“Enjoying the parade?” Taylor reached for this notebook to get a couple quotes from the group.
Dracula brought a Billy club from behind his back. He slapped the stick into his palm in that cop way. A meaty sound. “We need to talk to the little lady here.”
“Those sticks look pretty regulation. Got regulation badges?”
“Shut up, shithead.” With both hands on the stick, Dracula shoved Taylor hard in the chest back toward the dark corner of the park. He almost fell on his ass, except Samantha grabbed his arm and steadied him.
“That’s really nice. She’s taking care of him. Didn’t take care of your partner. Talking to the press. How many ways can you turn traitor?”
Samantha didn’t answer. Instead, she reached behind. The nightstick was faster, swinging onto her forearm with a crack. Her off-duty gun clattered as it fell, and Dracula kicked it down the walkway into the gloom. Grabbing her arm, Samantha clenched her jaw like she was trying not to make any sound at all. Still, a quiet groan escaped.
The men backed Taylor and Samantha farther and farther into the dark. Three bad guys who it was a fair chance were dirty cops, Samantha disarmed, and his gun a long way down at his ankle. Why even consider it? Terrible odds. He needed to negotiate their way out of this.
He held up his hands. “All right, enough with the stick. What do you want?”
Negotiation apparently wasn’t on the agenda.
Dracula hit him hard on his right side, and the air rushed out of his lungs. He sunk to his side, his ribs howling in pain, and rolled onto his back. That’s what you were supposed to do when you got the wind knocked out of you. Even if it felt like you were never going to inhale again. Like right now.
Breathe. C’mon breathe.
Samantha stepped toward Dracula. “You bastard—”
“Shut up. If we wanted to take you out, we’d have done that already. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stop talking about this made-up radio call—”
“Didn’t make up the fucking call.”
Dracula’s stick cracked on the side of her left thigh. Samantha cried out and dropped to her knees. “Goddamn you.” The words hissed through clenched teeth. With great effort, she stood back up, putting her weight on her good leg.
“See, that’s your problem. You don’t listen. That’s the problem with all of you. You come on the job thinking you know how it’s done. Like you can do the job.”
“What I don’t know how to do is lie. Why was Dodd set up to die alone? What’s going on?”
Dracula brought the nightstick up for a backhand to the head, and Wolfman spoke. “You knock her out, how’s she going to hear how it’s gotta go?”
Dracula slowly lowered the club. “You’re going to admit you left your partner on his own to take on the mugger. You’re going to take whatever punishment comes your way. Do you understand?”
Samantha stood silent, leaning on her right leg, her face set. Taylor, breathing again, slowly sat up. His ribs burned every time he took in one of those breaths. Dracula pointed the nightstick at him as a warning to stay where he was.
Frankenstein’s monster stepped over to Samantha and pressed against her, the plastic mask up against her face. “How about we take a little taste of police lady?” His voice had a slurpy lisp. She tried to back away. He grabbed her belt with his left hand and rubbed the end of his nightstick roughly under her chin. “We deserve a little something for this shitty detail.”
“You know, you really do.” Samantha’s voice was sexy. “How about this?”
She slammed her knee into his crotch once, twice, the second time even harder, wincing herself at using the leg that had been hit.
She doesn’t give up. Ever.
As the man bent over, her knee came up again, crashing into the Halloween mask. The cracking noise wasn’t just plastic. Frankenstein’s monster fell with a hoarse cry. Dracula’s nightstick swung at her head, and Samantha just ducked. The movement put her weight on her hurt leg. She lost her balance and went over. Dracula and Wolfman crowded in on her, sticks raised.
They’re not watching me. Ignore the odds. Samantha did.
He pulled the pistol from the ankle holster and climbed to his feet, his ribs complaining all the way up.
“That’ll be enough.” They turned to see the gun. They’ll have backups too. “No moves, fast or slow.”
