No answer. Sleeping? Unlikely. He pressed again.
“Sprakie,” Philip said. He knocked, and then again. “Sprakie.”
Philip was aware that he could wake the neighbors if he pounded any harder. If he hadn’t heard a Jesus Marie by now, Sprakie must be out.
“Shit.”
Philip plundered his pockets for keys. He was notorious for forgetting his keys, but Dennis was insistent this morning, so he had them. He also was remiss in unloading old keys, so the keys to this door were still there. Philip had never given them back, nor did Sprakie ask for them. Wouldn’t the locks be changed? Probably.
Philip fumbled with the first of three keys. It fit and turned like butter. In fact, only one lock was latched, because the door opened to the dark heart of this old cupboard that Philip had known so well. He pushed inside, feeling the wall for the light switch.
“Sprakie?”
No answer. The living room was exactly as he had remembered it. The kitchenette was as grimy as ever. The little fridge sang its broken song. The leaky faucet plinked in the full sink of cereal bowls. The message board was push-pinned with lists and numbers.
“Sprakie?”
Philip crept into the boudoir. He forgot where the light switch was, so he stumbled to the night table and choked the neck of the crimson scarf covered lamp until it gave up its light. The bedroom was also the same, except the bed was unmade. Sprakie always made his bed. First impressions, he would always say. Still, it may have been used already tonight. Then, Philip eyed the dresser. The bottom drawer was opened, the silks in disarray. He hunkered down, plunging his hand into the mess. The gun was missing. Sprakie. Why?
Philip gasped. Someone was behind him. He turned, ready to confront his friend.
“Gordon, is that you?”
Philip stood. “How did you get in?”
The woman was frail, drawn and ashen-skinned — a face that had not seen the daylight in some time. Philip knew her — the neighbor next door.
“Have you come back, Gordon?”
“Gordon?”
Suddenly, the woman frowned. She shook her hands at him. “You’re not Gordon. You’re that other one. I remember you.”
Philip took her arm, but she pushed him away. “Are you looking for Gordon Waters?”
She smiled. “Have you seen him? He’s been away on business. In California. He was supposed to be away for a month, but it’s been a long time. Not sure how long, but too long, I know. Have you seen him?”
“No. Have you seen Sprakie?”
“Who?”
“Sprakie? Robert Sprague?”
The woman snarled. “That one. I’ll see him in hell. My Gordon was a fine boy before he met that one.”
The woman turned and started for the door. Philip followed. “Wait. Do you know who I am?”
“Not really.” She studied his face. “I see them come and go, but I seem to remember your face. Don’t know your name. Don’t really care.”
“But have you seen Robert tonight?”
“Oh, I’ve seen him.” She rounded on him. “He’d better turn up soon. I need my medicine and the cat needs food. It’s bad enough he let me rot half the summer. I suppose he’s stepped out to get me my medicine and Minnie her Tender Vittles.” She continued to leave, but somehow she had stirred Philip. He sensed a madness, yet in that insanity there were lucid strands — strands that tied up loose ends that had pained him since Provincetown — since that evening when Lars Hamilton bemoaned the loss of a child of the theater and called it fate. Three times is fate.
“Mrs. Waters.”
She halted. Turning, she grinned. “You do know my Gordon, don’t you? Does he send you post cards too? He’s getting along in California, and in a way, it’s a joy to know he’s rid of that one.” She pointed to the bedroom. Philip turned, thinking maybe Sprakie was there, perhaps emerging from some hiding place — but no. Not even a mirage. “Well, at least Gordon still loves his mother.” She brought her face into Philip’s. “Love your mother. You only get one and you never know how it will all end.”
Mrs. Waters banged her cane on the counter, and then struggled with the door. Philip helped her. She shuffled back to her apartment muttering about that one and hoped he comes soon, for Minnie’s sake.
2
Philip was baffled. Gordon Waters. Here. His mother, the old biddy next door. He recalled Sprakie’s anathema for the woman — remembered conversations through the wall. Then, he recalled Gordon Waters name on the rooster at manluv — on the inactive list. Inactive? Dead, they meant.
