Closing Time
A Terry Orr Mystery
Jim Fusilli
TO DIANE AND CARA,
WITH LOVE AND GRATITUDE
Foreword
“I went east to Greenwich and turned south on familiar cobblestone, heading toward the silver Twin Towers, their crowns hidden in low-lying clouds.”
That’s the last sentence of the penultimate chapter of Closing Time, Jim Fusilli’s debut as a novelist, and it resonates rather differently now than it did when he wrote it. The book was published on September 10, 2001. The very next day, those towers came down.
Not the best possible time to publish a book, and the world found other matters of more pressing interest than the publication of Closing Time. A paperback edition appeared a year later, with quotes from laudatory reviews (The New York Times Book Review, Detroit Free Press, Chicago Tribune) and enthusiastic blurbs from Harlan Coben, Thomas Perry, S. J. Rozan, Nevada Barr, and Robert B. Parker.
And then it disappeared, as most books do. And now it’s back, and that’s cause for rejoicing.
Full disclosure: Jim Fusilli is a friend of mine. I don’t know him terribly well, and don’t get to see him often, but I never fail to enjoy his company. Twice over the years I’ve invited him to contribute to New York–themed anthologies I’ve edited—Manhattan Noir and Dark City Lights—and on each occasion he proved a pleasure to work with, and delivered a superb story.
And who could be a better choice for a New York anthology? In life and in his fiction, Jim’s very much at home outside of the city—but his knowledge of our mutual hometown is broad and deep, and it comes alive as his characters strive to contend with it.
Here’s a passage to consider:
“In mid-October, there is a certain clash of monochrome and brilliant color to Fifth Avenue high on the Upper East Side. Many of the once-green leaves of the robust trees that stretch over the avenue have turned from astonishing yellows and reds to a musty brown, but they’re still thick enough to prevent the bleached mid-autumn sun from arriving unfiltered. Endless rows of sturdy apartment buildings on the east side of the avenue seem taciturn and miserly as they refuse to surrender the dying light. On the street, buses plod along, wheezing, straining almost, spewing gray fumes with little enthusiasm. On the west side, behind the stone wall, Central Park is quiet: children are back in school, sunbathers have completed their summer-long ritual and stashed away their lawn chairs for the winter, leaving the vast expanses of grass empty and silent; the men and women who walk under the withering leaves seem old, tired, without destinations, and there is a shallow look to their eyes, as if they know what it means when something is gone.”
Now that you are about to begin to read Jim’s novel, you will soon come across that paragraph. Don’t wait for me to apologize for making you read it again, Gentle Reader. It captures and perfectly illuminates a special New York mood and moment, and stands up just fine to a second reading, even more so in context.
As for the story itself, Closing Time is not Finnegan’s Wake. It doesn’t require my telling you what you’re about to read. Like all of the best crime fiction, it’s eminently accessible.
I will take a moment to advise you that Jim Fusilli’s debut was also the debut of his protagonist, Terry Orr, and that we’re all fortunate that both of them came back for another go-round. There have been four Terry Orr novels in all, with Closing Time followed by A Well-Known Secret, Tribeca Blues, and Hard, Hard City.
I trust we’ll be seeing them all in due course.
—Lawrence Block
I LOVED YOU WHEN OUR LOVE WAS BLESSED AND I LOVE YOU NOW THERE’S NOTHING LEFT BUT SORROW AND A SENSE OF OVERTIME.
—Leonard Cohen
THE INDIVIDUAL WHO TAKES REVENGE USUALLY DOES NOT KNOW WHAT HE REALLY WANTS.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
Mei Carissima:
A little adventure, perhaps. An opportunity.
Around midnight, Diddio stopped by, looking for company after a show at Irving Plaza, the Mercury Lounge, the Peppermint Lounge, somewhere: Who knows where he goes? I spent some time with him, poured him a beer, got him settled in front of the TV, went up to check on Bella (sleeping in the center of her big bed, still making little fists, thumbs tucked into her palms), and headed out to run, cell hooked to my elastic waistband, as she demands. Through the chilly night air, I went along West, heading north. A little breeze off the Hudson, flickering stars beyond the low clouds. Nice.
