But—and I should remind Elizabeth Harteveld, M.D., Ph.D., of this—the glow will vanish, and Bella will be faced with the hard truth: It is all different now. It is unalterably different, and there is no sense in believing it will ever be as good or that we will ever be as good. And as Bella realizes this she will cry and, as the tears roll down her face, she will go to bed in our empty house, and there will be no poetic lullabies whispered tenderly by her mother and she won’t wake up to her baby brother’s jabbering down the hall, and she won’t pad into my study in her pajamas, Moose under her arm, and be lifted onto my lap to read what I’ve written in the cool, quiet hours as the rest of our family slept.
I resent Harteveld for letting Bella believe that this colorless facsimile of life is life as it was before. But I say nothing. I do what I am supposed to, I do as instructed. I am a willing participant in the deception of a sweet, intelligent twelve-year-old.
“Terry, I cannot seem to get a sense of you,” she once commented.
“That’s because there is no me,” I told her. “Just a giant hole where I used to be. In the hole—some facts, a bit of attitude; a plan, maybe.”
She leaned closer to me. “A sense of responsibility?”
Tenth had become Amsterdam at 57th, and Amsterdam crossed Broadway, and then there was the Beacon and the crowd milling under the old-fashioned marquee, filing into the former turn-of-the-century movie palace. From a van sponsored by a classic-rock station, a man handed out bumper stickers, pins and, to the very lucky, a painter’s cap. As I slid a $10 bill through the small cup in the taxi’s stained Plexiglas, Bella noticed Diddio amid the people in front of the liquor store next door to the entrance.
“Are you going to keep scowling, Bella?” I offered her my hand as she slid toward me to exit the taxi. She ignored it. “I think you should. I want Diddio to see you as I do.”
“Nice try, Dad,” she replied, and went into the night air toward Diddio. I watched her go. She liked him, wanted to take him in, like a straggly stray cat. “He has sad eyes,” she once said.
“Hey, Gabby.” Diddio greeted her with a hug. “Cool beret,” he said. “You got all the other girls beat.” I got a handshake and an unsteady gaze.
He put his hands on Bella’s shoulders and steered her into the slow shuffle toward the ticket takers inside the door.
He turned to me. “How’s your friend? The one in the explosion.”
“She’s getting better and she’s still too old for you,” I groused.
“Too old? Mmm, I wonder how old that’d have to be. Like, eighty-nine?”
I leaned in to whisper. “You’re stoned, aren’t you?”
“Ssssh,” he said, nodding toward Bella. “I just took the edge off. I got three shows tonight.”
Bella grabbed Diddio’s sleeve and gave it a harsh tug. “Remember me?” she smiled, oozing saccharin.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he said to me. “I’ve got to spend some time with my Gabby.” He gently flattened the collar of her denim jacket. “Tell me a story, Gabba-Gabba-Hey.”
As Bella basked in Diddio’s attention, I looked around while we waited in the logjam under the marquee. Most of the crowd was at least a decade older than I am: men and women in ill-fitting jeans, ancient t-shirts and an odd assortment of short coats and baseball caps; bald spots and ponytails, and a few suits, with collars unbuttoned and ties hanging low. But not much hippie garb, as at the Allman Brothers shows here that Diddio dragged me to, at which young women not much older than Bella wore long, flowered skirts and danced in the aisles to the delight of tattooed teenaged boys from Brooklyn who wore Stars and Bars bandannas over shoulder-length hair. The conversation around us was oddly cerebral and technical, as if Yes fans were plucked from the mid-level executive ranks at Silicon Alley computer companies. The nostalgia was sweet, heightened: “I saw them at the Garden. Nineteen seventy-three. Topographic Oceans, man. Incredible.” A breathless woman behind us said, “I seen Steve Howe with Asia. I never thought—I never ever thought—I’d get to see him with Yes.” Her companion, equally enthused, replied, “And with the classic lineup. Wakeman, White. Man. Now it’s a supergroup, like Blind Faith.” A grump in front of us said, “I’d rather see Bruford than White.” His wobbly associate, who had a pint of Yukon Jack tucked in the back of his jeans, said “It’s Yes, man. Who gives a shit? Bruford, White. White, Bruford.”
