“About a month.”
“And you took a collar for that?”
“No, no. The college said if I immediately withdrew from school, they wouldn’t press criminal charges. So I did.”
“What happened to Steele?” Matty asked.
“Nothing. He was just the bankroller, never set foot in the place, and I never mentioned his name. So . . .”
Eric went off somewhere, came back. “I didn’t even really give a shit about school all that much except . . .”
“Except . . .” Yolonda leaned forward, giving him her sad smile.
“Nothing, I mean, I was a theater major? And I had just landed the lead in The Caucasian Chalk Circle, so with rehearsals starting, I would’ve had to shut down the bar anyhow in a week or two, so . . .”
“The Chalk Circle, that’s a play?”
“Yeah, a play,” Eric said quietly. “And they almost never gave parts out to freshmen either, let alone the lead, so I wasn’t, you know, without talent.”
“That sucks,” Yolonda said.
“Yeah, well, I was heading for New York anyways, so, I came down, and, it wasn’t easy, but I actually got stuff. Some children’s theater, a few basement plays, a commercial for Big Apple Tours, another for Gallagher’s Steak House . . .”
“Can I ask you an actor’s question?” Yolonda said.
Eric looked at her.
“Did you ever have any dealings with Colin Farrell?”
Eric continued to stare, then, “What on earth would make you ask that?”
“Never mind.”
“So there you were, doing commercials,” Matty said.
“Barely . . . And then Steele came to town to open up this lounge on Amsterdam Avenue, and he owned, owed me, and you have to eat, right? So I started working for him, worked about seven, eight years, but then I was, I felt like my time, my moment was just, like coming and going, so I quit, borrowed some money, went back home to Binghamton, and I actually bought this restaurant that, years ago, was the first place Steele opened right after he graduated from up there. It was going through a foreclosure and I figured, you know, maybe I could follow in his footsteps or something.”
“Turn, turn, turn . . .” Yolonda said solemnly, and Matty had to look away.
“What kind of menu are we talking?” Matty asked.
“Eclectic . . . you know, steak, crepes, lo mein.”
“I thought that was fusion,” Yolonda said.
“More like con-fusion, a total bust from the door on in,” Eric said, starting to relax a little, Matty getting a feel for how he was when everything was going OK.
“Anyways, I never did any business except at the bar, and, in those days, blow was making a huge comeback up there, you couldn’t keep it out of the place, always a line to the bathroom, and some of my customers would ask if I knew where to score, which I did . . . so, I got into the habit of keeping some behind the bar, just quarters to keep everybody coming in. And it’s not like I made any money off it. Any extra cash went right up my own nose, but I liked all the happy faces at the bar.” Eric then abruptly went off into his thoughts, his lips still moving like the last actions of a decapitated head.
“I like coming through for people sometimes?” He stared directly at them, but without any kind of challenge in it. “No matter what the, you know, consequences, I guess.”
“I’m exactly the same way,” Yolonda said so softly and sympathetically that Eric looked at her with something akin to desire.
“Anyways,” Eric continued unprodded, “the restaurant was still going down the tubes, then the guy that I scored from gets busted, gives me up straight out of the box, I wind up selling to an undercover at my bar, the place gets padlocked, I’m in cuffs.” Eric drifting again, then, “They give you that one phone call, right? . . . You know who I made it to? I couldn’t possibly call my father, that would have been . . . No. So, I called Steele in New York. I was so ashamed, I mean it used to be his place, plus he was not happy when I quit on him to begin with.”
Yolonda grunted in sympathy.
“But you know what he did? He wired me the bail money within an hour. I spent one night in jail, got off with a suspended sentence, which I’m pretty sure he was behind too. So, I filed for bankruptcy within the week, and within the month I was back down in the city working for him again, helping him open Berkmann’s.”
“Wow,” Yolonda said, her eyes flicking to the wall clock.
“The thing is,” Eric said, speaking to his hands, “what’s it now, seven, eight years? I’m still waiting for him to say something about it. But I find some way to thank him every day.”
“So you’re like a Harry Steele lifer, huh?”
“I’m a what?” Eric flushed.
“Didn’t you hear one word of what he said?” Yolonda carped at Matty.
“What do you mean, about the acting?” Matty leaned back, rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, every word. But that sounds like it’s over, right?”
“I never said that. When did you hear me say that?”
“You know, you’re right, you didn’t, sorry. So what are you doing with it now?”
“Now?” Eric leaned his cheek on his palm, closed his eyes. “Now I’m, actually, mostly writing.”
“Oh yeah? What kind?”
“Just writing.” The guy shutting down.
“Detective stuff?” Yolonda asked.
“Why would you assume that?” Eric snapped.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “That’s what I would write if I could.”
Eric put his face in the crook of his arm.
“I’m working on a screenplay.” Saying it like he was embarrassed.
“For a movie?”
“For money.”
“What, like a personal star vehicle?”
“A what?” Eric raised his head, his face a blur.
