Denny thought back to that time in middle school, running into one of the punks behind the gym after the last bell rang, a kid too tall for his age with a smug lip and a fat roll for a belly hanging out of a corduroy jacket. Too young to carry that kind of weight, his mother had said. Willy Lump-Lump, the kids had called him, but all Denny’s friends skirted wide when they had to pass him in the halls. “Hey, sissy, I hear your old man’s a cop. Is that why you’re such a pussy?” Willy’s nasty lip curled. His tag-along buddy suddenly appeared, a scrawny mutt, slamming a rock from one fist to another. Denny had no choice, not that he thought long about it. He’d butted Willy in the belly, felt the fat jiggling around him. Before he knew it, he was thrown to the ground, the kid with the rock pummeling him. A kick to his head missed his eye by inches. Dazed. Blood oozing out, seeing the squad pull up and two cops rushing toward him, Willy and his buddy scrambling out of sight. Denny’s old man to the rescue. Again. “Good thing I got here, son. He got you good, the little bully. You’ve got to learn how to fight.”
He pulled himself back to the present, scanned the room, coffee cup untouched, paper on the floor. Just look at what he’d done so far—a big nothing. They’d been in the house for a couple of years, and already the walls needed painting, and the furnace was about to go. At least he could wipe that cobweb off the ceiling, but he didn’t feel like moving. Spring, and he should be clearing the gutters, taking off the storms. Better yet, he’d call and have new windows put on. They could afford it. Maybe he’d do that in a while, but it was too early. He stared at the wall. His day off, and he had no energy. Maybe if he had a vacation, went deep into the Maine woods with his buddies. But he’d tried that last month, and when he’d gotten home, the same dullness returned.
They had the money, thanks to Fina; that wasn’t the problem. But what if something happened to her? Here he was, such a failure, counting on his wife. He’d gotten an honorable mention last year, his first silver star, for extraordinary bravery above and beyond during one of the demonstrations, only because he’d been daydreaming and hadn’t seen the blade that slashed him in the shoulder. He’d gotten the usual raises, okay, but that wasn’t enough to support a family. And his family was already starting. He could see Fina’s lumbering, her belly increasing almost by the day. His stomach felt like a hammer when he thought of it. He’d tried to be excited when the doctor had congratulated him. Instead, he’d felt nothing, thinking about the thousands, they’d need thousands, and he had little hope of a promotion. Didn’t want one.
He’d discussed it with his father when they’d come back from their honeymoon. “Son, you’re going to have kids; you need to support them. Don’t let that wife of yours take over. Your mom used to work; it was a real worry, but I made sure I made more than her, and finally when the mortgage was paid, I made her quit. Best thing that ever happened. Take the sergeant’s test, what’s to lose? Take it from your old man. Making more money puts a woman in her place. Get your promotion and get Fina to take some cooking lessons, become a real mother. And for God’s sake, talk to Clancy. Never thought that guy would take to being a father, but he’s a real natural. Seen him the other day swinging his little girl in the park. Course you’ll have a son, I’m sure, what with your genes and all.”
Denny had never held a baby. He started sweating again, thinking about it. What if they took the little guy home and he started choking? Denny wouldn’t know what to do, and Fina, was she a natural mother? He didn’t think so. He was shocked when she’d told him she thought she might be pregnant. He could see her smiling in the dark and didn’t know what to say. Where would he get the money for clothes, for college? And she talked about sending their kids—plural—to private schools.
He realized with a suddenness that almost stopped his heart that his wife was supporting him. At least he’d married a bundle of energy who made more money in a year than he would in ten, no question about it. A woman who cared so much for him it took his breath away, and all he felt for her these days was a big nothing. Willy Lump-Lump had been right—he was a pussy. If he believed in prayer like his mother, who he knew was praying for him, he’d go to church and beg for a miracle. Because that was what it would take, a miracle to change his innards, to become more like his father, get a promotion, wheel his kids to the park with a proud grin slapped on his face. Cock of the walk like his old man. He heard his father, “Put some bone in your nose and get up out of that chair. Crying? You were crying? Don’t you ever cry again. If someone hits you, hit him in the balls, what’s the matter with you, anyways? Let that fat bully get the better of you? I didn’t have you so’s you’d grow up to be a girl.”
