City of Woe

by Christopher Ryan

  Mallory sighed, “If we do this your way, we have to do it fast.”

  “Of course.”

  “And it better pay off.”

  “Hey, when have I ever let ya down before?”

  “We definitely don’t have time to go over that list.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Gunner was right about their first interviewee: no way was he a rich Manhattan executive. The brownstone they went to was by far the shabbiest on the block; definitely a hold over from the old days. A man opened the chipped, peeling door while smiling down at twin toddlers wrapped around his legs. He registered surprise when he looked up, but the smile didn’t falter for a second. “Oh! Sorry, we thought you were Mom.”

  Mallory tossed a sarcastic glance at Gunner, and checked his notes. “Mr. Paul Farrington?”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  Mallory and Gunner held up their badges. Rather than get nervous, Farrington studied their IDs with unabashed awe. “Cool. Never saw real detective badges before. Except on TV.” Standing at about five-six, with a sloppy, weakening brown hairline, and a smile that sat slightly askew amid a day’s growth of stubble, Paul Farrington seemed pleased. “Tell me what we can do for you.” Farrington walked backward, the kids riding his feet, allowing the detectives easy entrance.

  “Definitely our cold-blooded killer,” Mallory whispered, following Farrington.

  “The kids could be a clever ruse,” Gunner whispered back. “They don’t even look like him. My guess is they’re midget hitmen.”

  Before Gunner’s crawling culprits could mow them down with razor sharp Crayolas, Farrington’s wife pulled up. The man’s green eyes widened at the giggling two-year-olds sitting on his feet. “Mommy’s home, fellas!”

  Mallory hoped to catch Farrington off guard with a quick question. “Did you attend a concert by The Who recently?”

  Farrington’s eyes lit up. “Sunday night. Absolutely fantastic! My wife, Ada, went too. Want to speak with her as well?”

  Mallory found this guy’s enthusiasm awkward. “Just a few questions.”

  “Sure thing,” he patted the detective’s arm, then bent at the waist, pulling one little guy off his leg, hoisting him in one arm, then scooping up the other. He straightened, three faces now smiling at Mallory. “Just let me help my wife in with the groceries, and we’re all yours.”

  “While carrying these guys?” Gunner was amazed.

  “You gotta do what you gotta do,” he chuckled, starting past them.

  Mallory stepped in front of Farrington, stared into his eyes. Seeing nothing suspicious, he held out his hands. “Let me hold this guy at least.”

  Farrington handed Mallory the bigger of the two, a curly-haired tyke whose lip was already trembling. Mallory hugged the boy gently to his chest and patted his back, making the same cooing sounds he used to soothe Kieran and Max at that age. Curly put his head on Mallory’s shoulder. To Gunner, Farrington handed the littler one. The big detective paled, leaving his arms outstretched. He smiled warily at the spiky-haired little drooler, the baby happily kicking his feet in the air, giving the detective an enthusiastic raspberry.

  Farrington lugged five canary yellow plastic bags in each fist. Under his arm was an enormous package of diapers. His wife strained with a similar load. She was tiny, just over five feet tall, a blonde streak in her brown perm, with big, happy eyes and an instant smile that lit up her face as Mallory took some of the packages from one of her hands. “Hi! Thanks for helping. Please, come in. Just let us put this stuff down and we’ll do whatever we can for you.”

  Mallory eyed Gunner. “Good work, Detective. We’ve got the entire gang now.”

  Gunner refused to admit error. “They’ve already sprung their devious trap. With their little accomplice spit-washing my hands, I can’t get to my gun.”

  Mallory waved his free hand, patted his holstered weapon. He made a show of letting Gunner follow the couple in first. Seeing the sloppy mess of a bachelor holding the wiggling imp as if carrying nitroglycerin made the whole trip worthwhile, no matter what the Farrington family had to say.

  They sat around an untidy family room, the floor littered with fluffy, bright colored toys.