“Bruford,” Diddio whispered to me. “Very muscular drummer. I can tolerate White, though. He played with Lennon and Harrison.”
I thought of Rosenzweig. “Yoyo.” The old prick knew what he was saying.
We inched forward, bumping into the people in front of us as we were bumped from behind. We were in the vestibule now, and when I inadvertently stepped off the worn industrial carpeting, my running shoes stuck to the terrazzo tiles. I said, “I don’t know how you can do this every night.”
“I think it’s very cool,” Bella said quickly, defending the stray cat.
“I’m chronicling the culture,” Diddio said proudly.
As we passed into the cavernous lobby, with its high ceiling, ornate woodwork, faux gold leaf and crowded concession stands, the bottleneck in front of us started to widen as people went toward their seats. I noticed Bella had stopped to watch as a security guard located the Yukon Jack on the man in front of us. There was a tussle—the befuddled man groped for the bottle as it crossed in front of him, lost in the guard’s tight grip. “Hey, man. That’s mine,” he managed, then added, with a drunkard’s sincerity, “I brought it from home.”
I reached out and put my hand on Bella’s shoulder.
“Stay close,” I cautioned.
The large, bearded guard easily held back the smaller man, who reached in vain for the half-empty pint.
“You sell drinks here, man, so what are you against? What do you think, I’m gonna throw the bottle? Shit, I wou—I wouldn’t do that.”
“You can pick it up after the show,” the guard said sharply. He wore a vest, and his bare arms were thick and muscular. “Now, get moving.”
The drunk would have none of that. “Ah, fuck you, you fuckin’ Nazi.”
“Bella—” I wrapped my arms around her.
The wobbling man swung and missed. The guard quickly squared himself, stepped in and brought a short right to the man’s stomach. The drunk instantly dropped in a heap, then rolled into a fetal position, releasing a guttural moan.
The guard stepped back. He turned to the man’s skinny friend, who stared at him with a combination of awe and fear. As the guard moved toward the boy, I stepped in.
“He doesn’t want any of that.”
“What are you, his fuckin’ father?”
As he turned toward me, I said, “You made your point, big man. You don’t need to take the next step.”
He sneered. “That’s my call,” he said. But he didn’t move.
Finally, the big man turned back to the other guy. “Drag your friend to his seat, or drag him outside. Get him out of my lobby.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy replied, compliant as a new buck private. Behind him, Yes t-shirts sold for $40.
We moved on, as the crowd gawked at the bright-red man on the floor, knees at his chin.
As we approached the sweeping stairs of the old theater, I asked, “You OK, Bella?” I brushed her hair with my fingertips.
She nodded hesitantly. She seemed more concerned than shaken. “He didn’t have to hit him.”
I said nothing. He had to hit him, but only him and only once. After that, it was sadism.
“Some times they overreact,” Diddio said as we started upstairs. “I saw a teenage kid get his nose busted outside the Bottom Line. Blood everywhere. They thought he was crashing, but he had a ticket. A real mess.” He added, “Lou Reed. Good show. Robert Quine. Fernando Saunders.”
Bella had one hand around the dented copper rail, the other in mine.
I had attended enough shows with Diddio to know we’d leave before the first encor
e, and was grateful for the practice since Bella had nodded off during a hamhanded organ solo by the keyboard player, who had a greater infinity for bravado than Brahms. Before she fell to the temptation of sleep, her head on my chest, her beret tugged over her eyes, she enjoyed the spectacle, especially the mirror ball and the lava lamp-like blobs on the screen behind the drummer’s enormous kit. The group played with bombast, and when the crowd sang along, Bella joined in; Diddio pointed out the other critics who preferred to sit downstairs, and she felt special, especially when I told her I hadn’t seen anyone under 18 in the theater.
“What’d you think of the bass player?” Diddio asked me as we walked down the stairs, at eye level now with a violet cloud of lingering cigarette smoke.