He stepped to Samantha’s gun in the dirt, picked it up and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.
“Get away from her.” They hesitated. He flicked with the gun. “Get the fuck away from her.”
Dracula and Wolfman moved. Frankenstein’s monster couldn’t. He was still moaning on the ground, blood leaking from his mask’s nose holes.
In two steps, he was in front of Samantha and out of striking distance of the men. The gun was shaking in his hand.
Dracula laughed. “You’re out of your league, bub. She knows what she needs to do. We’re not the only accident waiting to happen.”
Samantha reached the hand of her good arm to him. Taylor gently helped her up while keeping the gun trained on the men. She held the injured arm to her stomach.
“Let me have my gun.” Samantha spoke slowly through the pain.
Taylor handed her the .38. Limping, she stepped over to Dracula. With the gun in her left hand and held at arm’s length, she put the barrel in the eyehole of his mask.
“Maybe I settle this here. Maybe I spread blood all over the inside of that mask.”
Taylor kept his gun trained on Wolfman, who squeezed his nightstick. Wolfman was within reach. He could easily swing at Samantha. Taylor didn’t want to have to shoot.
“Let’s just get out of here.” He backed down the path. “C’mon, Samantha.”
She followed slowly. When they came out into the light, they put the guns away and walked faster. The crowd was breaking up after the show, costumed revelers moving in every direction.
He eyed her injured arm. “The way you walloped that one guy, they’re going to come after us.”
“We don’t even know how many of them there are. But I’ll make it.”
They trotted toward the southwest corner of the park. Adrenaline eased the pain in his ribs. For now. Samantha grimaced the whole way.
Chapter 9
At Sullivan and Washington Square South, two uniformed cops watched them pass. Their radios crackled and one yelled, “You two, stop!”
They weren’t going at much more than a jog. Somehow, Samantha managed to pick up the pace as they ran toward Bleecker.
Taylor glanced over his shoulder. The two in blue were coming up fast. As he crossed West Third with Samantha next to him, three more men came flying around the corner from Thompson, one block east. Street clothes. Masks gone. Nightsticks gone. Guns out.
“Shit. We’ve got to get off the street.”
He reached his right hand for her left to encourage her. She squeezed it, cried out in pain or because of the effort or both and urged herself to go a little bit faster. Her breathing was ragged. At Bleecker, Taylor led them left so they were out of the line of sight. Line of fire, really.
“Is everyone in the Oh-Nine crooked?” He panted to catch his breath. The pain in his ribs was already back. Maybe none were broken, but he had to be pretty badly bruised.
“Doesn’t need to work that way. The guys in masks just had to call our descriptions in for something. The whole precinct could be after us.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Where to go? Think.
He scanned up and down the block, caught sight of a name on an awning. He tugged, and they ran down the street to the front door.
Samantha read the awning. “The Other End. Yeah, the end. That’s what’s coming.”
He pulled open the door, let her go in first, and turned to peer out as the door was inches from closing. The three in street clothes ran around the corner onto Bleecker as the door slipped shut.
Taylor led Samantha to a tabl
e in the back of the crowded rock-and-roll club. A six-piece band was in the middle of something that had as much jazz as thumping rock in it. They ordered drinks, both with an eye on the front door for anyone checking for them. Samantha deflated into the chair, and real fear registered on her face for the first time.
“It hurts so much.” She held her right arm tightly to her belly. “I’ve got to get away. I can’t do this.”
I’d probably be in tears after the crack she took.
After half a set, they squeezed back through the tables to the front door. The cover had been steep and the drinks expensive, but the outlay was worth it to lose their pursuers. Taylor held up his hand, checked the block in both directions, and went to the curb. A cab dropping off a couple likely headed for the second show at The Other End was exactly the thing he needed. He waved to Samantha in the doorway.
The cab took off with both of them slumped in the back.
“We’ll figure this out.”
