Buzz Killer

by Tom Straw

  Macie hugged the brown paper bag. “It’s personal.”

  “May I at least ask what it is?”

  “Not much,” she said. “Only his Grammy Award.”

  Martin verified the contents of the shopping bag then personally escorted them to the thirty-second floor. Partly as security protocol, but mainly because he would need to unlock Woody’s door to let them in. His discretion was exemplary when he explained that odd wrinkle to his job. No doubt service to affluent Manhattan was no less full of idiosyncratic demands than at Downton Abbey. But they soon learned idiosyncrasies are one thing. Some shit is just crazy.

  After a card key swipe, the concierge pushed open the door, called, “Your visitors,” and sped off as if he were barefoot on hot coals. Left on their own, Wild and Cody stepped inside, greeted by a mixed fragrance: Nursing home meets locker room. Windows, sealed tight at this altitude, had created a greenhouse of funk. No one met them. They stood in the foyer, waiting. Macie sang out a hello up the short hall to a dim living room lit by the light bleed around blackout drapes. No answer. The only sound was trickling water like you hear from those kitschy fountains in Thai restaurants. Perhaps the eccentric musician was into Eastern meditation. If so, a few incense sticks would only improve the place. The pair moved ahead.

  The sunken living room was divided in two. On their right, the part visible from the foyer had been done up lavishly in California Modern. Decorated in whites with curved ceramic bookcases, authentic Eames chairs, a circular white Formica coffee table orbited by round cushions in red, blue, and yellow leatherette. That half of the room re-created a Sputnik decade when technology’s streamlined promise cast America’s gaze west to a utopian future. In the dusky light, they made out a Fender Stratocaster mounted with a black-and-white of Buddy Holly playing it. That priceless artifact hung beside Elvis Presley’s crimson-accented karate gi, autographed “To Big Woody” by the king. The left side of the room was a different world entirely.

  First, the trickle. The source was anything but a meditation font. A thin stream of water dripped from one nostril of a morbidly obese man—naked but for his immense boxers. Meet Woody Nash. Head canted, the genius musician was pouring saline from a neti pot into his nose while standing over a catch basin positioned between his flip-flops. To complete the bizarre picture, he was behind glass. That half of the living room had been walled off, floor-to ceiling, behind an immense window. Woody had created an isolation bubble complete with an oversized therapeutic bed, a mashed-down futon, a dining table, even a kitchenette on the far side. The effect was of an exhibit at a zoo. Or mental hospital.

  The water stopped flowing and he held up a forefinger, signaling them to hang on. He set the pot on an end table, squared himself over the basin, snorted out the remaining saline, and blew his nose into a man-sized tissue. He then used it to dab neti spatter off his exposed Sumo gut. “Let me see my Grammy.”

  “I have it right here, Mr. Nash. I’m Macie Wild and this is—”

  “The Grammy! You said you had my fucking Grammy, let me see it, goddamn it.” He threw the balled tissue at the window and advanced toward them, his naked belly becoming a giant white amoeba where it pressed against the glass. By reflex, both she and Cody retreated a step.

  “You got it, ace,” said Cody. Wild held the sack for him and he lifted the statue out and presented it, engraving forward, with both hands. Woody finger combed back his oily gray hair, slipped on a pair of thick glasses, and leaned forward, leaving breath fog on the window as he squinted to read the inscription.

  “Fuckin’-A, great. Thanks. Just leave it there on the coffee table.” He turned away, buck-snorted something disagreeable, and paced his room, humming scales as if testing his voice after the sinus work. Walking a full circle, he seemed surprised to see them still there. “What.—Oh, right.” He opened a pantry cabinet in the kitchenette. Even in the muted track lighting the contents of the shelves were startling. Cash. Stacks and stacks of cash. He waddled back to a sliding drawer cut into the window and pushed it through. It held two one-hundred-dollar bills. “You can touch them. I’m not sick or anything, I just need the oxygen in here.”

  “No, thanks,” said Macie, and slid the drawer inside to him.

  “What the fuck. I’m taking back my stolen Grammy, no police, no questions asked, and you’re, what, gonna shake me down for more?”