“Tall.”
“I mean, as a musician.”
“I don’t know a damn thing about it,” I replied. My ears were ringing.
“He’s the one I’m profiling for Bass Guitar magazine.”
“Very cool,” Bella said. She stifled a yawn.
As we crossed the lobby, a muffled version of the pounding music surrounding us, I noticed near the t-shirt stand the mountain-sized guard who’d flattened the drunk. Behind him, on a marble shelf, sat several bottles of cheap wine and the half-empty pint of Yukon Jack. With his bland expression—only the slightest hint of a frown—he seemed placid, supremely confident, as if he was completely content to do nothing other than stand watch over an enormous, almost-empty lobby. I imagined he had at least a hefty Swiss Army knife at the end of the thick chain that looped like a giant’s fob from his belt into his vest.
“Terry, hold on a second,” Diddio said. “Come over here, Gabba-Hey.”
Diddio took Bella to the concession stand. I started to protest—I didn’t want him spending money he didn’t have—but I said nothing. Instead, I went outside, away from the smoke, the faint odor of human sweat, the garbled, booming sound, and into the fresh air and the relative quiet of the night.
And there was Sol Beck, pacing under the lights of the marquee, behind the blue wooden sawhorses set up by the police.
Hands thrust deep in the pockets of his black jeans, he was hunched, and he shook his head repeatedly. The upturned collar of his black jacket covered the bottom of his ears. He was here to meet me, clearly, and yet when I said his name, he turned but didn’t seem to recognize me.
He was ashen and agitated.
“It’s Terry,” I said.
He blinked, then seemed to snap to. “Terry,” he repeated.
“What is it?”
He said flatly, softly, “Lin-Lin.”
“What happened?”
“Someb— She’s in the hospital. Somebody attacked her.”
“Christ. Is she all right?”
“A concussion.” He ran his thumb under his eye socket. “A broken bone, maybe.” He touched his face above his top lip. “Her teeth.”
He seemed to reel as he spoke, and he didn’t seem to want to make eye contact, peering instead at my chest, my shoulder, the glass doors behind me, the soiled cement beneath us, his own black shoes.
But then he looked squarely into my eyes. “She said you would know who did it.”
I shook my head. “I don’t, Sol.”
“Terry. She said it.”
Now wasn’t the time to tell him that his wife was wrong.
“Sol, come with me.” I reached for him. “Let me take you where we can talk.”
I went onto Broadway and flagged a cab. As it pulled into the wide space in front of the Beacon, Bella and Diddio came out. I silently explained—pointing with my thumb; extending my hands, palms out, easy, easy; gesturing with my head; bringing an index finger to my lips—as I let Beck enter the cab.
She kissed Diddio on the cheek. She thanked him for the Yes patch he’d bought her.
I called to her. As she approached, I bent over and whispered, “You recognize him?”
She nodded.
“I’ll explain later. But everything’s OK. Don’t be worried.”
She was tired, and she surrendered to my counsel. “OK, Dad.”
I held open the door for her to slide in next to Beck, and nodded quickly to Diddio as I jumped in and slammed the door behind me just as the cab pulled out. Bella turned to watch Diddio grow small under the marquee, under the sullen sky.
The driver made a U-turn at 75th and we headed back downtown.
He’d gotten my number from Judy, who’d suggested that I also might be found at the Tilt. After leaving the hospital—the same one in which Judy was recuperating—Beck had hurried to the bar. Mallard told him about the concert at the Beacon. Beck took the 1-train uptown and waited outside the theater, pacing, agitated, struggling to understand the rash of misfortune, the bleak cloud that seemed tethered overhead. I could have told him that there’s nothing to understand, because there is no logic, and that fate is nothing but indifferent and thus enormously cruel. But in his case, the source of his misery was not merely fate, and it was knowable to some extent.
“You’re going to have to give it to me again,” I said, as I returned to the kitchen table. Bella had called me, and I’d left Beck alone for a moment and gone upstairs. A good-night kiss was required, and I tugged Moose under her covers. “It isn’t very dull, is it, Bella? Our life.”
