I would, Maureen told herself, but I have to go to work.
She ticked through her clothes: skintight leather pants, low-cut tank tops, sweaters two sizes too small. Black, black, and more black. She realized she’d memorized what each and every sweater did and didn’t do for her nipples. Probably not what Aristotle had in mind when he’d instructed, “Know thyself.” Or was that Plato? Or Emily Dickinson? Einstein, maybe? Closing her eyes, Maureen pinched the bridge of her nose. Christ. This is what happens, she thought, when you spend more time reading coffee mugs than books. She crossed her arms, shaking her head at the fabric of her life.
It really didn’t matter what outfit she wore. It would be black, it would look better on her in the dark of the bar than it did in the light of day, and at the end of the night it would stink like liquor, sweat, and smoke. Same as it ever was.
Grabbing two towels for her shower, Maureen realized all was quiet upstairs. She’d missed the big finale. She went to her dresser and found the vial of coke.
Wearing loose black jeans and a black silk blouse under her coat, Maureen turned the corner off Bay Street and headed downhill along Dock Street toward the Narrows. She had a cigarette in her lips and clutched a can of Red Bull in one hand. Legal stimulants would have to do. Before her shower, she’d flushed the last of the coke, all of it, down the toilet. Watching the powder swirl away, she’d decided she had to get serious and talk to John about going back to Cargo. The whole time she’d worked there, she’d never touched cocaine.
Back when she’d taken the gig at the Narrows, she’d really considered the move a step up. As she’d hoped, the money was better, even if the shifts were longer. With its semiprivate side-street entrance down by the train tracks and its unwritten but enforced-by-Clarence rules of entry, the Narrows had the aura of a 1920s speakeasy, seedy and sexy at the same time, a combination Maureen liked. To find the place, you had to seek it out, the only outward sign a beveled-glass and black-metal door. While the front door was sidewalk level, the Narrows itself was underground, built into the brick-walled vault of an old bank-turned-catering-hall that faced Bay Street.
Her first couple of months there had been a relief. Drunken college boys never stumbled in, nor was it a yuppie meat market. The Narrows didn’t run on dance music, ugly neon, and underage clientele, like so many other Bay Street joints, but on soft lights, live bands, and a killer jukebox way in the back for set breaks. Cocktailing there, Maureen served mixed drinks and imports, not well shots and dollar drafts. She’d been told there were opportunities: bartending, catering, maybe management down the road. But things hadn’t worked out that way. For over a year, Maureen had done nothing but run the floor, night after night after night.
She crushed her empty Red Bull can and tossed it in the gutter.
Flicking away her cigarette, she reached for the Narrows’s front door. It was locked. That didn’t make any sense. She banged on the door.
Maybe the rest of the wait staff was running late; that certainly wouldn’t be new. But it was after four. Had to be; she’d caught the 3:45 bus. The bar staff, tenders and backs alike, always came in by four. When you moved with the speed of a spoiled prince at court, which was the bartenders to a T, getting your long, narrow kingdom in order took three hours, even with your vassal of a bar back at your beck and call. And even if everyone else ran late, Dennis never did. Ever. He had endured a long night himself, though. Maybe he’d passed out on that couch at God only knows what time. There was a first time for everything.
Maureen hit the door again and called his name. A few moments later she heard someone headed up the stairs.
Relieved, Maureen stepped back from the door and studied her fingernails. They’d need repainting before the shift. She’d have to bum some paint from Tanya, her usual Friday-and Saturday-night partner, if and when she showed up. God, how did that girl keep her job? By being drop-dead gorgeous, duh. C’mon, Maureen. Well, bump in tips or not, she was not in the mood to work alone for another night. And if Tanya doesn’t show, Maureen thought, Dennis is getting an earful, all night long. And Tanya, too, when Maureen got off work, no matter the hour.
A dark form filled the glass in the door. It opened, but it wasn’t Dennis on the other side. “Clarence,” Maureen said, surprised.
Why was he in early? Bouncers never came in before seven. And what gives with the sweatshirt? Clarence always worked in a shirt and tie. Maureen craned her neck way back to see his face. Clarence kept his eyes away from hers.
