by Alaric Hunt
“Once I was temporary to Alpha Strike, I broke in quick,” he said. “Snipers down south are like flies—they’ll drive a fucker crazy. Whole units have flipped out—massacres, called air strikes on ghosts, like that. The Pashies hate us. I mean, they hate everything, even the air they breathe, but right now Uncle Sam is at the top of the list.”
“So I ship in to Alpha Strike. I’m a newbie; I’m pulling perimeter. The snipers come out at night. Bang-splat, bang-splat. That’s an AK, then the bullet striking. An hour into the duty, I’m huddled down like I’m getting rained on. Two pairs of boots walk up. It’s Captain and Slip. Slip don’t say nothing, just like normal. Captain goes, ‘So you don’t know they can’t hit you, then?’ Big dumb bastard looks like a tree standing there, dripping that slow shit from his mouth. It takes him ten minutes to say anything.
“So he gets me up and starts pointing into the dark. ‘Where is he, Linney? Show him to me.’ I look. Bang-splat. Captain don’t even flinch. I don’t see a flash. ‘He can’t see you either, Linney. He’s shooting the building, because he knows it’s getting to you. They’re out there taking turns, laughing.’ That’s the Captain. When he’s standing there, you can feel your balls get bigger.”
Linney stood up slowly, like it hurt him to change positions. Once he stretched out, he was a slim six feet tall. He crept to the window and squinted into the daylight. “Long time until nightfall,” he said softly. He turned back around. “Are you doing something to help Captain, or is he fucked?”
“You’re talking to him every day?” Guthrie asked. “And you’re not keeping anything from him?”
His questions fell into the silence of the darkened room.
The vet went back to his bed and reached into his cookie bag. “You on some operational security shit, man. Go ahead, then,” he said. “But you better remember Captain ain’t done it.”
The little detective stood up and turned the crate back onto its bottom. “Thanks for the cookies,” he said. “Keep yourself together, Mr. Linney. Olsen might still need you. The shooting was after nightfall.” He paused “Tell him to call me, will you?”
Linney nodded. “He better still need me. I give up drinking.” He laughed.
Guthrie and Vasquez entered the city again. The flophouse was like something that needed to be rubbed away, a sheen of sweat that lingered, unwelcome. The darkness, stench, and ticking quiet was the opposite of the city. Guthrie’s old blue Ford wasn’t fast enough to outrun the memory. He brooded as Vasquez drove back to Morningside Heights.
Crossing the Harlem, she asked, “You think maybe Linney got it mixed up?”
Guthrie shrugged. “I knew a vet like him, before—bright, funny, when he was sober,” he said. “‘Big Tom,’ that’s what everybody called him. Before the war, he was a boxer. Silver, gold gloves—he looked good. After the war he ain’t had no legs, but he still had a fist like a ham. The VA put him to work making prosthetic arms and legs.
“Big Tom kept extra legs. He had one he drank beer from, and another he made special, he said, just a bit longer, so he could kick somebody’s ass from farther away. Tom drank a lot after the war. He would get so drunk as to lay in bed and shoot holes in the walls with a Colt. He always said he was shooting at cockroaches, but I guess he was shooting at the ghosts he saw at night.” Guthrie fell quiet and started brooding again. He looked old, hiding under the brim of his brown fedora.
“So what happened to him?” Vasquez asked.
“He shot himself in the head in 1975.”
* * *
The night before, Guthrie had read the NYPD reports, but only found one witness he wanted to interview. He considered the file to be surprisingly thin. The detectives had done little work before pegging Olsen. A passerby had found Camille Bowman’s cell phone on the sidewalk outside the Long Morning After, a dance club on 124th Street. The detectives talked to the bartender, and the interview impressed the detective enough that he included it in the daily report. Incidental interviews didn’t usually cross over to the reports.
They walked over, after parking on 123rd, and Guthrie took a look at the exterior of Long Morning After. The windows were blocked out with lemon and orange floral designs, thickly painted on the inside of the glass. The neighboring frontage was boarded, and past that, an alleyway pierced through from the street. Bass notes thrummed the windows like a badly timed blinker. Guthrie watched two young men go inside, noting a locked-in vestibule with a concessions window. The little detective studied the sign like it was missing something.