I had nothing on my mind but what’s always on my mind—the petti di polio con arucola your father served that first glorious day in Foggia; an April afternoon in Gramercy Park, as we glowered at the somber faces of Goethe and Dante and Milton on the Gothic facade of the National Arts Club; your Italian lullabies, sung sweet and softly to Bella, Davy and, as I waited in the vestibule, to me; how happy we were when somebody finally stole that old piece-of-shit Ford Jimmy Mango foisted on us: memories, as I’ve said before, that are more vivid now than in the days after they first formed.
Anyway, I reached Little West 12th and decided to turn back—three miles would be enough for the night. Shuffling in place until the traffic light went green, I crossed West Street and headed toward the meatpacking district, the old Gansevoort Market, cobblestones glistening eerily under the violet streetlamps, as delivery trucks sat idle against vacant loading docks. As I was deciding whether to take Washington, Greenwich or Hudson, to run through flatbeds angling in at the post office depot or weave my way around people pouring out of the dance clubs to flag a ride, I saw a livery cab resting at an odd angle, its front end tilted toward the curb, its rear too far out for it to be parked; and I noticed vapor rising from its tailpipe, as its ponderous V8 growled. I drew closer—I’d stopped running now—and I saw the driver, his head back, shoulders lax as he sat awkwardly on the broad front seat.
I opened the driver’s-side door cautiously to let the dome light shine and, in the dull glow, I saw that the driver—a black man, maybe 60, 65 years old—was dead. His nose had been battered, and blood had poured across his lips and along his chin to his thin neck; and I leaned in and saw that his skull had been cracked open above the right temple. Blood saturated the right shoulder of his dark shirt and coated his hand as it lay crumpled on the seat.
As I started to pull away, I noticed, on the floor of the backseat, one of those steering-wheel locks, the bar-like kind: a perfect weapon, I thought; surely capable of shattering someone’s head.
So I had this thing sussed out, Marina, in seconds—old, black livery-cab driver killed by a rogue fare; the cops would bury this near the pit of hell—as if my meager experiences as a P.I. have given me a level of insight. I pulled out the cell and I started to call Tommy Mango and stopped. He’d treat it like a stain on the cuff of his white-on-white shirt. So I called Luther Addison. Twenty minutes later, he arrived with two patrol cars in tow, all official, no solicitous bullshit, and I gave him a statement and, before I know it, he blows me off: “There is nothing you can do here.”
I tried to say something. I was thinking about saying something.
“You stumbled onto this,” he said pointedly. “Could’ve been anybody.”
He knows what I’m trying to do, tesora. What I’m trying to learn.
But he turns and he walks away, toward the billowing steam, the sparse crowd gathering on the cobblestone.
At least I got a ride home, from a mute uniform who favors musky cologne.
I walked gingerly into the house: Diddio asleep on the floor in front of the sofa; Bella watching Bogart’s “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre” on Bravo.
“You’re not sweating,” she said. “Why?” She wore her floppy flannel nightgown, a ratty beret and bowling shoes without socks.
I nudged Diddio ont
o the couch, cut the TV and chased Bella back upstairs.
“You might as well tell me,” she said as she bounced into bed. “I’m only going to ask you again in the morning.”
As I went into our bathroom to shower, I’m thinking about the gypsy cabbie—Aubrey Brown, 63, lived in East Harlem—and I’m still thinking about it three hours later, as I sit here in the study and write to you.
Diddio, I just remembered, is in my spot. I’ve got to sleep in our bed.
Did I tell you I still stay on my side?
Of course I did.
Sorry it’s gotten sloppy tonight—shifting verb tense, for one, and clumsy transitions; and a sentimentality only you understand. I’m running low, too tired to edit; angry at Addison; and I’m thinking now about our long walks down Fifth as the park began to blossom, your sister’s bountiful garden in back of your father’s house, the scent of your hair, the green flecks in your brown eyes. You.
And Aubrey Brown, and how Addison ushered me away.
Theory must give way to action, Marina. At some point, learning surrenders to application. The time when I can ignore opportunity has passed.
And it matters not what anyone else thinks or says.
A presto, Marina.
