by Parnell Hall
Steve waved his hand. “Shit, let it go. You track her down in Denver, it makes it too much of a big deal. She’s that much less willing to talk. Plus she’ll be flustered, what with people showing up on the set. It’s not urgent. You got her pegged, we can get her any time.”
“O.K.,” Taylor said. “Well, just wanted to keep you up to date on your millionaire bum.”
“Gee, thanks,” Steve said. “You get any more good news, just trot it on over.”
“I’m not gonna have anything more, now you pulled my men off the job.”
“You still got a leak at headquarters, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Put a bug in his ear with the name Jack Walsh. You may get something yet.”
Taylor frowned. “Like what?”
“How the hell should I know? Frankly, I hope you get nothing. I just got a bad feeling about this.”
“You and me both. I mean, I hate to lose the business, but I can’t tell you what a relief it will be to tell my men I’m pulling ‘em out of the subway system.”
“I’ll bet,” Steve said. “But all the.same, I can’t help feeling that’s where they ought to be.” Steve shook his head. “Damn. I just wish I knew what that lunatic was up to.”
15
Jeremy gave high-fives to the two seniors, then stuck his hands in his pockets and watched them walk off down the hallway. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Beth Killmore, who was standing with a girlfriend halfway down the hall. He wondered if she caught that action-the seniors treating him like an equal, slapping him high-fives. Surely she’d think that was cool.
Jeremy had a real thing for Beth Killmore. Even though she herself wasn’t cool. Even though she was an A student. Even though she was straight-laced, didn’t party, and had a good reputation. But Jesus, what a killer bod.
He wondered if she knew it. He wondered if she knew she drove boys nuts. She certainly drove him nuts. And shit, she was only a sophomore, for Christ’s sake. He was a junior and then some. Christ, had she seen him with those two seniors?
The bell rang. Damn, always the fucking bell. He had to get upstairs. And he hadn’t even got his book out.
He walked down the hall to his locker, spun the combination, opened the door. He took out his backpack, unzipped it, started to fumble through.
A hand grabbed his shoulder. Aw shit, the principal? What now?
He swung around with an angry scowl on his lip.
“Well, now, you don’t look pleased to see me.”
Jeremy blinked at the ragged beggar in front of him. “Uncle Jack.”
“The one and only. Footloose and fancy free. And thanks to you, I understand.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Dodgin’ teachers, mainly. Come on, my boy, we gotta get out of here.”
“What?”
“Let’s go. Let’s go, before they throw me out on my ear.”
“Go where?”
“What does that matter, as long as it’s out of here? This place gives me the creeps, you know? You ever notice that?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do. Well come on, boy, we gotta go.”
“Sure. But where? Why? What’s going on, Uncle Jack?”
“A lot of things, my boy, a lot of things. As it happens-Oh shit, here comes a teacher.”
Walsh spun Jeremy around. “Let’s go this way. We get separated, get out best you can and meet me out front. You’ll have to look around, ’cause I may be hidin’. Don’t worry though, I’ll spot you.”
“Yeah, but-”
But Jack Walsh was already heading down the hallway. Jeremy hurried to catch up with him.
Jeremy was so distracted by Uncle Jack he walked right past Beth Killmore without even seeing her. He glanced back over his shoulder to see if they were being followed, and found her staring after him.
Good lord. What would Beth Killmore make of this?
16
Joe Bissel sniffled twice, opened a bleary eye. Somewhere in his alcohol-dulled brain something stirred. Danger. Intruders.
Which wasn’t right. This was his spot. He’d staked it out himself. The far end of the station platform in a little alcove just behind the dumpster. It was his and no one had any right.
He opened both eyes now. Blinked. Focused. Christ, what the hell was that? Green hair? Shit. Give me a break. Green hair?
The bleary eyes focused on the other man. At least he was normal. Your typical homeless. But even they could be dangerous, and …
The eyes cleared. Oh. It’s all right. It’s Jack.
Jeremy grabbed Walsh’s arm. “Uncle Jack.”
“Yeah?”
Jeremy pointed. “Someone there.”
Walsh turned, looked. “Oh, that’s all right. That’s Joe. Don’t mind us, Joe. Go right back to sleep.”
“Uncle Jack. What the hell are we doing here?”
“Safest place we could be, my boy.”
“Yeah, but-”
“But nothin’. You been up top for a while, you get to like it down here.”
“Uncle Jack-”
“Hold on, my boy. We got work to do.”
“Work?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Course you don’t. ’Cause I haven’t told you yet.”
Jeremy took a breath. Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea after all. “Uncle Jack-”
“Now, now, my boy. I haven’t really lost my marbles. That’s what you’re thinkin’, isn’t it? The old man’s lost his marbles. Well, not at all, my boy. Crazy? Crazy like a fox. See here now.”
“What?”
“You did me a favor, my boy. And now I’m going to do you a favor. And then you’re going to do me another favor. Maybe that’s not equal, but maybe it is.”
Jeremy frowned. “Uncle Jack-”
Walsh held up his hand. “Jeremy. You’re young. You’re impatient. You want everything to make sense. The thing is, things don’t always make sense. And those that do, well sometimes they ain’t worth nothin’. Just relax and enjoy the ride.”