“Pretty sure this was a pub,” he muttered. “Some Irish place.”
Vasquez grinned. “Back in the day?”
“Maybe,” Guthrie replied. “These kids are drifting this way to get off campus. Them two boys ain’t looked twenty-one, but they went on in. Let’s see how they treat you.”
The young Puerto Rican pushed up the cuffs of her red windbreaker and opened the street door. The man at the window gave her an appraising look, then waved her through. Guthrie had to pay a cover. He pushed into the darkened interior, where she was waiting, muttering about a pretty pass. House music stuttered from hanging speakers. The Long Morning After was warming up, the same way a bar spends its early hours slowly winding down. An old-style pub bar lined the right-hand wall, looking out onto stools and a narrow strip of dance floor. The wall connecting the streetfront to its neighbor was stripped out to piers, for more dance floor, sandwiched on the far side and end by a line of shadowy booths. Cheap paintwork and dim lighting covered the rawness of the reconstruction. Lights above the bar, reflecting from the mirror and glasswork, provided most of the illumination.
The bar was empty of customers when they came inside. The bartender was polishing the top and waiting. She seemed small behind the heavy bar. Her dark hair was cut short, and her lip and brow winked with silver piercings. She scowled at Guthrie when he approached the bar.
“You’re who called my boss?” she barked, glancing briefly at Vasquez.
“Sure, if you’re Sand Whitten.”
She shrugged, glancing at Vasquez again. “That’s me. But I’m not taking my break to talk to you,” she said. “The party rooms is up the stairs, unless you want a drink?” She pointed with her chin at the back wall.
Vasquez paused to turn her Yankees cap around, then said, “I’m with him.”
“Damn, really?” the bartender asked. “You came in the door separate.” She kept buffing the bartop with her rag, and scowled again. “I shoulda kept my mouth shut when the cops were in here.”
“So it don’t bother you that girl was maybe snatched right outside here?” Vasquez asked, pressing against the bar.
“Should it? The guy’s in jail, right? Or is the Barbie doll killer gonna get me?” She smirked. “I don’t think I match the fashion show.”
“Relax, will you?” Guthrie said. A pair of fifties appeared between his fingers. “Just tell us what you told them, then let us follow up, okay?”
“Neat trick,” she said, and took the money. “Two house specials coming up.” She smirked at something behind them; then her hands grew busy with bottles and glasses.
In the mirror behind the bar, Guthrie and Vasquez saw a trio of dancers—one girl with two boys. They all wore dark glasses. The girl had her blond hair waved and cut at her shoulders and wore a button-down shirt and plaid schoolgirl mini. She had a teddy bear in one hand, spanking one of the boys with it as if she had a riding crop while she rode his outstretched leg. He was synching inaudible lyrics that might or might not have matched the beat dropping from the speakers, while the other boy held a handful of the blonde’s hair like a leash, tugging gently in time with the music and grinding his hip against her ass. All three seemed oblivious to the watchers. Both boys held clear bottles of water.
“Unbelievable,” Vasquez said.
“Welcome to the market, girl,” Sand said. “Go on out and roll with them—they’ll give you some water. Or you like watching? Take a booth.” She pointed with
her chin at a few people sitting in the shadowy depths.
“We’re not here for the floor show,” Guthrie said.
Sand Whitten flashed a razor-sharp smile as she slid them two Shirley Temples. The smile made her look like a movie star. She told a simple story while they drank. Working at the Long Morning After, she was familiar with Bowman by face, not name. She discovered the name when the NYPD came with questions, and she put the glitter girl together with the picture and name in the newspaper. Bowman came in that night, butterflied from place to place, then left early. A dark-haired man trailed her around the club, trying to hook up, then was gone when she was. That evening, the city had a shower and cooled down. The weather kept her from mixing up that night with another.
“You remembered all that?” Vasquez asked. “After days?”