All my love,
T.
ONE
We were walking down Greenwich Street, in the moments before twilight, on our way home.
An hour earlier, Bella announced that we were having grilled hamburgers for dinner, and I shrugged in agreement and threw on my short coat over a torn t-shirt and jeans. We’d been living on Italian food; the refrigerator freezer overflowed with containers of pesto con gorgonzola, lasagne con melanzane and the like, prepared by our housekeeper Mrs. Maoli, who seemed to believe I’d allow Bella to waste away without her cooking.
The canvas sack Bella now carried was as full as mine, but, with a glint of mischief in her eyes, she had packed hers with paper products, Boston lettuce, two Portuguese rolls, a copy of Seventeen magazine and a lightbulb. I had the canned goods, a half-gallon of skim milk, five pounds of potatoes and a softball-sized red onion. As she lifted her sack at the Food Mart checkout, she quoted John Stuart Mill: “Each to his own ability, Dad.” My daughter is very clever. “I know,” she once said. “I’m too smart for my own good.” Apparently, I sometimes forget that she’s younger than she seems.
“Dad, I heard a good one today.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you roll your eyes at me? Don’t,” she warned. “My information is solid.”
“Your information is rumor.”
“Be that as it may,” she replied. “But Mrs. Maoli believes me.”
Of course your surrogate nonna believes you. She fed you, changed you, nurtured you while Mama was painting, while I scribbled my nonsense.
“Ready to listen?”
I shifted the heavy sack up into my arms. “I’m a giant ear.”
“Cynic,” she charged. “But, if you listen to me, I’ll forgive you.”
We reached the corner of Beach Street. With very little traffic on a late Sunday afternoon, we crossed easily heading south, as a few yellow cabs went toward the World Trade Center. On the other side of the wide, pothole-scarred avenue, a young man with Aztec features, his black hair pulled into a long, glimmering ponytail, struggled with three impatient dogs. A tall, auburn-haired woman in a midnight-blue suit, white silk blouse and pearls frowned in anger as she checked her watch and craned her neck to glare uptown. In the air was the scent of the river, and I could smell the dusky potatoes and the paper sack I had in my arms.
Bella said, “Now, Dad, Little Mango told me his uncle saw Isabella Rossellini at the TriBeCa Grill and she was drunk and screaming for Martin Scorsese to be a man and come out and fight and Robert De Niro had to calm her down and then Scorsese’s mother had to come over and she was wearing a housecoat and she put her arm around her to calm her down and she started sobbing, saying ‘Mama, Mama’ and the cops came and it was wild.” She didn’t breathe; she gasped. “And I don’t know how they kept it out of the papers. But it must have been wild. Mango said it was really wild.”
Little Mango was the son of Jimmy Mango, a neighborhood wiseguy, and the nephew of Tommy Mangionella, a hard-ass policeman. It was a toss-up as to who was crazier, Jimmy or Tommy the Cop.
“So?” she asked.
“Very vivid.”
“Wild, huh?”
“Bella, I heard the same story when I was a kid. Only it was Ava Gardner looking for Frank Sinatra at the Copa and it was Dolly Sinatra who did the calming down.”
“Could happen twice.”
The TriBeCa Grill was, in fact, part-owned by De Niro, who I’ve seen in the neighborhood but never in his restaurant. I said, “Mrs. Scorsese died a few years ago.”
“Maybe it was someone who looked like her.”
“Yeah, maybe it was Ingrid—” I stopped myself, and exhaled slowly. “Diddio would’ve said something.” Diddio is a rock and jazz critic who loved brushing up against celebrities. “Nobody said anything about a brawl.”
“You can be so naïve sometimes,” she huffed. “They can keep it quiet, Dad. They’re rich.”
I was preparing my reply when I looked up and saw her skidding toward us, her arms waving, a frantic, near-maniacal expression on her round face. Purple jacket open and billowing behind her, she bore down on us, shrill-shouting out our names, flapping, flouncing.
“Yikes,” Bella whispered.
It was Judith Henley Harper. Judy had been Marina’s agent. I wasn’t sure if Bella remembered her, though she never seemed to forget anything.
“Terry! Terry Orr!”
