He let go of my waist and tried to scramble back on his feet, which only gave me freer reign to land two more sharp shots to his left temple.
The second one sucked half the fight out of him, allowing me to finally shake free and establish a legitimate fighting posture. From there I could pick any number of ways to finish him off, but there was no point.
He fell to his hands and knees and shook his head like a wet sheepdog.
“Fucking hell,” he croaked out.
He sat back down on his butt and coughed, using his fingertips to delicately feel around his throat.
“I think I see what my buddy’s problem is with you,” he said, his voice a strained rasp.
“You said he told you to kill me.”
“I didn’t say I was going to do it,” he said.
“You didn’t say you weren’t.”
He reached in his inside pocket again, and this time I let him. He pulled out an iPhone.
“It was vibrating,” he said.
He put the phone back and glared at me.
“Wouldn’t mind knowing which buddy we’re talking about,” I said.
He shook his head and mumbled something that sounded like hassiktir. He went to get back on his feet, but thought better of it, and sat down instead.
“It’s okay with me if we start fresh,” I said.
“Fuckin’ big of you.”
Mustafa made another go at standing up. I held my stance and watched him. When he got there, he brushed off his suit with partial success, little rips and ugly smudges spoiling the sartorial splendor.
“Did you have anything else in mind besides beating me to death?” he asked.
“I said I just want information.”
“Like what?”
“You knew Joey Wentworth?” I asked him.
He looked at me in weary disgust.
“Is that all you want to know? You could’ve just asked.”
“Did you do business with him?” I asked.
He didn’t like that one, for reasons we both understood.
“I already got interviewed about that,” he said. “By some prick cop. I can’t tell you anything without violating confidentiality.”
“Sure, but you could anyway. Do a good deed. Purifies the soul.”
“Nothing wrong with my soul, praise God. You want to come in the warehouse?” He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Get a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks, but I’m happy out here. I like the sunlight.”
“You think it isn’t safe?” he asked.
“You don’t think Joey’s killing could rub off on you?” I said.
He ran his fingers through his hair as if realizing his coif might have been disturbed in the scuffle.
“It’s got nothing to do with me,” he said. “I’m strictly moving and storage. This is what I told the cops, why the hell should I tell you anything different?”
“I’m worse than a cop. Once I start liking you, I never go away.”
“What do you care about that second-rate messenger boy?” he asked. “You know how many Joey Wentworths are lining up to take his place? So I’m told,” he added, getting a better grip.
“All I need is a name,” I said. “Anyone who might’ve had a problem with Joey, for whatever reason.”
“If I tell you something, will you stay the hell away from me?”
“If I get what I want, I will definitely stay the hell away.”
He paused for a moment, then said, “The last time I saw him was here at the warehouse. He was jumpier than usual, which took some doing. I told him that sort of behavior would draw the wrong kind of attention. That made him laugh, and he said, ‘Wronger than you know.’ I told him none of that crazy talk around me. I don’t like it. He keeps laughing and tells me, ‘Just watch out for Greeks.’ Thanks for the advice, I tell him, before shoving him out the door.”
“Any idea what he meant?”
Mustafa had the look of a man done talking.
“You asked me a question, I answered it. I told you more than I told the cops. Be grateful I’m in a generous mood and get the fuck off my property.”
“Okay,” I said, taking a few steps backward.
“And stay the fuck off.”
“Unless your lead turns into bullshit. In which case, I’ll be back.”
He looked incredulous.
“You got some kind of death wish, Acquillo.”
“I’ve been told,” I said, backing up a few more steps before turning around and heading for the car. I looked back once along the way and Mustafa was still standing there, watching, suppressed rage and bemusement skirmishing across his face.
CHAPTER NINE
It was a few nights after my tussle with Mustafa Karadeniz. I was on the sun porch at the little table I kept out there, leaning over an assortment of gears, axles, bearings, washers, and springs that had once comprised the working guts of my starboard jib sheet winch. Earlier that week, a sudden tack to that side in heavy wind had snapped the line in such a way that some inherent flaw in the relatively new winch resulted in a screeching failure, followed by highly confused operations on the part of the captain and boat alike.
I was lining up the physical parts with their diagrammed facsimiles when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I growled out a mild curse at Jackie, the most likely offender, getting it out of the way before answering the phone.