“Only because I wanted to kick her ass,” Sand replied. “The man was cut from just the right cloth—short black hair, a glimmer of green behind long dark lashes, thick shoulders over a lean waist—you get the picture. I saw him first, and built up a picture. Then I saw what he was doing—chasing the little blond glitter girl, just like the rest.”
“Did he get anywhere with her?” Guthrie asked.
The bartender shook her head. “Not dancing,” she said. “He cornered her a few times for some mouth-to-ear, and she talked back, but she kept dusting him.”
“You seen him again?”
“No! That’s why he stood out. God don’t make many copies of that model, then give them attitude to go with it. He had glitter-boy looks and boxer strut.”
“What about her? She was in here a lot?”
“Yeah. She used to glitter all night, every night. The man wouldn’t have gotten near enough to her to talk, back then. She was circled by a big crowd. Then she slowed down, and they fell away.”
“You know the regulars with her?”
Sand Whitten smiled. “Glitter boys and glitter girls, they’re bright. You always see them.” Her eyes cut to Vasquez, and the smile sharpened for a moment. “That kind of bright keeps you from seeing the shadowy people standing nearby, unless you look hard.”
Guthrie pointed at the mirror. More kids bounced on the dance floor behind them, grinding to a shifting beat. “She did like this?” He finished his Shirley Temple.
“Dance?” the bartender asked. “She used to. Not so much anymore. Or the booths, or the playrooms. Used to be all that and a bottle of water.”
The little detective nodded, watching a girl in the mirror pause for a drink. The dancer was damp with sweat. That came along with ecstasy, just like a dry mouth. He slid another pair of fifties across the bar. He nodded to Vasquez, and they left. The city outside seemed quiet but blindingly bright.
CHAPTER SIX
On the morning of August 3, the stones of the city were crying out for rain. Night couldn’t cool the city. A cloudless sky left Manhattan at the mercy of the sun. Even at dawn, the shaded pavement was eighty degrees. Guthrie idled his Ford on Henry Street, waiting for Vasquez to come down. Then they drove downtown to the Criminal Courts Building. Greg Olsen was scheduled for arraignment. The tall buildings downtown surrounded the courts like suppliants. Crowds of pedestrians moved among them faster than the cars.
Inside, Guthrie and Vasquez found Henry Dallen baby-sitting outside courtroom 11. Olsen was scheduled for Judge Patterson. Rondell was already at the court, juggling a meeting with clients for another case in civil court. The investigator said Olsen would be bound for supreme court, and Rondell expected a high bail that he might be able to reduce, eventually. They would play a waiting game while Guthrie chased his witness. Guthrie gave the investigator another copy of his card, for Olsen, with a scribbled note asking for him to get in touch. Guthrie and Vasquez had other things to do. Olsen had questions to answer, now that they’d seen the Long Morning After, but it wasn’t worth an entire day spent waiting for the ADA to orchestrate a media frenzy at his arraignment.
Vasquez was unsettled by visiting the courts. She always went when her brothers were in trouble; the sterile smell and tomblike quiet were a reminder. Dallen’s nonchalant attitude resembled that of a public defender midwifing the state’s efforts for conviction. Indio and Miguel always came out angry. They had to wait for a while before they rediscovered their laughter. She was glad to leave, even though the street smelled like burned tar and was crowded with empty taxis looking to hustle uptown fares.
While Vasquez drove up Broadway, headed for the office, Guthrie called George Livingston, HP Whitridge’s hatchet man, to air his doubts about Olsen’s lawyer. The conversation cut back and forth. Livingston had recommended Guthrie to the lawyer, and he had no hesitation about putting the shoe on the other foot. True enough, Livingston admitted, James Rondell worked in a firm specializing in tax, trust, merger, and other Money Street matters, but he was a big young shark, being groomed by heavy hitters at his firm to be their primary courtroom advocate, and eventual senior partner. His talent was unmatched in the city. HP Whitridge wouldn’t accept less than the best.
“Okay, George, I get you,” Guthrie admitted. “I could be wrong about him. Maybe I’m getting old and I need to see a bit of gray on a head before I can trust it.”