“What’s up?” Maureen asked. “You know the door was locked?” Clarence stepped out of the doorway to let her into the bar. Standing up close to him on the landing, Maureen felt Tinker Bell tiny. “Everything all right?”
“Nobody called you?” Clarence said.
“No.” Well, not that she knew of. She hadn’t checked her messages before leaving for work. No big deal. Whatever information she lacked she was about to get now. Maureen glanced from the landing into the bar. The chairs sat upside down on the tables. Only the dim sconces on the walls were lit. Nothing had been done to get ready for the night. She turned back to Clarence. “Another pipe break?”
Clarence raised his chin in the direction of the bar. Vic sat at the near end on the only righted stool, a cigarette between his knuckles, a glass of something at his elbow. From the back of the floor, Maureen heard a sob. Tanya sat at a small table, hard to see through the thicket of chair legs. Her head lay on her crossed arms, her black hair spread across the table, her shoulders shook. Maureen looked at Clarence, then Vic, who seemed to have only now noticed her arrival. He waved Maureen over to the bar. She didn’t have the nerve to ask out loud but the question roared in her head. Dennis. Where was Dennis? What had he done?
5
Vic brought a stool down off the bar for Maureen and set it close to his. She sat, hooking her feet over the bottom rung. Her right foot bounced like mad.
“Sorry you had to come down here,” Vic said. He nudged his ashtray at her. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em.”
Maureen fished her pack from her purse, drew out a smoke, and tossed the pack on the bar. Vic picked it up and stared at the label for a long while, as if it held some code he needed to break. Then he dropped the pack and took several long swallows of his drink: vodka neat; Maureen could smell it. Vic settled his glass on the bar. Dipping his head, he reached for the short black and silver ponytail at his neck, playing his fingers through it, stroking it. Maureen thought she might burst if he didn’t speak.
“Boss?” Maureen whispered. “Vic? What’s going on?”
“You want a drink.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m fine.”
Vic looked over her shoulder at Clarence sitting on the steps. “C, get Maureen a drink. Please.” Vic looked at her. “Whiskey, right? The Irish? Catholic or Protestant, I can never remember.”
The thought of whiskey turned her stomach. “God, no. Forget it, Vic. I’m fine.”
But she got down off the bar stool. She held up a hand to Clarence. The big man returned to the stairs and his seat there, folding up his long, powerful arms and legs.
Behind the bar, Maureen made a weak Stoli and grapefruit. She replaced the bottle on the rack and leaned her elbows on the bar. She felt more comfortable with the bar between her and Vic, as if the long plank of wood could buffer what she was about to hear. The news has to be bad, she thought, like jail or hospital bad. She leaned down on her elbows, getting closer to Vic. “Boss?”
Vic sat motionless, transfixed by the burning tip of his cigarette. “Maureen, I hate to have to tell you this, but Dennis is dead.”
Maureen stepped back from the bar, all the air kicked out of her chest. She held her hands in the air as if Vic had pulled a pistol on her. She’d known something was wrong the moment she’d seen Clarence at the door, but Dennis dead?
“What. The. Fuck.”
What had that boy been into? How had she missed it before last night? Black stains oozed across the back of M
aureen’s mind. Shame. Guilt. Fear. What had happened here after she’d gotten in the cab? Had she made a terrible mistake leaving him alone?
Was she about to be accused of something awful?
Clarence appeared at the end of the bar, arms at his sides, palms turned in her direction. Offering an embrace. Or cutting off her escape. Seeing Clarence blocking her path to the door, Maureen wanted to run. But she needed to know what, if anything, these people knew about what she had seen. She eased by Clarence, her hip bumping his iron thigh, and returned to her seat.
“I’m kinda blown away here. Christ, Vic. What happened?”
Vic brought his eyes to Maureen’s. “The train. He was lyin’ on the tracks, passed out, I guess. No one knew he was there till after the train hit him. Dennis probably never felt a thing. Didn’t seem like he tried to get out of the way. Happened right down the end of the street.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Maureen said. “From the end of this street, there’s no station for five blocks either way. How could he climb the fence if he was ready to pass out?”