“A personal star vehicle,” Yolonda said. “That’s what Sylvester Stallone did. Guy couldn’t get to first base as an actor, so he wrote Rocky as a personal star vehicle for himself. They were going to buy the script from him but for Steve McQueen to play the guy? Stallone said no way, it’s me as Rocky or you can go shit in a hat. And look at him now.”
Eric looked as if he were going to cry.
“You should think about it.”
“Well, what’s it about?” Matty asked. “You got us curious.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Eric put his head back on his arm.
Yolonda looked at Matty: Push.
“Eric,” Matty said in a flatter tone. “What’s it about?”
Eric raised up again, took a breath, his mouth hanging open.
“It’s historical, about the neighborhood.”
“Yeah . . .” Waiting.
“It’s kind of like a ghost story. But not about ghost ghosts? It’s more like, metaphorical ghosts, like, I don’t know, I can’t . . .”
“So it’s scary?” Yolonda asked. “Or not.”
Her question seemed to sink him further.
“Eric?” she repeated. “Is it—”
“It’s stupid,” he cut her off, in a voice not much more than a whisper. “Utterly fucking stupid.”
“Anyways,” she said. “So how’d you meet Ike?”
Eric was still so gone in his depression that she had to repeat the question, and when she did, his eyes became dull and wary again.
“For the tenth time. He was just hired last week. I didn’t do the hiring. There’s a lot of turnover. One day one guy’s behind the bar, the day after, it’s somebody else.”
“So other than last night, you guys never hung out before, never socialized . . .”
“I told you that too.”
“Never went out on a break to have a cigarette, shoot the shit.”
“No.”
“Did you go into the Sana’a Deli together yesterday?”
“Where?”
“The corner store on Rivington and Eldridge.”
“Wait. Hold on. That was a c
oincidence.”
“We hear you wiped out the Virgin Mary.”
“I didn’t. He did.”
“So you were together? Or not.”
“It was a bump-in, that’s all.”
“The Virgin Mary thing. How’d you feel about that?”
“How did I feel?” Eric offered his palms again. “It was frost on glass. What are you asking?”
“Some people take that stuff very seriously.”
“Me?”
“Well, not you, but maybe someone there got very upset. If so . . .”
“Yeah, there was. The guy who was getting a dollar a head from the neighborhood nitwits. Check him out.”
“We did.”
“Eric, speaking of that, we found your cell phone in front of the guy’s place.”
“What?” Patting himself down. “I lost it?”
“Can I just ask—” Matty began.
“How did I lose it?”
“You said you called 911, correct?”
“I said I tried to.”
“OK. It’s . . . But there’s no 911 on your send log.”
“I told you about this. I couldn’t get through. That’s why I ran into the building.”
“For better reception.”
“Right.” Eric’s expression an agitated gawk. “What are you saying?”
“I’m just wondering why there’s nothing on the log,” Matty said. “Because on my phone—”
“What am I, Thomas Edison?” Eric squawked. “I’m lucky I know how to say hello on that thing.”
“All right, all right,” Matty pulled back.
“Eric, let me ask you something else.” Yolonda leaned in. “Last night, is there the slightest chance that during the, the encounter, you might have touched the gun? You know, reached out to grab it or deflect it or maybe when you handed over your wallet there was some accidental contact . . .”
“Are you serious?”
“The reason she’s asking,” Matty said, “is that we’re required to give you a paraffin test for gunshot residue.” Still furious that they couldn’t. “Just standard operating procedure.”
“And we need to ask you now because if in fact you did touch that gun, or any other gun in the last twenty-four hours? You’re gonna come up positive, and if we don’t know why beforehand . . . surprises, at this point . . .”
“I didn’t.” Eric faltered, then, “Wait. What the hell’s going on here?”
There was a knock on the door, Jimmy Iacone peering in. “Phone.”
Matty looked to Yolonda. “You take this one.” Then waited until she left the room.
“You OK there, Eric? You look kind of stricken.”
“Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“When do I take this test?”
“Relax. It’s not like you have to study for it,” Matty said. “As long as you’ve been truthful with us about not having touched a gun in the last twenty-four hours, you have nothing to worry about.”
“Well, I haven’t.”
“Well then, there you go . . . But let me ask you this. Just out of my own curiosity . . . When was the last time you had your hands on a gun?”
“What?” Eric cocked his head, Matty instantly pissed at himself. “Hang on. Do I need . . .” he began, then to Matty’s great relief, faltered, started breathing through his mouth.
Yolonda reentered. “Great news.”
They both turned to her.
“Your friend Ike?” She beamed at Eric. “Just came out of surgery. Looks like he’s gonna pull through.”
Eric looked stunned.
“There you go.” Matty bobbed his head, then turned to Yolonda. “Who’s at the hospital?”
“Mander and Stucky.” Yolonda made a face.
“Well then, we should go over there, right? Is he good to talk?”
“Will be, soon enough.”
Matty rose to his feet. “It’s a good thing the Virgin Mary wasn’t too pissed at your pal, huh?”
Eric stared at him, throttle-faced.
“You OK there, Eric?”
“What? No, yeah, I’m just really tired.”
“I’ll bet,” Matty said, smiling down at him.
