by Jason Starr
On my way home, I stopped at a jewelry store and had my gold barbell chain repaired, then I went to Smith & Wollensky on Third Avenue and had a burger with fries for lunch. Back at my apartment, I hung up my new clothes, and spent the rest of the afternoon on my couch, watching soap operas.
At around five-thirty I went to work. There was a pretty big Thursday night happy-hour crowd. Gil was working behind the bar so I figured Gary still wasn’t coming to work. There were people at the bar, shouting orders, so I went to give Gil a hand. After I took a few orders and added a couple of dollars in tips to the tip jar, we finally had a chance to take a breather.
“Thanks a lot,” Gil said. “It was starting to get crazy here.”
We were listening to one of his shitty reggae CDs.
“You mind if I put in some Blondie?” I said.
“Go ahead,” he said.
I put Parallel Lines in the CD player then I said to Gil, “So Gary’s not coming in tonight, huh?”
“You didn’t see the sign on the front of the bar?”
“What sign?”
“Frank’s looking to hire a new night-time bartender. It looks like Gary’s gone for good.”
“You’re kiddin’ me?” I said. “That’s too bad.”
“I don’t think so,” Gil said. “I mean if the guy is really sick enough to steal money from his own father, who cares what happens to him?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” I said. “But what I meant is it’s too bad for Frank. It’s just a fucked-up situation any way you look at it.”
Gil and I took a few more drink orders and then the crowd started to thin out. I was going to take a break, maybe get something to eat in the kitchen, when two cops came into the bar. They weren’t the same cops from the other day. One of them was a thin white guy, about my height. The other guy was short, black and heavy. I didn’t have time to think about what was going on. The black cop came right up to me at the bar and said, “Is Frank O’Reilley here?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Why? What’s this all about?”
“It’s personal business. We need to talk to Mr. O’Reilley right away.”
Gil came over. “Frank’s in the office, in the back. Just walk straight back and it’s the first door on the right.”
“What do you think’s going on?” Gil said to me.
“Probably just more about the robbery,” I said. “Maybe they found the guy who did it.”
Gil went to take an order and I poured myself a pint of Sam Adams. I chugged half of it, but it didn’t relax me. I was trying to think of all the reasons why the cops could be here, except the one reason I didn’t want to think about. I hoped it had something to do with the robbery, but if it had to do with Debbie maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe Frank had just reported her missing. That would make sense, after he woke up this morning and she wasn’t in bed next to him.
I started to feel better. There was no way they could’ve found her so fast—not where I left her.
The cops returned from the back and left the bar without looking over at me. They looked serious, like they’d just told a guy his wife was found dead in some half-frozen swampland in Brooklyn. Then Frank came from the back, crying like he was at a funeral, and I knew I was right.
He had his coat over his shoulder and he was heading toward the door. I went over to him, cutting him off.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
He looked at me. His face was ugly and tears were streaming down his cheeks.
“She’s dead!” he screamed. “She’s fucking dead!”
Blondie was singing “Heart of Glass” and it was so loud in the bar that only the people who were standing close by were paying attention to us.
“Who?” I said.
“Debbie,” he said crying. “I gotta get out of here.”
“What do you mean, ‘dead’?” I said. “What’s going on?”
“I gotta go,” Frank said, crying harder now. “The cops are gonna take me to ID the body.”
“Where?”
“Brooklyn.”
“What?”
“Lemme outta here.”
“This is crazy,” I said. “There’s gotta be some mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake!”
“How do you know?”
“She didn’t come home last night. She—just lemme get the hell out of here.”
Frank left the bar. Through the window, I watched him get into the police car with the two cops and drive away.
I knew I’d played it good. Frank was such a mess now, he couldn’t think straight about anything. Later on, when he started to calm down, he still wouldn’t suspect me. He’d think some guy she met in one of those personal ads killed her. And if he did suspect me, he’d remember how I’d acted when he was leaving the bar to go ID the body. He’d remember how I was just as surprised as he was, saying all the things that innocent people usually say.
When I went back to the bar, I told Gil what was going on. He didn’t believe me at first—I had to tell him three or four times. Then, his eyes starting to tear, he said, “Man, I can’t believe this. The poor guy. Jesus.”
“It’s so fucked up,” I said sadly, shaking my head.