He got up and picked up the paper, rinsed his coffee cup in the sink and shook himself. No more pity party. He was made of sterner stuff, he could hear his father telling him. Yes, he was made of sterner stuff.
Henry Cojok
As I was leaving Lake’s house, I got a call from Denny apologizing for his behavior and telling me he was feeling much better. He was going in to work since he wanted to build up his vacation and didn’t have anything better to do. How often had I heard that before?
“So you’re taking back all the things you said about Frank and your mother?”
“I didn’t say that, but I’ll take you out for pizza or steak tonight. Your choice.”
I crossed my fingers, hoping his good mood would last. When I told him I was going to Bensonhurst to pay a visit to Stephen’s father, he didn’t say much except to tell me to be careful. I felt a cold blast within and gripped the phone. Was that all? Nothing about the new life I carried? Not the usual playful Denny, the thoughtful guy I’d married a couple of years ago.
I punched in the number Lake had given me for her father-in-law and had to let it ring several minutes before he answered. When I told him who I was and that I’d like to visit, he told me not to bother, he wasn’t up to it, that in case I didn’t know, he’d just lost his only son. He said two policemen had appeared on his doorstep earlier and, without so much as an apology or a hint of condolence, gave him the news.
“He was my son. He could have made a good life, but he ruined it.”
I listened to the ensuing silence for a few seconds, then asked if he had time to meet with me because I had a few questions for him.
“Suit yourself,” was his listless reply. He was in shock, and I felt like an uncaring bum because I was going to take advantage of it, pumping him for information. I remembered him from long ago, his hard eyes, the disparaging words for his son in front of wedding guests, and despite my dislike of him, I felt pity for him because of the rawness of his voice on the other end of the line.
After he gave me directions to his home in Bensonhurst, I set out. It was a good hike to Barclay Center on Atlantic Avenue, and I was winded and hungry by the time I stood on the platform of the D train. Midmorning, and my nose being ultra sensitive to smells, I covered my face, hoping the train would come soon. Other than two men on the opposite platform, the station seemed deserted.
Just then I saw a shadow moving behind a pillar a few feet away. I should have gone home, gotten my car, and driven to Bensonhurst. I started to sweat. At the same time, my feet froze and I made for the nearest bench. Sometimes my imagination runs crazy wild, as Cookie likes to remind me, so I gave myself a good talking to, and clutching the pepper blaster I promised Denny I’d carry, I decided to face whoever was behind the pillar.
With my stomach in my throat, I rose, took two steps and stopped. I heard a faint rumble. My stomach? I didn’t think so. I took two more steps and watched as tracks lit up with an approaching train. Braver now, I walked up to the pillar and around it. No one. The shadow must have been my imagination on overload or a piece of paper moving on the platform breezes. Or not. I felt the hair rising on the nape of my neck, but just then several more passengers came through the turnstile and the first car appeared, belching and slowing, stopping a few yards from where I stood.
Scrambling for the doors,
I was shoved in by the crowd. I looked around, hoping to eyeball someone polite or guilt-ridden enough to offer me their seat, but no such luck. Dizzy and tired, I clung to the pole and watched as the stations crept by until Seventy-Ninth Street, where I got off, climbed a dank stairwell, and emerged into the bright sunshine of an early spring afternoon.
Walking the three or so blocks to Henry Cojok’s home, I passed a deli and went in, bought a large chocolate chip cookie, and finished it before ringing the single bell outside the address I’d been given, a three-flat in a row of similar homes on a side street in Bensonhurst. After wiping crumbs from my face, I waited for a while, then rang again.
Henry Cojok was silent as he opened the door, but recognition flashed in his eyes. “You’re Lake’s friend, the girl who lost her mother after that thing at the bank.”
We who have been bruised hard by the death of our loved ones form a conspiracy.
“Mr. Cojok, I’m so sorry.”
“You’ve come to tell me what I already know. You shouldn’t have bothered. The police did a poor job of it, but now that you’re here, I suppose you’ll want to stay, at least to assuage your guilt.”