  Ada, having insisted on serving coffee and an Entenmann’s crumb cake, hand-fed bits of the sweet crumbs to the toddlers, Robert (he of the curly do) and Allen (with the spiky hair). “What a great guy he was. Really into it,” she said. “Must see shows all the time. He had such amazing stories to tell. Zeppelin at the Garden, ‘77. He saw The Who at Shea in ‘83, and, even earlier than that, in England, with Keith Moon, he said.”

  Gunner tried eating the crumb cake without letting crumbs fall off, a futile effort. “He must’ve been young then; Moon died in 1978.”

  Farrington brightened. “September 7, 1978. I remember because it was my brother’s 18th birthday. But you’re right. This guy, his high school’s rugby team went to England that year, when he was a junior. The whole team went to the show. Cool, huh?”

  Mallory caught Gunner quietly noting that in his book. Rugby. How many Bronx high schools played rugby in the 1970s? That could shorten the investigation right there. He nodded politely, hoping to shorten it more. “Which school was that?”

  “He didn’t say,” Ada blushed, as if embarrassed not to have the answer. “He was quiet, but would answer anything if you asked him a direct question. Which Paul did. Repeatedly. But that’s my honey. Sociable to a fault.”

  Farrington shrugged. “I get chatty when I’m excited.”

  The littler one, Allen, had crawled over to Gunner, up his leg and was now holding his knee for support, bouncing in front of him, smiling widely enough to show half a dozen tiny teeth. Gunner smiled back, relieved now that the kid was motoring on his own. The detective made a goofy face at the delighted boy. Little Allen laughed, tried to eat Gunner’s knee. Without breaking eye contact with his new buddy, Gunner spoke to Farrington. “What else did you chat about?”

  “What he was writing. He had these cards. They fascinated me.”

  Mallory played dumb. “Flash cards? Business cards?”

  “Nah, regular old index cards. He was writing on them all the time. Intensely. That’s how we started talking, actually. I asked him what he was writing about. He seemed embarrassed, but said he wrote down his thoughts during the show, made a list of songs played, notes about special moments. I thought that was cool.”

  “He said all this to you? Ada said he was very quiet,” Mallory threw it out there to see if he got any kind of reaction.

  “When I wasn’t pestering him with questions he was,” Farrington laughed. “We don’t go out that much anymore, for obvious reasons. So when we got a chance to see The Who, and her Mom said she’d babysit? Well, we were almost the first people there. When he sat down near us, I just couldn’t help myself. He finally shut me up by giving me a pen and some index cards so I could write similar notes for myself.”

  “He gave you some of his index cards?”

  Gunner jumped in. “Do you still have them? Can we see?”

  “Uh, yeah, but I wrote on some of them. Not as much as he did, and probably not as good. Just, like, a song list. What The Who played that night.”

  Mallory shrugged. “Not a problem.” Farrington practically ran to retrieve his prize.

  Ada, carefully wiping Robert’s face clean of crumbs, filled the quiet created by her husband’s departure. “That guy was actually pretty cool. He didn’t bother any one. Didn’t seem to mind when Paul kept asking him questions. He answered everything and anything, but kept writing. He just wanted to get the most out of the show. He was so nice to Paul. They hit it off right away, which was nice to see.”

  “Your husband’s a big Who fan?” Mallory asked.

  “We both are, but Paul is so friendly and open, he likes to discuss his passions. But he doesn’t get to share his enthusiasm for music with many people any more. The younger people he works with don’t seem to understand how powerful that time was, h
ow much that music was a center of our lives. Paul had a bunch of them over here once, for a summer cookout. They seem amused by his record collection, like it was a joke. I didn’t like them. This music is no joke to my Paul, to so many of us from that era.”

  Gunner nodded. “I know what you mean. For our generation, music was religion.”

  Ada smiled. “Exactly. Kids today don’t seem as dedicated. I wonder if anything fuels their soul. We had some sitting right in front of us. They were so rude, insulting each other, teasing one boy so badly you could just see his pain. That boy started really misbehaving, just to show he was as cool as they were. Sad, really. I felt badly for him.”