She gave me a weary smile. Exhausted, she was already more than half asleep. “’Night, Dad,” she murmured as she snuggled in, turning her back to me.
Beck had his hands wrapped around a glass of Valpolicella I’d poured for him. I slid back into my seat and took a sip from a green-plastic bottle of water.
I wanted him to replay the tale. “You found her outside your building?”
He nodded as he stared at the rich red wine, fingering the stem of the glass. “I heard the doorbell but I thought she’d answer it. I forgot. I forgot she went out.”
“Where’d she go?”
“We needed something.” He frowned. “For dinner. We hadn’t eaten.”
“What time?”
“Around eight, eight-thirty.”
“Was the bag there when you found her?”
“Yes,” he said. “Well, no. It was up the block.”
“Closer to Varick or Sixth?”
“Varick. There’s a deli on Varick.”
“Your side of the street?”
He nodded.
If she was coming from Sixth, a busy thoroughfare, people might’ve seen the attack. But Varick carried little foot traffic after dark. And there was the obscuring scaffolding set up for the repair work on the corner warehouse, and two wide driveways for Stricks near the end of the block. The construction crew and the warehouse employees entered and left the building via Varick. If they were still on duty at eight, which was unlikely, they probably didn’t head to Sixth: The 1-train stopped right outside the warehouse.
I said, “It’s a perfect place for a mugging. Unless somebody’s out moving their car, and no one’s doing that at eight o’clock.”
He took another sip of the Italian red and returned the glass to the table. “They didn’t take her money,” he said finally.
“You’re sure?”
“At the hospital, they gave me the change and the receipt. They were in her pocket.”
“You have the receipt with you?”
He pulled it from his jeans pocket. “I didn’t go back home.”
I took the small, crumpled piece of paper. Lin-Lin had spent $8.21 on a variety of items. Her change was $1.79. The time of the transaction was 20:11, or 11 minutes after eight, and the date was today’s. Those types of cash registers are either incredibly inaccurate, putting 35 days in a month or 27 hours in a day, if the receipt is at all legible, or they are fairly close to correct. Unless Lin-Lin chatted up the proprietor after the transaction, she was accosted just before 8:15.
“She took most of the change in quarters,” Beck mentioned. “For the laundry.”
Earlier, he had told me the extent of her injuries: a concussion, damage
to the malar bone, stitches in her upper lip, two cracked teeth, a lot of bleeding, purple swelling. Apparently, according to the intern on duty in the emergency room, she’d been struck once on the left side of her face by an object. “Probably a baseball bat,” Beck said, recounting what the intern had told him. The cop who questioned Beck agreed. He told him, “She’s lucky they didn’t leave her dead.”
I asked, “What about her hand, her arm? Any damage?”
“No. Why?”
“She didn’t see them coming. She didn’t defend herself.”
Now he took a long drink of the wine.
“Did you eat?”
He replied morosely, “I only had twenty-nine cents, after I bought the token.”
I stood and went to the refrigerator, brought out an apple to the counter, quartered it, and put it on a plate with a chunk of Pecorino cheese. The bread from Zito’s was in the freezer, so I dug out a pile of Carr’s crackers. I put the small meal in front of Beck, with a paper napkin and a cheese knife.
I refilled the wineglass as I sat, as Beck lifted an apple slice and absently took a bite. I leaned back and waited for him to eat more. He cut a corner of the cheese, swallowed that and nibbled on a cracker. Then he looked at me. “Lin-Lin said you know who did this.”
“I don’t.”
“But … She seemed certain.”
“You ought to eat,” I said, trying to postpone the inevitable.
He let out a sigh and he looked as if he would collapse under the weight of what was careening around his mind.
It was after midnight now, the rest of the house was dark and silent, and I could hear the ticking of the clock in the face of the old stove.
“Sol, Lin-Lin thinks your father put the bomb in Judy’s gallery. I suppose she thinks he attacked her.”
Beck grimaced in confusion and tilted his head. He blinked before looking at me.
“She told you this?”
Closing Time Page 10