Assuage? I didn’t think that kind of word existed in Bensonhurst.
“I came to find out more about your son. I’m investigating his murder.” I gave him my card, which he examined before stashing it in his back pocket.
He gave me a crooked smile and gestured the way. I followed him down a long hall to an airy kitchen, where he offered me a seat at a chrome and plastic table straight out of the ’70s. It was a cozy place smelling of last night’s supper, probably a simple meat and potatoes affair. You can bet I looked for crumbs and dust and grease marks, but it was spotless.
Mr. Cojok was a lanky man with a shaved head. He was wearing chinos, a T-shirt, and red suspenders. Bensonhurst’s version of Popeye. As I sat in his kitchen, waiting for the coffee he insisted on serving me, I listened to him talk about his only son. He was a boy, he said, with such promise, but he’d squandered his life. I watched him tough it out with himself: he was a man who wasn’t about to cry in front of me. Despite my preconceptions, I began to like him.
“Stephen got straight As in high school. Captain of the basketball team his junior year. He wanted to go to Harvard.” He swiped at his eyes with a laborer’s hand. “I’d done a good job raising him, at least I felt so at the time, but I couldn’t afford an Ivy League school, not on what a mechanic makes.”
“How did your wife feel about that?”
He didn’t answer at first, staring at something only he could see until the coffee maker sounded that final gush. He poured us each a cup, and after asking for a cube of ice, I took a sip. Some of the best brew I’d ever tasted.
He continued. “She left us when Stephen was six. Made us breakfast that morning like she always did, but I should have known, there was something resolute about the set of her back. In that instant, I knew she was going to leave. It was hard to describe—a certain angle, a tilt of her shoulders that was alien. Yes, I’d been so foolish not to see before that. So I was tender with her that morning, offered to fry the eggs, asked about her work, but she wasn’t having any of it. I was too late, you see. Why is that, I’ve often wondered? We get into a routine, take our partner for granted, forget to talk, I mean, really talk.”
I thought of me and Denny and our rote conversations of late. I swallowed. I’d make it up to him that very evening. Maybe we’d go to Grimaldi’s or even Vinegar Hill House if we could get a reservation. It would be the first date we’d have since I couldn’t remember when.
“And you’ve not been in contact with her?”
He looked through me for a few seconds before shaking his head. “When I got home that night, Stephen was sitting at the dining room table with his books. ‘Where’s Mom?’ he asked me. The kitchen was so cold. I called her name. No reply. Looked around. She’d taken the clothes from her closet. Hadn’t even left a note.” His hands began to tremble, so he put them in his lap. “Don’t know where she went or if she’s still alive.”
“I’m so sorry.” I sounded like a recording, but there was a stone in my stomach. As I sat there trying to catch my breath, I felt it travel up to my throat, choking me.
He stared out the window, blinking into a light that led deep into himself. “Now it’s just me. I have a hard time feeling him. I can see him, a newborn in the hospital crib, his hands thick and moving. Just like mine. I remember holding him for the first time. ‘A born mechanic,’ I says to Karen. But when I try to picture him as he is now, I can’t. Stephen. Is that my son? Did God do that to me, kill my flesh and blood? I should have been the one. Now I feel like I’ve been hit by a wall.” He got up, mostly to hide his emotions, I figured.
He faced the sink, his head bowed. “They told me he’d been found near a dog run. A dog run? Did they have to say ‘dog run’? They told me that?”
I was afraid my voice would crack, so I didn’t say a word.
“He had trouble with drugs at one point in his life. Stole some money from his employer, a friend of mine, so I could hide it, but he lost his job. That was the low point.”
I heard the wall clock ticking, distant sounds of traffic. I listened for birdsong, but there was none.
“Where did he work?”
“Mechanic’s shop down the block.” He gave me the address. It matched the one Lake had given me. “You’ll want to talk to them, I expect. Ask for Al. Tell him Henry sent you.”
“Lake told me he used his van to make deliveries.”
Henry Cojok nodded. “Borrowed money from me to buy it, but that was a couple of years ago.”