“The next time they come, it won’t be a warning. Who can I trust? They’ll kill me. I can’t. I can’t.” She was almost whispering. “I’m sorry. I need to think. What to do. I’m taking the cab home. I need to get my arm checked. I want to be safe. I don’t know how that’s going to happen.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. No thanks. I just need to think.”
He honored her request, getting out at 14th Street. From a payphone he dictated the story on the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade to one of the assistant editors on the city desk.
The editor read it back to him. “Sounds like a fun night.”
“A real blast.”
His side sure hurt like hell. Didn’t matter. There wasn’t anything you could do for bruised ribs. The lobby of the 20th Precinct stunk of ammonia and puke. Taylor walked out with his father trailing behind him. The man refused to let Taylor help, so his father weaved a wide slalom to the front door. He was wearing beat-up blue pants and a gray T-shirt the cops had provided. Gray hair fell down into his eyes. He didn’t seem to notice. When they’d finally arrested Professor Taylor, he had been in the apartment hallway, hurling candy everywhere. The sergeant said he was yelling too, but wasn’t making any sense. Taylor knew why. Poetry. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. “Christabel,” to be exact. The poem was his father’s favorite to recite when he was shit-faced. They’d let Taylor take him home because it was too busy a night for the patrolmen to bother with the paperwork.
Taylor led the way down Broadway to 78th Street, their walk narrated by the slurred invective his father hurled at Taylor’s back. In the apartment, the professor stumbled through the clutter of the living room to the bedroom. The springs squeaked as he collapsed onto the bed.
“Bring me a drink.” It was a command.
“You’ve had enough.”
“I’ve enough? The scribbler thinks I’ve enough.” The mattress squeaked again as he tried to get back up and louder when he fell back. “Always lecturing. What does the scribbler know? Do you ever read literature? Do you even read?”
Taylor pushed aside academic journals, magazines, and newspapers to clear a space on the couch. Student papers were scattered over the coffee table. Did they ever get graded? Returned? At one corner was an empty bottle of no-name vodka. Here was why Taylor’s second rule of drinking said no hard stuff. He’d broken that rule just last night with Samantha. But there was the interview to get.
Are those the kinds of excuses my father made to himself? Back when he needed excuses.
The room was hot and sticky from steam heat. The stink of old cigarette ash and rotting food hung in the air. He unwrapped a stick of Teaberry and chewed it.
“Get me a goddamn drink.”
“You’ve had more than enough.”
“Your brother would do it.”
“Right. Do you remember the last thing you said to Billy? ‘You’re a fascist fighting a fascist war.’ Then he was out the door. Gone. Gone forever.”
“Miserable little scribbler with your miserable little quotes. There’s no truth in that. There’s only truth in literature. ’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, and the owls have awakened the crowing cock.’ ” The first of the 671 lines of “Christabel.” No matter how much he drank, the professor’s diction somehow improved when he recited. “My son’s no cock. He’s a dick. Enough of the scribbler. On with literature. ‘Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! And hark, again! The crowing cock.’ ”
Taylor rose and approached the small kitchen, kicking another empty bottle as he went. The bottle stopped when it hit a brown grocery bag of garbage that hadn’t gotten farther than the living room. The rotting smell was worse in the kitchen. On the counter was a case of vodka delivered by the friendly corner liquor store. Five bottles were left. To the cadence of the lines, he poured each down the drain. He was absolutely certain his gesture would have no impact on his father’s drinking. It made the scribbler feel a little bit better just the same.
He pulled the front door shut with a click. His father was still saying the lines. He knew they were supposed to be beautiful. He hated each and every one.
As he entered the houseboat, Taylor was greeted by Mason as if he had returned from the wars, which he pretty much had. The tail wagged. The dog jumped up, and its front paws landed right where the nightstick had.
“Ouch, ouch. Okay, Mason. Down, down. I’ll take you out.”