“That fence is torn to pieces. You wouldn’t have to climb it.” Vic rolled his thumb over his bottom lip, stared down into his drink. “The cops, they seem to think the accident maybe wasn’t entirely accidental, on Dennis’s part.”
“Suicide?”
Vic nodded. “In so many words, yeah. The cop in charge said they see it pretty often, mostly in the other boroughs but it happens here, too.”
“That’s just…I don’t know,” Maureen said. “Wow.”
“Dennis seem funny to you last night?” Vic asked. “Like off or something?”
Maureen looked down into her drink. If she was going to tell the truth about last night, now was the time. But what good would that do? Who’d believe her? She wouldn’t believe the story if she hadn’t seen it herself. Could she trust these people? Vic had comped the hall upstairs for the fund-raiser. He knew Sebastian. She thought of Sebastian’s warning to keep quiet. He didn’t need to hear she was talking. And what about Dennis? Maybe he had killed himself to keep his secret. What right did she have to expose him now?
A highlight reel of jokes, stories, arguments, and minor flirtations with Dennis played across Maureen’s mind, calling tears to her eyes. She wanted to do the right thing. She owed Dennis that much. Were she a cop, she’d want to know about Dennis and Sebastian’s shared secret. But she wasn’t a cop; she was a waitress. A young woman working nights and living alone. She had to protect herself. Keeping her mouth shut was her best defense. If the cops called the death suspicious, that would change things and she’d talk. But until then it was best everyone’s secrets got kept.
“He seemed like himself,” she said. “Same as he ever was.”
“That’s what everyone who worked last night told me,” Vic said. He was staring hard at her now, into her. “But you saw him last, after the show was over, so to speak.” He waved his hand over the empty room. “When we’re open, everybody’s got their game face on. I thought—you know—you might’ve seen something different after.”
Maureen felt waves of panic rise in her gut. After the show was over. What did Vic know? Was he being obscure for Clarence’s sake? Or Tanya’s? Was he telling her it was okay to talk, no matter what Sebastian had told her? Or am I hearing everything wrong, she thought, because I’ve got a dirty conscience? She needed to remember when she had punched out, or if she had punched out.
Did Vic have proof that she was the last person to see Dennis?
Vic used security cameras for the registers and the safe in the office. No cameras monitored the public side of the bar, a deference Vic granted the minor mobsters frequenting his place. Vic probably never even watched the tapes; that would’ve been Dennis’s job. And no way Dennis would’ve left the cameras running last night, not the bar cameras. Not if he was turning tricks in the barroom; that was guaranteed.
But the office camera might’ve caught her going into the office and coming out much later. Maureen recalled her sad attempt at masturbation. For chrissakes, how does one night slipping through my fingers manage to blow up my whole life? I gotta get my mind right. I gotta get the hell outta this basement.
“I don’t know what to say,” Maureen said. “Dennis seemed normal last night. I knew him, but it’s not like we exchanged inner secrets or anything.”
“For a while, at least,” Vic said, “the cops are gonna stay involved. You might get a call. These things are complicated, apparently. Before they can officially say suicide, they have to be sure.”
“Okay, whatever,” Maureen said. “I’m available.” No big deal, she told herself. You can’t help Dennis. Make sure you help yourself. You can’t always do the right thing. Sometimes you gotta do the smart thing.
Vic reached out and Maureen flinched, pulling back. He set his hand on the bar without touching her. “We’re gonna be closed for the next couple days. It doesn’t seem right, to go on like nothin’ happened—’cause it did. I know you got bills, I’m telling everyone, so if you need cash call me up and we’ll work something out.”
“Thanks, Vic, for the offer,” Maureen said. “Whenever you need me back, I’ll be here.” Stuffing her cigarettes in her purse, Maureen got up from the stool, saying a prayer of gratitude that her legs held her. Now they had to get her to the bus stop. “Right now, I gotta go.” She turned, willing herself to walk and not run for the door.