“We’re heading over there now,” Yolonda said. “But before we go, is there anything you want to tell us? Anything we didn’t get to?”
“No, I just . . . He’s going to make it?”
“Apparently so,” Matty said, one hand on the doorknob but otherwise staying put.
Eric’s eyes roved without focus.
“What’s up, Eric?”
“What . . .”
“You look like you want to say something.”
“Does this . . .”
“Does this what?”
“Does this mean I can go home now?”
No one said anything for a moment, Yolonda half smiling at him in that way of hers.
“If you can bear with us a little bit longer,” Matty said, “we’d really appreciate it if you could stick around until we get back from the hospital.”
Eric stared at air, patted himself down as if looking for his cell phone again.
“I’d offer you a cot in the bunk room,” Matty said, “but frankly that place is so disgusting you’d probably be more comfortable in the cell.”
“Why don’t you just put your head down right where you are,” Yolonda said. “We can have someone scare you up a pillow if you want.”
Eric didn’t respond.
“If Ike’s alert,” Matty said, “is there anything you want us to say to him? Any messages?”
“Messages?” Eric repeated mindlessly.
“All right, let’s go.” Matty began to steer Yolonda to the door, but she sidestepped him, came back to the table.
“Can I ask you something?” she said almost timidly. “Not to sound hard or critical, and I know he was just an acquaintance from work . . . But how come, in all this time in here, you never once asked us how he was doing, or even just whether he was dead or alive.”
She waited on his answer.
“I didn’t?” Eric finally said, his eyes wildly searching the blank cinder-block room.
“No.”
They stared at him.
“No. How could . . . I didn’t?”
“Just put your head down,” Yolonda said softly. “We’ll try to be quick.”
“That there is all the proof I need,” she said on the other side of the glass as they watched Eric twitching in his sleep like a dreaming dog.
“Maybe he’s just exhausted,” Matty said.
“Yeah, that must be it,” Yolonda said.
“C’mon, he didn’t even ask for a lawyer,” Matty said. Then, “Well, he almost did. I think he was afraid that if he actually asked for one he’d come off guilty. But that’s the thing, what kind of hang-tough hard boy thinks like that?”
“He just hadn’t done it before. He doesn’t know how to play it. So what.”
“Give me a single plausible motive.”
“You want a motive?” Yolonda said crisply. “Here’s a motive. Men, overreact, to pain. And when they do? They take everybody with them.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means motherfuck a motive. I’m good with it.”
As Matty came downstairs, intending to use the remainder of this breather to return to 27 Eldridge to backseat-drive the gun search, he reflexively checked out the customers in the waiting area below: an elderly Chinese couple, the man sporting fresh blood-blackened stitches down the side of his face; a young East Indian woman clutching a car impound voucher; and a middle-aged, agitated-looking white guy wearing a suit jacket over sweatpants. The usual neighborhood mix, more or less.
As he hit the front door, his cell phone rang, the incoming number vaguely familiar.
“Detective Clark.”
“Yeah, hey.”
Matty was chagrined to hear his oldest son on the other end.
�
�Hey, you guys are awake? It’s not even noon.”
“Where the hell is Audubon Avenue. Me and Eddie been driving around here for an hour.”
“You’re in Washington Heights? What are you doing in Washington Heights?”
“Looking up a friend.”
“You have a friend from Lake George who lives in Washington Heights?” Matty’s stomach fluttered.
“A friend of Eddie’s.”
“Eddie has a friend . . . ” Matty put the phone to his chest, exhaled. “Put your brother on.”
“He’s not here.”
“You just said to me ‘me and Eddie.’ ”
“Dad, Audubon Avenue. Do you know where it is or not.”
Matty felt sick, with anger, with self-disgust.
“I can’t help you there, Matty,” he finally said. “Ask a cop.”
Rattled, telling himself not to jump to conclusions, he stepped to the handicapped ramp that ran along the side of the building to have a smoke before heading over to the crime scene and saw the Toyota Sequoia, sitting almost in the middle of Pitt Street, unoccupied, driver door open, exhaust fumes curling, no sign of the driver. Then, almost without thinking, he ditched the cigarette and reentered the vestibule to take a second look at the white guy, sitting there hunched forward, elbows to knees, squinting at the wall-mounted bas-relief memorial plaques as if to memorize them. He had the cloudy red complexion of a stew bum, but Matty didn’t think that was his problem.
“Mr. Marcus?”
The guy whipped his head to the voice, then just as quickly stood up.
“Yes,” extending his hand. His gaze was both alert and unfocused.
“Detective Clark.” Matty took his hand and felt a tremor running beneath the overly firm grip.
“You’re the detective whose name they gave me?”
“Yeah, yes, I am. How long have you been waiting down here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did anybody call up to the squad?”
Marcus didn’t answer. Matty stared at the cop at the reception nook still nose-down in his Post, then decided to drop it. “Look, I’m very sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.” Sounding to himself like a kindly robot.
“Well, I would have been here earlier,” Marcus said, “but I couldn’t find it.”
“Yeah, no, the streets are tricky down here, but if I had known you were coming, I would have sent—”
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