When I looked at the screen, it wasn’t Jackie’s number. It was a New York City area code, though I didn’t recognize the rest of the number. I answered anyway.
“What
.”
“Mr. Acquillo?”
“Who’s this?”
“Nathan Hepner. Allison’s in the hospital. It’s bad.”
Even with a central nervous system conditioned to sudden shock, these weren’t words I was fundamentally prepared to hear. So at first I thought I had it wrong.
“What did you say?”
“Allison’s been badly hurt. She’s at Roosevelt Hospital, unconscious. It was the closest emergency room. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Hurt how?” I asked, now up from the table and stalking through the cottage toward the back door, checking for my keys and wallet. Eddie, on his bed in the kitchen, leaped up and looked at me, his broad sweep of a tail drooping toward the floor.
“Attacked in her apartment. I found her.”
“Get me the doctor.”
“I can’t. They’re all in the operating room. I can get a nurse.”
“Okay,” I said, then regretted it as the phone went silent. I wasn’t done asking the kid questions. I was driving the Grand Prix toward Montauk Highway when a woman came on the line.
“Mr. Acquillo?”
“How bad is it?”
“I don’t have any information for you at this time. The trauma surgeons are in with her now. We’ll call you when . . .”
I hung up on her and waited about two minutes, then I called the number back. Nathan answered.
“What’s hurt?” I asked.
“I don’t know. There was blood all over her face and down her front. In her hair. Goddamn it all.”
“She was breathing,” I said, trying to confirm.
“They told me she was. I couldn’t tell.”
“Do you know who did this?” I asked.
“I just picked her up and ran down to my car. It was faster than an ambulance.”
It sounded like he was speaking to himself as much as to me. There was a slight trill in his voice, though he seemed in control. One of the boroughs lay sturdy claim to his accent.
“What about the cops?”
“I talked to the one who chased me to the emergency entrance. I ran a few lights. He gave me a stack of tickets, but not before calling it in. He took my ID and told me to wait for the detective, like I’m going somewhere.”
“What about her mother? Is she there?”
“She’s in the south of France for the summer. I left a message on her phone to call me ASAP. I didn’t know what else to do.”
I told him that was good enough. I knew Abby would be there as soon as she could charter a jet, but I wasn’t looking forward to it.
“What else?” I asked.
“There’s nothing else. You better get here.”
I pushed the end button and tossed the phone on the seat next to me. I drove brainlessly for about a half hour before a delayed impulse caused me to pick up the phone and call Amanda. When she answered I told her what had happened and that I was on my way into the city.
“Oh my God. Oh my God,” she said. “I’m on my way.”
“Jackie will feed Eddie. Just open the basement hatch. I’m calling Sullivan.”
Amanda knew me well enough not to waste time asking stupid things, like how I was doing, or how I felt, or what was I going to do. I didn’t know the answers to any of those questions and I was in no shape to think about anything but how to get to Roosevelt Hospital on the West Side of Manhattan in the fastest time possible without being delayed by speeding tickets.
My conversation with Sullivan was equally brief. He knew all I needed was a favor cashed in with a cop in the city who could pass the juice along to whatever precinct on the West Side had the case. I wasn’t looking for a private investigative unit, just someone on the other end of the line who wouldn’t treat me like a civilian.
From there the ride was a blank. Not because I forgot what happened—there was nothing in my mind but screaming pleas to all the divine influences I didn’t believe in to please spare my daughter’s life and deliver me from the eternal horror that would become my life if that couldn’t happen.
As I crested the hill in Queens that gives you the first glimpse of the Empire State Building, I called Nathan.
“Nothing yet,” he said. “She’s still in there and they won’t talk to me.”
I put the phone in my lap and took a breath. Then I got back on and said, “Don’t piss ’em off.”
“I know. I’m just the boyfriend.”
“Did you talk to the detective?”
“Yeah. He asked me if I did it. I guess he would.”
“Did you?”
“I guess you’d ask, too. No.”
There was no rancor or defensiveness in his voice.
“Any ideas?”
“No. Things were going well, but we weren’t at the confess-and-tell-all stage. There’s a lot about your daughter’s life I know nothing about.”
You and me both, I thought, but didn’t say.
“Call me if you learn anything,” I said. “You have my number.”
“Mr. Acquillo,” he said.
“Better if you call me Sam. Everyone else does.”
“Sam, she could die. One of the nurses told me.”