“Ride?”
“You’re far too literal, my boy. Now sit down. We got work to do.”
Walsh eased himself down, leaned up against the wall of the subway. After a moment’s hesitation, Jeremy did the same.
“Fine. Good,” Walsh said. “Now, let’s talk about these favors. You did me the big one, gettin’ me out of the nuthouse. Gettin’ the lawyer you went to. Damn fine job.”
“It just seemed to me-”
“I know it did, my boy, and you were right. And that was a hell of a favor and now I’ll do one for you. Then you’ll do one for me and we’re quits.
“Now, to the business at hand.”
Walsh dug in his overcoat pocket, pulled out some sheets of paper folded in thirds. He looked over at Jeremy. “You got a pen?”
“No.”
Walsh shook his head. “Always carry a pen. Let that be a lesson to you. You never know when it might get you a million bucks.”
“What?”
“Never mind, my boy. Just happen to have one.”
Walsh fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a ballpoint pen. “Now then, something to write on. That’s the thing I didn’t bring. Something to write on. Well, this will have to do.”
Walsh hunched over, spread the paper flat on the floor of the subway platform.
“Now pay attention, my boy, to what I’m going to do.”
Behind them, the eyes of Joe Bissel focused blearily, uncomprehendingly on the scene, as Walsh took the ballpoint pen, poised it over the paper, and began to write: “I, Jack Walsh, being of sound mind and body …”
17
Steve Winslow’s voice was drugged with sleep. “Hello?”
“Steve? Mark.”
“What?”
“Mark. It’s me. Mark. Mark Taylor. Steve?”
“Yeah, Mark. Hello?”
“Steve. Wake up.”
Steve Winslow hunched himself to a sitting position. He rubbed his head. “Yeah, Mark. What time is it?”
“One-thirty.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Sorry. But I thought you’d want to know.”
“What?”
“Pipeline from headquarters called. Cops brought in a John Doe.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“That’s right. Just I.D.’d him as Jack Walsh.”
“No shit. Suicide or accident?”
“Murder.”
“Murder? You’re kidding.”
“Not at all.”
“How’d it happen?”
“Guy didn’t have all the details, but apparently the cops figure it as a thrill-kill.”
“Thrill-kill?”
“Yeah. Murder for kicks. It’s the new craze with kids. Wilding, you know?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said impatiently. “So what’s the dope?”
“Well, part of the craze is pickin’ on the helpless and the homeless. So that’s what the cops think happened here.”
“Where’s here?”
“The subway.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, it would be the subway, wouldn’t it? Anyway, here’s the dope. It was in the subway. Sixty-sixth Street Station. Broadway line. Uptown platform. North end. Bum sleeping behind a dumpster.”
“So?”
“So someone poured gasoline over him, set him on fire.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah.”
“When’d it happen?”
“Ten-thirty, eleven, somewhere in there. Homeless man, John Doe. Then they pulled an I.D. Seems the guy had a wallet in his pocket, one of the credit cards in the middle hadn’t melted too bad to read. So they come up with the name Jack Walsh.”
“Oh shit.”
“Now,” Taylor said. “The reason I called you is, as far as I know, the name means nothing to them. The cops, I mean. Jack Walsh, it’s just a name. They don’t know who he is. Just another homeless man, they got no other motive, they put it down as a thrill-kill, and-”
“I got you, I got you,” Steve said. “Jesus Christ, what a mess. You said the 66th Street Station?”
“Right.”
“Meet you there.”
18
Steve Winslow paid off the cab at 66th and Broadway and headed for the subway station. Ordinarily it would have been faster just to take the subway there from the West Village where he lived, but at two in the morning it was apt to be a long time between trains and Steve was too impatient to wait.
Steve went down the subway steps, bought a token, went through the turnstile. The platform was more or less deserted, as it should have been at two in the morning. At the far uptown end, a lone cop stood in front of a section of platform that had been cordoned off with a yellow “Police Scene” tape.
As Steve stood looking, a voice said, “Psssst.”
Steve looked around and saw Mark Taylor and Tracy Garvin standing just out of sight in an alcove just downtown from the token booth. He walked over.
“Hi, Mark, Tracy.”
Taylor jerked his thumb in Tracy’s direction. “Thought we might need her.”
“Thought I might kill him if he didn’t call me,” Tracy said. “Remember when he forgot the last time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said. “So what’s the scoop?”
“Nothing doing,” Taylor said. “I pumped the token clerk. Media’s come and gone. It was too late to make the eleven o’clock news, but they shot footage for tomorrow. Treating it as a thrill-kill, like I said. Speculation is, teenagers out for kicks.”
“Speculation?”
“Yeah. No hard facts. Just guesswork.”
“What about the cops?”
“Long gone. Wrapped it up, posted a man, and split. Just routine once the news crews left.”
“Yeah, fine,” Steve said. “But what do they know?”