Popeye’s note said, “Fed good, new water, walk at six bells.” Taylor wondered if six bells was six o’clock or some other time on the nautical clock.
He put the leash on and Mason led him down King Avenue to Fordham Street. The dog did his business quickly, but was so happy to be out and about, his tail swinging so fast it was almost a blur, that Taylor kept on going, tired, hurting, but allowing the air to clear his head. On the main avenue, he turned toward the end of the island. There was nothing like a look at the ocean, even the narrow end of the Long Island Sound, to lift the spirits at the end of a tough day.
He considered the story he was stumbling around the edges of, stumbling badly. The police might announce the discovery of the city bonds, and that would go off like a bomb in the media. He could have written a story about finding them—maybe even gotten himself arrested—but a hunch told him to wait, to let the police recover them and see what happened next. He sensed a much bigger story, and he hated grabbing a little headline only to bring in all the other papers. Wasn’t that going to happen anyway?
Samantha still hadn’t told him everything that was going on at the Ninth Precinct. Or all of what she knew about Dodd. He was sure of it.
She was a beautiful woman and tough at the same time. Nothing wrong with that. He liked the way she’d gone against the grain by deciding to be a cop, by not taking the shit that came her way, by fighting back. Now she sounded ready to give up. He wanted to help her. How could he do that and get the story? What if the facts went against her? Was he willing to make one person more important than the story?
The little waves of the sound quietly lapped the pilings and bulkheads. The oily chemical odor wasn’t as strong tonight, allowing the salt air to break through—the perfume that made being by the sea so nice.
Two things required more reporting. The radio call that had sent Samantha the wrong way. That, and of course, tonight’s attack by three men—they must be cops—who demanded she deny the story about the call and admit to abandoning Dodd. Someone wanted the shooting to go down the way it looked—Dodd killed by a mugger, who died in the exchange of fire.
So what had really happened?
He shook his head and scratched behind Mason’s ears. The story already had too many leads. Usually it was just the opposite.
He also had to talk to the families of the two dead men. Would Dodd’s widow know something about what was happening on the job? Maybe not, but it was still worth a shot. Johnny Mort had a family somewhere that he’d visited. Maybe they could explain the bonds. Maybe that was his allowance. Taylor chuckled to himself.
>
Mason looked up at him, and that reminded Taylor of one of the weirder facts in this story—the sign on Moon’s grave. Someone had killed the dog and that had forced Mort to “do worse to save the others.”
The “others,” he assumed, were the other dogs, including the one staring at him right now. The “worse,” well that might have been the mugging or the shooting. Or both. He needed to know for sure.
Taylor gave the leash a tug. Mason led the way back to the houseboat.
Popeye must walk him all over the place. He knows the island as well as I do.
The little refrigerator held seven ponies. After the visit to his father’s apartment, he considered not having one. Not for long. He took a bottle and opened it. He and his father were nothing alike.
In the cassette player of his all-in-one Emerson stereo was the new album by Bruce Springsteen. Born to Run. Springsteen wasn’t punk, but like punk his music did for Taylor what all the crap on the radio didn’t. Springsteen reminded him of the rock and roll that had gone away. The rough music of passion, hard luck, and blown dreams. But Springsteen’s music wasn’t old or in any way nostalgic. “Thunder Road” wasn’t a story for 1966; it was a story for now, for darker days.
Chapter 10
Cemeteries separated neighborhoods in Queens. Cemeteries were almost the defining feature of New York’s largest borough. They were an archipelago strung across the county, accounting for the religions of the various populations that had settled here. Catholic, Lutheran, Jew, Methodist, godless. They were the landmarks when driving the expressways and riding the subways. One, St. John Cemetery, separated the neighborhood where Taylor had lost his house, from Middle Village, the neighborhood where Robert Dodd’s home was located. Middle Village was, in fact, an enclave with cemeteries on three sides—St. John, Mount Olivet, and Lutheran All Faiths—and a park on the fourth.
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