  “We don’t want money, Woody.” Cody set the award down on the coffee table to show good faith. “We want to ask you a few questions.”

  The recluse’s face tautened and his eyes widened. The panicked darting of irises echoed his viral on-camera meltdown three years before at the Grammy satellite ceremony for which he made a rare outside journey—a twitchy, medicated, thirteen-block limo ride to Radio City Music Hall—where his acceptance was beamed live to the Staples Center in Los Angeles. He’d worn a slouch hat to hide his eyes, had to be escorted onstage from the wings by two handlers, and bolted halfway into his mumbled speech because reading the teleprompter made him look up too much. “—What questions? You’re those assholes from Rolling Stone, aren’t you? I said no interviews. Is that what this is?”

  Cody dismissed that one. “Reporters? No, not at all.” But then the VICE freelancer felt Macie’s death stare of truth, and amended, “Rolling Stone? no way.”

  “I’m the attorney for one of the burglars who stole this, Mr. Nash. We went to a lot of trouble to track down your property so we could return it to you. I just want to ask you about the break-in so I can gather some facts to help my client, who’s been accused of a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “Because we helped you,” said Cody. “I’m sure a Lifetime Achievement Award means something.”

  “Wanna know what this Lifetime Achievement Award means? It’s the consolation prize because they gave all the real awards to the Beach Boys.” He began stomping about his room, grabbing a fistful of red vines from a glass canister, biting one off like jerky and ranting, “Where was the fucking Grammy for ‘Get a Woody’? Where was the Grammy for ‘Gnarly Wood’? The Beatles give Brian fucking Wilson hand jobs for Pet Sounds and ‘Good Vibrations.’ What about Pound Sand, huh? Or ‘Hangin’ Eleven’?” He was panting. By his third licorice, red vine juice dripped down his front, mingling with rusty stains around the fly of his boxers.

  Cody nodded. “Beach Boys. Bunch of posers.” That slowed Woody down, but he viewed him with a wary eye. “No, seriously. Wilson drops in some goofy, electro-Theremin sci-fi effect he heard on My Favorite Martian, and he’s a genius. It’s not genius, it’s novelty.”

  “It’s novelty,” repeated Woody.

  “You want cutting edge? Hangin’ Eleven was truly subversive. Gettin’ high and surfin’ naked, am I right?” The man behind the glass was a picture of agreement—and astonishment. Macie held her own sense of surprise, wondering where that arcane knowledge came from. Who was this Gunnar Cody, really?

  Whether mollified by Cody’s support or merely medicated by the stunning array of prescription bottles lining the bedside table, Woody came down off his harangue. He eyed Cody. “So you’re a detective?”

  “Sort of.”

  “You have a gun? Can I see it?”

  “Maybe,” said Wild. She was starting to understand how good-cop, bad-cop hadn’t become a trope for nothing, and assumed her role. “First a couple of questions. Was the Grammy the only thing stolen from you?”

  “Uh, yuh. Cause I surprised the shit out of them, and they ran.”

  The glance between Wild and Cody signaled their shared recognition of the anomaly. Jackson Hall had said the crew chief knew all the places that were vacant—borne out by the CEO’s hit at The Barksdale, at least. “So you walked in on them?” she asked.

  “Walk in?” Woody frowned at her like she had just said the dumbest thing in the world. “From out there? Hell, no, I was asleep. And they sure didn’t expect to see me.” Understatement, thought Macie, given what they had just been
greeted by.

  “You saw them then?” Cody took out a pad. Woody seemed to like that. “How many were there?”

  “Three.”

  Wild swallowed hard. Coming over, they weren’t sure what they would get from this victim, maybe a line on other stolen property they could trace, if they were lucky. Now they were talking to an eyewitness who might be able to give them a description of the elusive crew chief. If Woody saw him, and if he continued to cooperate. If, if, if. “Woody,” said Cody to his new best bud, “can you describe them? Think carefully.”