Hugs; air kisses, cheek-against-cheek, as she arrived. Bella flinched, but was gracious.
“Gabriella, oh my god in heaven! Dear, how old are you? You must be, what? A teenager, at least.”
“I’m twelve,” she chirped.
“Twelve years old, my goodness.” She turned to me, and went on her toes to touch my head just above the ear. “Your hair’s a little longer, Terry, no? Very becoming. The slightest hint of gray, not too, too much; is it? I like it. I approve. Though what are you? Thirty-two-ish? A little early for gray, maybe. Maybe.”
She stepped back to examine us, giving me a chance to look closely at her. I figured Judy for about 55 years old, though her exuberance, her butterfly gestures, bright eyes, made her physical age irrelevant. She was a ball of energy, under short hair that was either blond or silver, depending on the light, that she combed with her fingers. There was a time when I would’ve welcomed her company, when I would’ve invited her to join Marina, Bella, Davy and me for tonight’s dinner.
She adjusted the pale-violet frames of her glasses and returned to Bella. “And who do you look like, dear? What I mean is, you don’t look very much like your father. Nor do you look at all like Marina. But you’ll be tall, like your mother. Not as tall as your father, thank goodness.” She grabbed Bella by the chin and squeezed. “You have your own beauty, dear Gabriella. Very cute. Lucky. Yes.”
“Thank you,” Bella managed. She adjusted her faded denim jacket.
Judy made a sad, sympathetic face. “So, Terry, really, how are you?”
“I don’t know, Judy.” I shrugged. “Fine.”
“I think about her, Terry. She was gifted. No doubt about that.”
“Yeah, you were good to her, Judy.”
She waved her hand, dismissing the compliment. “Her work sold itself, Terry.” She smiled. “And would continue to, if you’d let me.”
I shook my head. “I told you, Judy—”
“Now, now, Terry. Don’t get huffy.”
We had four of Marina’s paintings in our home, four of the seven that remained in the family. They were landscapes of the environs of the Foggia region of Italy, where she was born and had been raised: the sea-arch of Vignanotica; the cliffs of the Gargano coastline; the view east from the church of San Giovanni; and Lake Occhito, near Campobasso. Her father, who still l
ived in the province, had two street scenes Marina had done here in TriBeCa, and her sister Rafaela had a portrait of her son, Marina’s godson, a work that was the least characteristic and by some accounts, the most interesting.
Judy knew I would never sell these remaining works, but I suppose I didn’t blame her for trying: She’s no mere mercenary, but she’s not in business to amuse herself, like some of her effete peers whose rich husbands set them up with a few paintings in a well-appointed yet soulless gallery. Judy presented Marina’s first major exhibition nine years ago, and from her small storefront in SoHo, she sold 46 paintings and a dozen or so sketches, making certain that the work of Marina Fiorentino was well known not only downtown and around Manhattan but throughout the art world, arranging shows in London, Seville, Paris and Florence. (For her efforts, she’d pocketed 15 percent of the $18.5 million those sales netted.) To this day, Marina is the subject of articles in art magazines, and a TV documentary she’s featured in turns up every now and then on PBS, on MSG’s Metro channels.
Last year, Bella’s web search on her mother produced more than 5,800 hits. Later, after Bella went off to bed, I repeated the search and found that some 3,000 of them were about her murder. I didn’t read any of them. I know that story better than anyone else.
“Terry, did I hear right? Have you been working as some sort of private detective? Is this true?”
Bella interrupted. “He’s doing research for a new book. On, er, Samuel Jones Tilden.”
And with that, Judy became animated again; her voice jumped an octave, her hands darting as she spoke. “Good for you, Terry. You’re writing again. God knows we need you to keep writing, Terry. The world needs books by Terry Orr.”
I nodded amicably, or at least what passes for amicably for me now, but I was thinking that social amenities had been exchanged, obligations met and fulfilled, and now it was time to go. I started to inch forward.
“Terry, listen: I want you and Gabriella to come to an opening. I want you to come. I insist. Tomorrow night. Sol Beck. You know Sol Beck.” She paused. “Do you know Sol Beck?”
Closing Time Page 1