“Do you know where he worked?”
He shook his head, but a shadow crossed his face. “Don’t know who or where, but he told me he was doing fancy work, getting paid good for it, too. Matter of fact, he tried to return some of the money I’d lent him. I told him to keep it.”
“Did he say anything more about the job? You’re trying to remember something, Mr. Cojok, I can see it in your face. It might be important.”
“A couple of months ago, the van needed work. Stephen said he was afraid to drive it. Turned out, the brakes needed relining. He didn’t have the money to pay for the job, so I helped him out. Or I should say, Al did. Did me a solid that time. So Al was fitting in the work, you know how we do with low-paying jobs, and it took a couple of days. Stephen was upset, I don’t blame him; he needed the van. Well, some guy in a fancy suit with one of those Wall Street haircuts shows up in the shop and asks to speak to the owner.”
“Stephen told you this?”
He shook his head. “No, Al did. Said the fancy talker gave him five hundred bucks to finish the job while he stood there and waited. Al told me he’d never seen Stephen like that, pacing back and forth, apologizing to the guy. I wish I’d been there, I’d of …” He stopped mid-sentence, lost in grief.
“So what happened?”
“What do you think, Al called in two helpers, and the three mechanics worked on it, hoisted the van up, and finished the job in half an hour.”
I scribbled down the information and waited a few minutes while Henry Cojok collected himself; then I told him about my meeting with Lake. “She’s in a bad way. I think you might be able to help her. Just seeing you would calm her, and you could both talk about Stephen.”
He shrugged. “I’d be no comfort to her. And I’m not sure I’d be welcome. Ina O’Neill never did like me, and mark me, she’ll be hovering around or should I say smothering her daughter. She once told me that her daughter was slumming when she went out with my son. I felt like punching her. Stuck-up woman, as if she’d been born on the Upper East Side instead of South Brooklyn. We weren’t good enough for her daughter.” He twisted his hands. “But I don’t blame her. I blame myself. How I wish I could take back the words.”
Henry Cojok talked more like a white-collar worker than a mechanic. The bookshelves I’d passed in the living room were incongruous as
well, or was I just as guilty of typecasting him as I had been of pegging Ina O’Neill for an interfering mother. Both parents had issues of their own. Was that as far as my superficial thinking would take me? I’d have to do better in the people department if I wanted to find out more about Stephen’s murder.
I came back to Henry Cojok’s estranged wife, asking if he had an address or phone number for her. He gave me a strange look before replying in the negative. I wasn’t so sure he was telling the truth, but the man was in shock, so I wasn’t going to prod.
In a few minutes, he continued. “I wasn’t kind to Stephen, my boy, my own flesh and blood.” He stared into space. “And Ina O’Neill and I, we came from different worlds. She didn’t envision the kind of life Stephen could provide for her daughter.” He began to sob. Softly at first, then he lifted his head to the ceiling and gave a low-throated moan, like the distant sound of a mammoth tree crashing or the felling of a great forest beast. While I laid a hand on his shoulder, Henry Cojok gave himself over to his sorrow.
I stood there letting him have his emotions when a large dog with soulful eyes lumbered into the room. Judging by her gait, she’d been with the Cojok family for a long time. Swaying past me, she stopped in front of Henry’s chair, her tail wagging slowly, and looked up at him.
He petted the top of her head, and the dog put a front paw on his knee. “Just you and me now, Cinderella.”
After asking Henry Cojok to please call me anytime, day or night, if he thought of something I should know about, I hoofed it to the address he’d given me for the mechanic’s shop where Stephen once worked. As I walked toward Sixty-Fifth Street, I called Denny’s cell. Just to tell him how much I loved him. I told him we needed to talk. Talk about anything except his mother and Frank. Talk about life, about what was happening in the world, about growing old together or the movie we’d seen last week, the name of which escaped me at the moment. Something consequential besides how I was feeling—“fine, you?”—or the job. I realized I didn’t even know which candidate he supported. But my call went to voicemail, so I left a message telling him how much I looked forward to dinner that evening.
Death and Disappearance (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 5) Page 5