  “Don’t have to.” He lumbered away to his nightstand and returned with something neither of them had seen in years—a Polaroid photo. “It’s kind of messed up. The flash went off when I took it, but you can sorta make them out, can’t you?” He slapped the picture against the glass. Yes, it was glared-out, streaky, and the framing was at a steep tilt, but there were three discernible forms in the shot: Jackson Hall, Rúben Pinto, and, in the foreground, a third man holding a canvas carpenter’s bag. Disappointingly, the flash kick against the window obscured part of his bald head. But on his forearm, above where his gloved hands gripped the leather handles of the tool bag, part of a tattoo showed under his sleeve.

  A furrow appeared between Cody’s eyebrows as he looked from the Polaroid to Wild and back. “You did call the police after the theft, right?” Woody nodded. “And the detectives came here to interview you.”

  “Of course.”

  “As a detective myself, Woody, I have to say I’m confused as to why they never took that picture as evidence. Was there another one maybe?”

  “No, just this.” He fanned himself with it.

  “Did you show it to them?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you tell them about it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they were assholes.”

  Cody put away his pad and smiled at the big man. “Want to see my gun now?” The old surfer’s face broke into sunshine.

  ♢ ♢ ♢

  Back at the Manhattan Center for Public Defense, Wild made the rounds to brief her team members individually on her latest while she made status checks on their case work. Her client’s medical condition stayed on the top of her mind. So far Jackson Hall remained in his coma. She convinced herself that no change was, at least, hopeful. Soledad Esteves Torres and Chip Ross had been on the hunt for Hall’s girlfriend. Pilar Fuentes had not only been absent from visiting her lover in jail or the hospital, she was also MIA from her job. Relatives hadn’t heard from her either. Wild told them to keep tracking. Meanwhile she’d be paying extra attention to the news for found female remains—a caution informed by experience. Jonathan Monheit had been pressing forward with his investigation of Gregory Eichenthal’s financials. Without police power to get search warrants, he had to rely on public records, but he was making the most of them. Also a reputable Wall Street blogger had recently posted rumors that a friendly takeover bid that was being put together by one of the pharma giants was in jeopardy as a result of EichenAll’s FDA troubles. Macie told him to go make friends with experts at Christie’s and Sotheby’s for a primer on stolen art. “You also might want to start watching Antiques Roadshow to see if anyone shows up with a Sargent or a Wyeth.”

  He made a face and said, “A joke, right?” So damned literal, she thought. Just when he showed signs of getting his sea legs, he reset to Jonny Midnight. When asked about reaching Pinto’s old cellmate Amador Spatone, he shrugged and gave her what she now called The Midnight Look.

  Tiger wove in and out of her meetings with docs to sign and motions to initiate on her other cases. Her paralegal also had news on their filing with Justice on Hall’s incident at Rikers. The matter was being turned over immediately to the US Attorney for the Southern District of New York. In other words, they took it seriously. That wouldn’t bring him out of his coma, but it was a step toward justice for others, and might rattle the Corrections stonewall enough to crack it.

  Lenard called from reception as Macie came back from her restroom break, “Got one holding for you, Ms. Wild. Somebody Dinner.”

  Macie double-timed to her office and stretched over her desk to grab the blinking line. “This is Macie Wild.”

  “Macie, it’s Orem Diner.”

  She lifted the cord over her computer screen as she came around to sit. “I hope you haven’t been on hold long.”

  “Can I tell you? It’s actually refreshing to call a law office where they don’t know who I am.” He laughed and said, “I was happy to see you face-to-face this morning, although I wish the occasion had been about other than my punk prince.”

  “Likewise.”

  “I wanted to let you know that Jerónimo Teixeira’s home has not been burglarized. Unfortunately I still haven’t turned up anything on this Luka Fyodor Borodin you mentioned. But it wouldn’t be the first time Nimo hooked up with some rough trade.”

  “Well, I sure appreciate the courtesy of the personal callback.”

  “I’ll keep you posted, should I learn anything, but that’s not really why I called.” By reflex, ever the student, Wild grabbed a pen. “I wanted you to know my feeler was serious about joining the firm. More so after you left and I spoke to your dad. He tells me all the great things you’ve been doing.” He paused for emphasis. “Practically for free.”

  “Well, it’s not just about the money, you must know that.”