“Sprakie’s roommate.”
Philip pondered the floor. His thoughts were twisted. He shifted his eyes about the kitchenette — from fridge, to sink, to message board. Suddenly, his eye caught a familiar item pinned on the corkboard. An index card with a note scrawled in magic marker:
Dennis H.
212.432.2272
nice
He plucked it off. He had tossed this card. Philip strained to think.
“Shit,” he murmured. “I pitched it away in my cubby. Why would Sprakie save . . .” Why did Sprakie do anything? “No. Not Dennis.”
Philip was on his cell phone in a flash. He paced the living room waiting for someone to answer. Nothing. This was the land line. He tried Dennis’ cell number. The voice mail answered.
“Dennis. It’s me, Philip. Call me when you get this message. It’s important.”
He clicked the phone shut, but then decided to try the land line again. Busy.
“Why would it be busy? It just rang.”
Philip scratched his head. He spun about, the frustration now overtaking his rationality. It’s just a phone number. He had never invited Sprakie to Dennis’ place. He had never mentioned or even hinted at where it was at, so there was no way for Sprakie to know.
“He could have followed me,” Philip said to the closed door that loomed before him. “Or he could have tracked down Dennis.” But this was also unlikely. Or was it? Then, Philip winced. He remembered something he wished he did not. Dennis had gotten an unusual call this morning — from Verizon, to confirm his name and address for the delivery of phone books.
“Sprakie! Why?”
Philip reached for the door, but stopped. He retrieved his wallet, fishing for the card of a certain New York City detective. He dialed. Voice mail.
“Detective Kusslow. This is Philip Flaxen. It’s urgent. Meet me at 1270 East 108th Street, Apartment 8D. Hurry. I’ve remembered something.”
Sprakie! Why?
Chapter Six
Uptown
1
No subway now. Philip hailed a cab — a rare hack that ventured this far East. The hack almost didn’t stop, perhaps confusing Philip with Bonnie Belle, who beckoned from the lamppost. However, Philip practically jumped in front of it, and then piled in with scant notice. Bonnie Belle blinked. The cab driver babbled something about being off duty, but Philip didn’t care. He just banged on the back of the front seat and shouted the address.
“And as fast as you can.”
The cabby shrugged, shoved the meter flag down and headed for Canal Street.
“Someone after you, kid?”
“No.”
“I mean, I can go even faster for extra cash.”
Philip groped through his wallet. Luck. He had a fifty. He waved it over the seat, the cabby spying it through the rear-view mirror — Grant winking at him from his portraiture.
“You got it, man.”
The cab jerked forward, gained Canal and began a buzz-bomb negotiation of streets, veering up Broadway, weaving between traffic like some yahoo cowboy. Philip eased back. He didn’t want to think the worst, but he had to. He tried to call Dennis again, but with the same results. Voice mail on cell. Busy on land line. But the land line had rung before. Not now. That thought kept spinning in Philip’s mind. He watched the street signs pass, incrementally from 14th Street to 23rd Street to 34th Street. He closed his eyes hoping to see something above 60th
next.
“I’m doin’ my best,” the cabby said.
“I appreciate it.”
“Nothing to do with that, my friend. Nothing . . . eh, move it, you cocksucker. Where the hell did you get your license? Sears? Some people shouldn’t be on the roads, man. It’s a cryin’ shame.”
Philip chewed his fingers. He then played with the straps of his backpack. He thought of Thomas. His heart sank at the thought. Uncle Dean would have called if there were a change? He was sure of it. No news meant good news. But no news could also mean the same news and that was not pretty. Suddenly, the hack stopped short.
“Why did you stop?”
“1270 East 108th Street.” The cabby raised the meter flag. “That’ll be $11.50 plus that little presidential goody you promised me.”
Philip managed a smile. He snapped fifteen bucks from his wallet and added it to the fifty.
“Keep the change.”
“Should I wait?”