  Farrington entered. “I didn’t, to be honest. Loud, rude little punks. I had to ask them to stop cursing in front of my wife. Soulless idiots. I mean, with that double bill: Robert Plant — though he played very little Zeppelin — then The Who? I’m not saying they should have been kneeling and bowing, but these guys were oblivious. Yelling, cursing, ripping on each other. No respect for the occasion. And they thought the cards were hilarious. These little assho—dunderheads were the reason we stopped talking, me and this guy. And later, one of them even threw a bottle onstage, hitting Daltrey. Damn near ruined the show.”

  He handed the index cards over to Mallory, who was careful to hold them only by the edges. There were seven in all. Three of them featured loose, nearly illegible scrawling, like words written hastily in the dark. Mallory could make out some Who song titles: “Substitute,” “I Can See For Miles,” “My Wife,” “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” among them. Most of the rest was illegible.

  “Set list?”

  “Sorry about the handwriting. I was pretty excited, and writing in the dark.”

  “Of course,” Mallory nodded, handing the cards carefully to Gunner. “Can you describe the guy who gave you these cards?”

  Farrington looked at Ada, shrugged. “He was skinny, wiry, ya know? Had really thin arms, but they were muscular, like a runner’s build. Blonde hair down past the collar of his T-shirt. That was black, and old. From a Bad Company show, right hon?

  Ada nodded. “A little pale, like he doesn’t get much sun. Blue eyes.”

  Farrington interrupted. “I thought they were brown?”

  Ada shrugged. “We’re not sure. But he did have classic sunglasses.”

  Her husband laughed. “Yeah, big old aviator shades, right outta the seventies. Wore them hung on his shirt collar. Looked like he stepped right out of the good old days. That guy was a hoot.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not that we can think of now,” Ada said.

  Farrington hunched his shoulders up and down. “What else is there? His nose? Normal? Chin, lips, all that other stuff? Nothing really stands out. Regular looking guy.”

  Gunner stopped taking notes, looked over the list. “Looks like it was a hot show.”

  “Definitely. They were awesome.”

  Gunner scanned the list again. Mallory saw his partner grow agitated, as he spoke. “I’d miss Entwhistle, though. How was the replacement bassist?”

  Farrington shook his head. “Nobody can replace Entwhistle. Thunder Fingers was missed.” He paused a minute. “But it seemed to make Townsend play harder, so that was cool. Someone had to step up and answer the call, right?”

  “Did he sing at all?”

  “The bassist? No way. It was really the Daltrey and Townsend show.”

  “Right.” Gunner shoved the cards into Mallory’s hands, turned to go. “Well, thanks for your time.”

  Mallory smiled at the Farringtons. “Um, can we… borrow those cards?”

  “But they’re from the concert.”

  “For investigative purposes. We’ll return them.”

  Farrington seemed intrigued. “Why the cards? Are they important to your case?”

  “You never know.”

  “You mean… that guy? He could have been involved?”

  “I doubt it. We’re merely investigating at this point.”

  Ada had gone completely pale. “You’re here about the train station murder…”

  Farrington patted her. “Let me handle this, hon. Okay?” He turned to Mallory. “It’s because this guy, with the index cards, he left right after that little punk threw the bottle, isn’t it? This card guy is suspected of murdering that kid? Then take them, of course. Anything else you need, come by any time.”

  The two men shook hands at the door, Farrington’s twins crawling after their Dad.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Mallory waited until they were in the car. “What’s with the walkout?”

  Gunner made a disgusted snort. “Guy’s full of shit.”

  “How did he know about the index cards then?”

  Gunner made a face. “Okay, he spoke to our guy; confirmed the index cards. And Willie boy, too. He’s trying to pull a fast one. Check the cards, Detective.”

  Mallory, pulled on gloves, checked the cards twice, quickly. Nothing. “I give.”

  “Look at the set list.”

  Mallory did. “I can barely read it. What’s bugging you, Gunner?”

  “That list is bullshit. He probably scribbled it in his den before he came out.”

  “What are you seeing that I’m not?”

  “His set list includes ‘My Wife’, a song written and sung exclusively by John Entwhistle, who’s deader than Lincoln. No way would The Who perform that song.”

  “Not even as a tribute?”

  “Not their style. And I’ll get a set list off the internet to prove it.”

  “So Farrington is—”

  “A full of shit waste of time.”