“I am not going to rise to that particular bait,” Livingston said, his voice audible on the cell phone.
“I went out and talked to some people yesterday, and now I need to compare notes. Where am I going to find Michelle Tompkins today?”
Laughter sounded on the other end. “That’s your nice way of saying she needs to be available?” Livingston asked. “I’ll do something about that and get back to you. HP has a thorn in his ass about her right now, you know.”
“That’s good,” Guthrie said.
“You’re working on something?” Livingston asked sharply after a pause.
Guthrie frowned. “Maybe this thing works out,” he said.
“What’s going on?”
“Now ain’t time for details, George. I gotta firm it out.”
“Okay, that’s your thing.”
* * *
After lunch, Vasquez and Guthrie drove to the Upper West Side. Michelle Tompkins had a walk-up apartment on 101st Street off Amsterdam. Old trees along the sidewalks grew from broad puddles of shade, pushed to the sides by a line of brilliant sunshine running down the street. The sun blew down hot breath in vain. In the landscape, the streets were skillet-hot, but between the park and the Hudson, different rules applied. Vasquez’s red jacket glowed like a beacon among the gray and green as they walked over. A parking spot had been hard to find.
The building retained the solid look of prewar construction, even while the bones of modern infrastructure showed through. An unblinking camera peered discreetly onto the stoop from an ivy-wrapped perch, and doors with the feel of ancient wood seated neatly into aluminum casings veneered with molding. The pressure changed with an audible hiss when the outer door closed behind them. A gray-haired doorman waited in a foyer that doubled as a narrow lobby. He had the clipped certainty and hard eyes of a retired policeman. He studied Guthrie, but his eyes seemed to skip over Vasquez.
“Miss Tompkins is expecting you,” he said, and glanced at the stairs.
Old dark wood on the stairs and in the hallway drank up the light from the fixtures and left the hallway dim. Guthrie knocked twice on the door before Michelle Tompkins answered. Bare toes showed beneath the hems of her faded blue jeans, but an oversized shirt covered her curves. Worn loose, her brown hair wasn’t quite long enough to catch on her shoulders.
“I have a seminar at three o’clock,” she said, still holding on to the edge of the opened door while the detectives waited in the hall.
“We ain’t gonna need the whole afternoon,” Guthrie said.
The apartment was small, and only its bareness saved it from being cluttered. One dark green couch and chair, along with a low table, were enough to fill the living room. A countertop served as a divider between this area and the kitchen, and three dark wooden
doors were visible beyond. The far door was open, but only hinges and shadows were visible. A pair of tall, narrow windows lit the room.
“What was so important?” Tompkins asked as she followed them into the living room. She glanced at Vasquez as she passed her. She bent at the coffee table and closed a laptop with an impatient sigh.
“Greg Olsen is being arraigned today,” Guthrie said, looking around the apartment again. A second look was quicker, because there was nothing to catch the eye.
“George Livingston mentioned that,” she said. “Then he said you found something.” She watched his eyes, then smiled. “It’s better this way. Nothing to distract me when I’m studying. It’s my safe house.”
“Olsen’s tied up in the system,” Guthrie said, “and he’s still in shock, or was when I spoke to him three days ago. I don’t know if he can give me solid answers even if I could get to him. I’ve looked around a little bit, and I hope you can help me connect some information. He couldn’t give me much background before, but I did get the impression that you’re right: He didn’t kill Bowman.”
Michelle Tompkins’s face relaxed while she listened to Guthrie. She lowered herself onto the arm of the couch and pulled a bare foot up so that she could rest it on her knee.
“So I begin at the beginning. Someone killed Bowman. Who? I can’t work a random killing, so I need the background to fill in the motive.”
She nodded. “What can I tell you?”
“Do you know how they met?”
“Classes. They’re”—she frowned—“were prelaw.” She stood and paced toward the window. “But they met in a weeder—Professor Wyatt, he’s a major ax. They started with a tactical alliance, and then it grew from there.”
Vasquez threw Guthrie a look that said, What’s that? He shrugged, turning his fedora in his hands. “You lost me, Miss Tompkins,” he said.