“No.”
Philip knew this would be a one-way trip.
2
The eight flights seemed like eighteen. Philip hoped that Detective Kusslow had picked up his voice mail and would be waiting inside 8D, wondering where the fire was and why Philip was such a drama queen. By the sixth floor, Philip was winded. He rested for a moment. He thought he heard someone else on the stairs — above. It was tomorrow already — one o’clock or so. No one should be stirring, not this far uptown. He steadied himself and continued the climb. He approached the door, which stood ajar. He stopped square to it, and then looked down. There was blood on the octagonal tiles — a smear, perhaps a footprint. Perhaps, two. Philip trembled. He pushed the door open. The lights were on.
“Dennis?”
Someone was here. Philip sensed it. He strode through the kitchen, and then into the living room. The couch cushions were thrown against the window. The phone was off the hook, because it had been tumbled from the side table. There was another smear on the gray carpeting. Philip turned. He could see into Dennis’ bedroom.
“No,” he whimpered. “No.”
Dennis was sprawled on the floor at the foot of his bed. Philip rushed to his side, hunkering down beside the body.
“Dennis?”
Dennis did not answer. Dennis could not answer. He lay in a pool of blood, a plastic bag shoved in his mouth, shoelaces taut about his throat.
“No,” Philip moaned. He had no more tears. He welled up with anger now. He touched Dennis’ chest. The wound was like Tee’s only closer to the heart. It probably didn’t kill. That was the task of bag and laces. How could anyone hurt him? This was a direct stab at him — Philip. He touched the wound, the still-warm blood trickling over his fingers. At the edge of the pool as it seeped into the carpeting, was another smear. Foot prints.
Philip stood. He knew now. He knew whose trace this was, and he also guessed where they led. Philip followed the smears through the living room, back into the kitchen and then over the threshold to the stairs. He gazed up. It was only five more flights. Only five. He thought of his safety. How would he defend himself? How? Should he wait for the detective?
“Sprakie,” he shouted up the stairwell shaft. “This will end now.”
Philip ascended.
3
The roof door was shut, but the blood still trailed. Suddenly, Philip had a revelation. This couldn’t be Dennis’ blood. No one could track someone else’s blood up five flights. Dennis must have struggled and got Sprakie good. This was Sprakie’s blood. Philip grinned, and then pushed the door open.
There was no breeze tonight. The air was still — stiff even, but the vault of the heavens arched overhead. Philip looked around for something — anything to defend himself. The only thing he could find was the chunk of pavement — old scrappy, that was used to hold the door open. I’ll be locked out up here. But he didn’t care now. He released his backpack, lowering it to the roof ridge, and then lifted old scrappy. The door slammed shut. He turned slowly, taking in this abandoned place — this deep settled reef upon the rooftops. Whaling is a bloody business, he thought.
“Sprakie,” he shouted.
“Little Ishie.”
Robert Sprague came out from behind the rotor. He limped. His hair was disheveled, his face bruised. Dennis had put up a fight. In Sprakie’s hand was the mistress — the ladies gun.
“You’re hurt, Robert,” Philip said, moving slowly toward him. He braced the rock, but then thought that old scrappy wasn’t effective at this range.
“Why would you care?”
“I’m the one that should be asking you — why.”
Sprakie opened his arms in a crucifix posture. “Jesus Marie. You’re as dense as my platinum dildo.”
Philip edged closer. “I met Mrs. Waters.”
“Oh, so that game’s up.”
“Why, Sprakie?”
Sprakie stepped in closer, his limp pronounced. He staggered. “They all think they’re the queen of the May. There’s only one star in this show, little Ishie. Me. I don’t share the billing, and I don’t share anything. They all were Aces of Spades.” He held the gun high. “Well, meet the Queen of Spades, dearie.”
Philip stood tall. He let the rock dangle from his right hand. “You need help, Sprakie.”
“Help? Me, help? Who’s got the gun? What do you got there? A big, bad rock.”