If I can help it, she thought, I am never coming back here again.
Heading up the stairs, Maureen suddenly felt guilty for leaving. As part of the staff, part of the crew, she felt a tug to stay with Vic, Clarence, and Tanya. Especially Tanya, who looked totally wrecked and could probably use some sisterly companionship. With Dennis dead, Maureen didn’t know who else the girl had looking out for her. But the need to escape quickly beat Maureen’s guilt into submission. You’re flattering yourself, she thought. These people don’t need you. You work with them, spend more time with them than anyone else in your life, but they’re not your friends. Not even Tanya. You tried, both of you, but you never got there. Too many doubles, too many pills, too many parties.
When Maureen got to the door she put her shoulder to it and pushed her way outside, already feeling better to be standing on the sidewalk as the door closed behind her. She jogged for the corner as a train hurtled past the end of Dock Street.
Maureen let three buses come and go. Every time she felt calm enough to go home and lie down, or make something to eat, or pack up some clothes for the Laundromat, anything to help her feel normal—every time one of those things felt like a good idea, another train rattled down the tracks behind her, and the sound of the wheels on the rails shook her brain to pieces. Pieces like what was left of Dennis.
Dennis’s death, everything about it, was too big, too fucked up. She was out of her mind to think she could go home like nothing had happened. Every dark car driving by reminded Maureen of Sebastian’s black Crown Vic. If she had any say in the matter, she’d never set eyes on that man again. She hoped he won his stupid election. Get him off the island and up to Albany. Whatever weirdness Dennis had gotten into, with him or anyone else, had already come too close to touching her. She wasn’t about to give anyone a second chance to put a hand on her.
After watching another bus drive away, Maureen dug into her purse for her cigarettes. Maybe she’d sit on the bench for a while. Without work, she had fuck-all else to do. She found the pack, but where was the lighter? Digging deeper, she found a sealed bank envelope. Without taking it out of her bag, she opened the flap. Her tip money from last night’s shift. Dennis had slipped it in there while she was passed out, even cashing in her small bills, all those singles and fives, for big ones. The tears didn’t just rise this time, they exploded from her eyes.
She started walking up Bay Street, her head down so no one could see her crying. She was terrified that if someone stopped her and asked her what was wrong, she’d tell them the whole story. Even the part abou
t her fear that Dennis had died because of what she had seen, because of her mistakes. Was this what it felt like, she wondered, to kill someone? Was the man driving the train at that very same moment thinking the very same thing she was thinking? Was he thinking, like she was, that somebody died because the night was long and I was tired and I couldn’t hit the brakes in time?
6
Maureen trudged the cold mile from the Narrows to Cargo with her chin tucked against her collarbone. The smoggy bustle of Bay Street traffic rattled by on her left, passing cars swirling paper napkins and potato-chip bags around her ankles. On her right, the humpbacked, bruise-colored bay stretched wide from the black pilings of the Staten Island piers to the feet of Manhattan’s silver towers. As the sky darkened, she considered hailing a cab. A couple of drivers even slowed for her. But as the cabbies tapped their horns to catch her attention and leaned across their seats for a better look at her, Maureen grew suspicious. What were they gawking at, anyway? Her bulky peacoat distorted her shape and the upturned collar hid her face except for her eyes—two reasons why she loved that coat. Even after her teeth had started chattering, getting in a car with a stranger failed to sound like a good idea.
She couldn’t count how many times she’d caught cabs home from work or the diner while drunk, high, and vulnerable. Yet she’d always made it home intact. She’d never had a problem. But that thought, instead of convincing her to accept a ride, only made her feel foolish and naïve, lucky to have avoided getting hurt. This did not seem the time to push her luck.
By the time she reached Cargo, full dark had settled. Well-lit, the place stood out against the stone-faced public buildings and weathered two-stories surrounding it. Yet again, the bar’s owners, two painters, had redone the exterior. For the past several months, the boxy building had been taxicab yellow with black and white checkerboard trim. The new design featured giant tropical fish swimming on a Caribbean-blue background. Clever, Maureen thought.
The Devil She Knows Page 5