Taylor shrugged. “Just what I told you. No more, no less. They put it down as a thrill-kill of a homeless man. They’ve identified him as Jack Walsh, but as far as I know, the name means nothin’ to ‘em. Jack Walsh, John Doe, all the same to them.”
Steve jerked his thumb. “What about the cop down there? You make a pass at him yet?”
Taylor shook his head. “Thought I’d wait for you. See how you wanted to play it.”
Steve frowned. “We go ask him questions, he’ll wanna know who we are. When he finds out, he won’t talk.”
“We don’t have to tell him.”
“Yeah, but I hate that, and it’s not going to get us anywhere.”
Steve turned, peered at the cop down the station. Turned back, thought a moment. “The cop looks young and impressionable. Tracy, why don’t you go down there, get him interested in your bod, see what he has to say?”
Tracy gave him a look. “I consider that an obnoxious, sexist remark.”
Steve shrugged. “You’re right. You don’t have to do it.”
Tracy grinned. “What, are you nuts? Be right back.”
She turned and walked down the platform. While Steve and Mark surreptitiously watched, Tracy walked up to the young cop and started talking to him. From what they could see, she was doing just fine.
She was back in five minutes.
“So,” Steve said.
“Snowed him completely,” Tracy said. “He wanted my phone number.”
“I’m sure he did. What about the murder?”
“Strangely enough, he wasn’t that interested in the murder. I had to convince him I was.”
“And?”
“He still didn’t know that much. Just like Mark said-thrill-kill. Splash the guy with gas and set him on fire.”
“Yeah, but who?”
“Teenagers.”
“Teenagers. Black or white?”
“Apparently white.”
“Oh yeah?” Steve said. “And how does he know that?”
“There must be a witness of some kind. The guy didn’t know, but that’s the only way it figures. Because of what he said.”
Steve looked at her. “You’re doing this to pay me back for the sexist remark, aren’t you? I mean, there’s a punch line to this, right?”
“Yeah, and you’re not going to like it.”
“Oh shit.”
“What?” Taylor said. “What are you talking about?”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Steve said. “That’s why he thinks it’s teenagers and how he knows they’re white. Right?”
“You got it,” Tracy said. “The story from the witness is real garbled. The cop didn’t know who the witness was, or what he said. Only one thing stood out.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Taylor said. “Will you tell me what it was?”
“Only one thing makes any sense, Mark,” Steve said.
Tracy nodded. “That’s right. All the guy knew was, it was something about green hair.”
19
Jeremy Dawson slumped down on his tailbone in his desk chair, stretched his feet out, lolled his head back, and paid no attention whatsoever to the algebra teacher who was droning away at the blackboard. Who needed algebra anyway? Christ, he was gonna be rich.
Jeremy chuckled softly to himself. He closed his eyes, conjured up a vision of scantily dressed young ladies adorning his luxury yacht, pouring him champagne and sticking copious quantities of cocaine up his nose. Beth Killmore was there too, reserved and disapproving at first, but slowly taken in by the affluence of the setting, the magnetism of the young millionaire. She was his now, to do with as he pleased. Ready and willing to serve his every whim.
If he’d let her. If he wanted. If he deigned to let her stay.
Jeremy chuckled again, gloried in his indifference. There she was, throwing herself at him, and he really couldn’t care less. After all, the ball game was on the color TV the girls had set up on the deck of his yacht, the Mets were up and she could damn well wait.
Which she didn’t want to do. What a pain in
the ass. Teasing, wheedling, calling out his name.
“Jeremy. Jeremy!”
The voice was not Beth Killmore’s. The yacht vanished. Reality set back in. Jeremy blinked, opened his eyes.
Miss Swain, the algebra teacher, was standing looking down at him. Oh shit, he was in for it now. The principal’s office again? He was in no mood for that today, and-
Jeremy saw the two men standing next to her. The two men in suits and ties. Clean cut, grim, purposeful. Holy shit. Narcs? Was it possible? Were they busting him?
The taller of them stepped forward. “Jeremy Dawson?”
“Yeah.”
The policeman flipped open his wallet, showed his badge. “Come with us, please.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Just come with us, please.”
Jeremy drew back in his seat. “Hey, man. No way.”
The cop shook his head. “Listen, it’ll be easier if you cooperate.”
“Says you,” Jeremy said. “I ain’t done nothin’, and I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
The tall cop sighed. “All right, if that’s the way you want it.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “Jeremy Dawson, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent …”
20
Mark Taylor took a sip from his paper cup of coffee, leaned forward, set it on Steve Winslow’s desk, and flipped open his notebook. He frowned and shook his head. “Bad news all around.”
“How so?” Steve said.
“The bottom line is the cops picked up Jeremy Dawson half an hour ago.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. They showed up at his school, snagged him right out of class.”
“How’d you get that so fast?”
“My man saw it happen.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I sent two men out to the school, trying to get a line on Jack Walsh’s movements yesterday. My man was in the right place and actually saw it go down.”
“What happened?”
“Two plainclothes cops come down the hall escorted by an academic looking gentleman with the word “principal” written all over him. They go into the classroom. Two minutes later the cops come out escorting Jeremy between ’em.”