  “Who confirmed the use of index cards without prompting, offered that he actually spoke with our prime suspect, gave a description, verified he sat right behind our victim, and left after Will threw the bottle, suggesting motive and opportunity.”

  “He put together detectives in his house with a front page story about a kid murdered after the same concert he went to. His drab life gets a jolt, he wants more.”

  “His wife looking for this same jolt? She confirmed our card guy’s existence.”

  “Ahh, she’s off, too; so proud that her husband’s a blabbermouth. Two dorks.”

  “Mind if I get Tom to check the cards for fingerprints any way?”

  “As long as he scans for drool too.”

  “This was your idea. I wanted to go to The Bronx first.”

  “Being thorough doesn’t mean you have to like these assholes.”

  “Okay, Detective. As long as it’s not personal.”

  “Come on, Mal, we don’t have time for this. Danvers is on the chopping block and you’re making jokes.”

  “Now you’re in a hurry.”

  Gunner floored the gas. “Yeah, man. Clock’s ticking.”

  THIRTY

  The next six hours offered the detectives an ongoing demonstration of the difference between civilian powers of observation and those trained to enforce the law.

  James Duffy, 44, a cashier at a corporate bank at 34th Street and Herald Square, claimed he could remember nothing of Will, saw nothing at all, in fact, heard only the band, and witnessed no disturbance at all during the concert. “But it could have occurred after I left,” he offered. “I wanted to get to Penn Station before the crowd. I can tell you there was nothing going on there. I was practically alone.”

  Duffy’s childhood buddy, Mike Siaico, also 44, currently running Big Mike’s Delicious Meat delicatessen and catering on 31st off Seventh, offered Mallory and Gunner heroes as he gave his statement. He unnerved Mallory by sliding a roast beef end across a whirring slicer with reckless speed as he studied a photograph Gunner held up. “I don’t know, man. My girl broke up with me that night. I was gonna pop the question and everything. I was gonna – we was gonna get married, have children, have a life, ya know? I can’t talk about this, man.”

  Walter Scott Dodder, 54, a mid-level executive with no discernable duties at the Reighter, Le
vine, and O’Reilly law firm in the upper 20s, leaned against the doorframe of his paltry, disorganized office, speaking loud enough for those toiling away in nearby cubicles to hear. “Kid needed to spend a weekend at Riker’s getting his ass fucked. Coupla big mooks taking turns reaming him, he would’ve learned some humility, am I right, officers? Whip him into shape real fast.”

  Across the large hall, in two adjacent cubicles, Walt’s far less successful, and even less busy colleagues Neal Lenehan and Bob Corley greeted the detectives as old friends, ushering them into a cramped employee’s break room, enthusiastically offering their takes on the situation.

  Lenehan spoke around little jets of wheezing laughter: “Sorry to see you fine detectives having to waste your valuable time working a case like this, but let’s face it; the Garden has got a responsibility to the artists who perform there. I love the place, don’t get me wrong, but, I’d sue in a heartbeat. Negligence, failure to secure premises, selling potential weapons. Make a big enough stink, they’d settle just to avoid all the bad press, and I’d nail down a quick pay day.”

  Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip. “Yeah, I mean, wouldn’t you want to? I mean, the Garden? Come on, I mean, you must’ve thought about it. That kind of payday does not present itself often. Wish we could sue’em.”

  Paulie Polly (after hearing the name, Gunner demanded ID), 23, dazed and disheveled, and Bob Doran, 23, crew cut, low, thick brow shading darting eyes, were “working” at an ingenious combination dry cleaners, mini-flower shop, and video store in the Flat Iron section, at 18th and Fifth.

  Paulie shrugged at the detectives. “Nah. We didn’t see who threw up.”

  Bob shook his head, eyes darting from Mallory to Gunner. “No, they’re asking did we see the guy who threw that thing at The Who concert.”

  “Shit yeah, I’ll go see The Who! When?”

  “We already been; Sunday night.”

  Paulie suddenly seemed pissed. “Why didn’t you ask me to go, you bastard?”

  “You did go, you burnout— I mean, drunk ass bastard. You sat right next to me.”