“I figured that.”
“Allison told me you’re a dangerous man.”
“She exaggerated.”
“You’re not going to let this stand.”
“I’m not.”
When most of the traffic is home in bed, you can get into Manhattan and across town pretty quickly. The hardest part was finding a legitimate place to park the car at the curb. I had to choose between a no-parking zone and the parking garage. Better judgment told me to take the garage, and an extra five minutes probably wouldn’t change anything.
It didn’t. When I got to the emergency waiting room Allison was still in the OR and Nathan Hepner was there with his head in his hands. He looked up as I approached, his face rigid with worry. He was a skinny guy with a giant ball of soft curly hair that seemed better suited to a young child.
He shook my hand. It was an icy grip, with a slight tremor. I looked closer at his face. It was too pale, even for a city kid. I took his hand back and checked his pulse. He wobbled on his feet.
“Are you dizzy?” I asked him.
“A little.”
I sat him down and told him to put his head between his knees. I went to the desk nurse and told her I had a guy in shock. She looked at me like I’d just vomited in her lap.
“What makes you think that?” she asked.
“Get somebody out here.”
“The staff is . . .”
“Any nurse will do.”
“All the nurses are busy,” she said.
“How do you know that? You haven’t even asked.”
“I don’t have to ask. I’m here every night.”
“Are you a nurse or just a receptionist?”
“I’m an RN, but that’s not the point.”
“An RN and you won’t take thirty seconds to . . .”
She glared at me.
“I’m sorry, but . . .”
I leaned into the hole in the glass that divided us, and whispered, “No, you’re not. You’re not sorry. You don’t care if this kid lives or dies. You’re an angry worm besotted with the misery of your failed existence. You have power over me, so you use it to frustrate my attempt to ease the suffering of an innocent person. I have nothing but contempt for you and all your ancestors whose decrepit genes tragically contributed to the forming of such a base and meaningless piece of garbage posing as a human being.”
Then I went back to Nathan, who luckily was looking a lot better. I felt his forehead, which had nearly warmed to room temperature.
“Cover your mouth and take longer, deeper breaths,” I said. “You’re hyperventilating.”
“I always wondered what that was,” he said through his hands. “I thought it was a fake disease.”
A security guy walked into the waiting room and approached the desk nurse. He was tall, black, and e
xuded dignified calm. Former military, I thought. After a moment with the desk nurse he came over to where we sat, both his thumbs tucked inside a black leather belt laden with communications equipment and ordnance.
“Everything okay with you tonight, sir?” he asked.
“Yeah. We’re good. My daughter, his girlfriend, is fighting for her life in the OR, so we’ve been better. How’re you doing?”
“I’m well, thank you. Sorry about your trouble,” he said.
“We’re desperate for information about her condition, of course, sir,” said Nathan, “but Nurse Ratched over there thinks it’s fun to keep us in the dark. I don’t know how hard it would be to just say ‘she’s gonna make it,’ or ‘she’s not gonna make it.’ ”
“What’s the girl’s name?” he asked.
“Allison Acquillo,” said Nathan, spelling out the last name.
He nodded slowly.
“I can poke around, but I’m expectin’ you to be here quiet and calm when I get back with a report.”
“Absolutely,” said Nathan.
The security guy glanced at me, then left through the same door.
“What did you say to her?” Nathan asked. “The nurse.”
“Nothing. And she’s not a real nurse. They’re all back there saving lives.”
“Thanks for the breathing tip. I’m feeling a lot better.”
He looked a lot better. Enough blood had come back to his face that his natural olive skin tone had reemerged.
“Nice job with the security guy,” I said.
“I’m not a physical person. I have to be nice to get what I want.”
“Nice is best for everyone,” I said.
“Allison said you sometimes hit people.”
“Only if compelled to. It’s rarely the right thing to do.”
“It’s good to hear you say that. Because, like I said, I’m not a physical person. I’m actually afraid of people who are bigger or meaner than me.”
“You need to fix that,” I said. “It’s no good being afraid of people.”
“With all due respect, I think that’s in the ‘easy-for-you-to-say’ category.”
The security guy came back into the waiting room. He brought a young man along with him, dark like the security guard but not of African heritage. His wad of black hair looked nearly identical to Nathan’s. His eyes were alight, nearly furtive, but his face was stern and unexpressive.