“The door’s locked,” Philip said. His trembling ceased, his voice calm. Locked. “You’ll have me as a corpse with no where to go.”
Sprakie spit. “All you had to do was stay with me. Things were perfect. But no. You had to hitch up with all those losers. That one downstairs must have really loved your ass. He died burbling your name. I had to block his fucking mouth to stop his bullshit.”
Philip winced. If this was true, too many were sacrificed for his mistakes. Suddenly, Sprakie laughed.
“Stop it,” Philip shouted. He raised the rock. “You can’t laugh at them. They were good. All good.”
“Like your Mr. Dye. Well, die he will.”
“No,” Philip shouted. “He did nothing to you. Why him, Sprakie? Why him?”
“Him?” Sprakie raised the gun. “I wasn’t aiming for him, little Ishie. I was aiming for . . .”
“Lower your weapon,” came a voice to the right.
“Slowly,” came a voice from the left.
Philip saw a pair of crouching forms. They had emerged from the side entrances. Sprakie waved the gun, first toward Detective Kusslow, and then toward Detective Karnes. A confused look gripped his face. He then aimed the tiny toy weapon — the gun that couldn’t kill a grown man at that range, at Philip, and fired.
“Jesus Marie.”
Two more shots rang out. The rock shattered. Sprakie’s eyes rolled back. He faltered backward, staggering to the edge, and then he plunged from view. Philip gazed at the crumbs in his hand. Old scrappy may have helped him after all. He dropped the remnants, and then rushed to the roof’s edge glancing down at the ruin that once was Robert Sprague. The only way down, if you forget about old scrappy, came Dennis Hatcher’s voice, is over the side and it’s a twelve-story drop. Land on your feet, if you can. Sprakie hadn’t, and the state was spared an expense.
Philip didn’t think he had any more tears to shed, but he had. O’Neill is O’Neill, after all, and whaling is a bloody business. Dean Cardoza’s words rushed him — They’re all gone. Gone. Jemmy to his rest from his drug induced haze. Max from his dreams of the wicked stage. Gordon to his permanent business trip in California. Dennis from his unsated passion, even at the end. Flo from his obsession and torture. Sprakie . . . Philip glanced down again. Here was a friend, or so he thought. Here was the star attraction, and no one would deny him top billing now. Only Tee hung in the balance. Only Tee.
A hand squeezed Philip’s shoulder.
“Sterling, Mr. Flaxen.”
Philip turned. Despite the thanks he should have given for being saved from the small caliber pistol, he was so angry with this man — t
his badger, he felt like decking him. Couldn’t he have prevented it all? Wasn’t he responsible, know-it-all that he was, for a portion of this string of tragedies?
“You didn’t have to kill him,” Philip said.
“Oh, but I did, Mr. Flaxen. Case closed.”
Philip sank to the ground, the stars above mocking him. They’re all gone, he thought. The world held little promise now.
“I’ll need to ask you . . .”
Philip flipped Kusslow the finger. “Answer given.”
Karnes had been directing the other officers in crime scene proceedings. He now joined Kusslow at the roof’s edge.
“Are you ready to go downtown?” Karnes asked Philip. Philip spared Karnes the finger, but glowered at him.
“I think our questions can hold until tomorrow afternoon, Karnes.”
“Thank you,” Philip said, as cold as the morning’s dawn.
“Go home, Mr. Flaxen. You need some rest.”
Go home. Now, where may that be? Philip shook his head.
“Do you need a lift?” Karnes said. “Can the patrol car drop you off anywhere?”
Philip thought of the apartment five stories below, and cringed. He would never go in there again. He couldn’t bear it. Too many ghosts.
“Anywhere?” Kusslow asked.
Philip closed his eyes and thought. “Yes,” he said.
Kusslow gave him a hand up. Karnes handed Philip the backpack. Two officers drifted to the edge. Heads nodded, a new silence gripping the scene. The patrolmen led Philip down the right side stairwell, clear of Sprakie’s blood.
Whaling is a bloody business.
Chapter Seven
Crosstown
1
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