  “Actually I don’t. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. I’m not about saving the world, but I do like winning. And someone with your smarts and your background would be a super acquisition here. And, if you twist my arm, I’ll certainly let you do all the pro bono you want. Will you at least think about it?”

  Wild set her pen down and aligned it between blank lines. “Sure.”

  “So it’s a no.” He chuckled and said, “Your father called it. But it was worth a shot.”

  “And I thank you for that, Mr. Diner. If I ever change my mind . . .”

  “You won’t. But if you do . . .”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Another thing,” he said. “As someone who cares about Jansen Wild’s kid, I wanted to offer you some advice. It’s free, mind you. See? I can do pro bono too.” His words were lighthearted but his tone wasn’t.

  “Advice about what, may I ask?”

  “Frankly, it’s about that fellow you came in with today. Gunnar Cody. I’m familiar with him through his involvement in one or two of our prior cases. Not directly with me, but through partners in the firm. I’ll be blunt. He’s no Boy Scout. Far from it. I’ll stop short of slander, and stick to facts. Last year the district attorney had to pull him as the key witness in a trial because of some nefarious activity he was involved in. As a favor to your dad, I’m giving you a heads-up. You may want to steer clear.”

  Macie found herself pressing the phone hard against her ear and released it. “Oh, well, thanks, I guess. Thanks.”

  “Your reputation is pristine, Macie. Keep it that way. I’ll leave it at that.”

  ♢ ♢ ♢

  Whatever good she felt at having one of New York’s preeminent attorneys court her was offset by an imbalance that nagged her all day. It made no sense to Wild that Orem Diner could get inside her head about Gunnar Cody. Macie tried to shrug it off while she went about her work, but the residue of the lawyer’s caution about her ad hoc investigative partner hovered in the background, a spirit dragging a chain.

  It played out for Wild by unconsciously distancing herself. Instead of calling to give Cody an update on her team’s progress, she took the coward’s route: e-mail. Macie told herself she wasn’t creating space because she didn’t trust him. But when he called late that afternoon, she hesitated before tapping accept because she was afraid he would hear something in her voice. Something wary. “Heyyyy,” she answered, pushing brightness.

  “I know he’s your guy, and all, but I am officially done waiting for Jonny Midnight to get his thumb
out of his crack about Spatone. I mean, come on, we have an address—you were there yourself—and, instead of door-stepping the dude, your lead investigator is waiting to be called back like the date for the prom he probably also never got. Sorry to unload, but Rúben Pinto’s cellmate is a potential lead that’s dying on the vine or could skip. I say we drop by now and brace his ass.” She hadn’t heard him go off like that before, and wondered what was up. What happened to the usual soft batting of dry Cody humor?

  “Sure. Ah, I’m totally up for that. Now’s not the best time though. I’m at Starbucks, just about to start a meeting.”

  “Right, of course. I’m just . . . I’m wanting to get some traction is all.” Wild said she understood, and they made arrangements to meet near Amador Spatone’s personal training studio later.

  When she hung up, Rick Whittinghill, one of the Popeye Doyles who got the broom from the Manhattan Center, returned from the barista with two coffees. The retired Internal Affairs detective sat down at Macie’s table and asked, “So who’s this ex-cop you want me to check out?”

  C H A P T E R • 19

  * * *

  Cody was right where he said he’d be, sitting outside the Irving Roasters at Seventy-Ninth and Broadway when Wild came up from the subway. He ditched his empty espresso cup and said, “I’d offer you a latte, but I think we should just get there and do this.”

  “Me too. Besides, I’m kind of caffeinated.”

  “Right, Starbucks. How was your meeting?”

  Trying not to put out any guilt tells, she sloughed it off. “Eh. A meeting.” The walk sign had four seconds left and she darted ahead across Amsterdam. He sped up to keep pace. “Any luck with the tattoo database?” she asked, lobbing out a subject change.

  “Shit, I don’t know what the delay is.” There it was again. The edge she had heard over the phone. “Maybe it’s the crappy Polaroid. Or because it’s only a partial. Hopefully they’ll work it out, and we’ll get something.” They reached the corner at West Seventy-Eighth. “That’s why I want to quiz this joker, since he may have a name, and we can tell the RTCC to suck it.”