Gil asked me if I thought we should shut down the bar tonight.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Frank didn’t tell me we should do that and, besides, maybe that wasn’t Debbie’s body they found out there. Maybe she’ll walk right in here any second.”
I went into the kitchen. Rodrigo was there, talking in Spanish to the Mexican dishwasher. They shut up when they saw me.
“Excuse me, can I talk to Rodrigo alone for a second?” I said to the dishwasher.
The kid gave me a dumb look, like he didn’t understand English. Rodrigo translated then the kid left.
“What do you want for me?” Rodrigo said.
“From me,” I said.
Rodrigo started to leave.
“Hold up a second, all right?” I said. “I wanna have this out.”
Rodrigo stopped, waiting for me to go on.
“We both work here, right?” I said. “So what’s the point of going around, acting like we hate each other? I don’t know about you, but I think it’s a big pain in the ass. The way I look at it, we both made mistakes, so why not just clear the air and forget about it? I don’t know about you, but I’m not holding a grudge—I have no hard feelings. So what do you say, Rodrigo? Are we amigos?”
For a few seconds, Rodrigo just stood there, not saying a word. Then he said something in Spanish and walked out of the kitchen.
I was worried about Rodrigo. I didn’t think he’d rat on me and risk being deported, but I’d have to keep an eye on him just in case.
I cooked myself a couple of thick burgers, then I went back out front. It was starting to get busy again so I went up to the bar to give Gil a hand. Gil had obviously broken the news to Kathy. She was in bad shape, crying, and I told her not to worry—everything would be all right.
I knew that the police would be by the bar at some point tonight, probably after Frank ID’d Debbie’s body, but I wasn’t worried about it. It was bad luck that they’d found her so fast—at first, I had to admit, it scared the shit out of me—but now I knew it didn’t really mean anything. The police still wouldn’t have any idea who’d killed her because there was no evidence. Just to be safe, later tonight I’d clean the rest of the mud out of my car, and then I’d just keep on doing what I was doing and everything would work out fine.
I wasn’t even worried when the Eyewitness News truck pulled up in front of the bar and a female reporter I recognized from TV came inside with a guy holding a camera. Everybody was watching when the woman came up to me at the bar.
“I’m Marcia Cole from Eyewitness News. Do you work here?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Did you know Deborah O’Reilley?”
“Sure I knew her.”
“Would you
like to make a comment for our cameras?”
“All right,” I said. “Why not?”
Gil lowered the music and asked everybody in the bar to quiet down. The cameraman shined a bright light on me and said, “Rolling.” Then, sticking a big mike in my face, Marcia said, “Did you know Deborah O’Reilley well?”
“Not too well,” I said. “But we talked whenever she came into the bar.”
“Were you surprised to hear that something like this happened to her?”
“Very. I just can’t believe it—I just can’t. She always seemed so happy, like she didn’t have an enemy in the world. This is really a shock. It’s just a shock, that’s all I can say.”
“Do you think this murder has anything to do with the robbery of the Super Bowl money from the safe the other day?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t see how it would.”
“Do you think Deborah O’Reilley’s stepson, Gary O’Reilley, had anything to do with the murder or the robbery?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope not.”
“Thank you,” Marcia said and the cameraman stopped shooting. Then Maria said to Gil, “Would you like to say something for the cameras too?”
Gil made a brief statement then Marcia started talking to other people in the bar. A few minutes later, the other news crews started to arrive. Channel Four was there first, then Channel Five, Channel Eleven, and New York 1, and then the radio and newspaper people showed up. It was getting out of control and Gil came over and asked me if I thought we should shut down the bar. I told him I thought this was probably a good idea.
I turned off the music and told everybody they had to leave their drinks and go home. There was a lot of bitching and moaning but after a few minutes everybody was gone except the reporters. The new reporters wanted me to say something for the cameras so I said pretty much the same thing I’d said for Eyewitness News. I liked having all those cameras and lights pointed at me. I felt like I was acting again. I was in a movie or on a TV show and I knew this was only the beginning. When I was a famous horse owner I’d be holding news conferences all the time.
Then, when I was finishing up the interview, looking past the cameras and mikes, with the bright light in my eyes, I saw Cheryl Lewis, the blond cop who’d been in the bar the other day. She was with another cop and the same detective who’d asked me questions. I stared at her until she saw me and then we both smiled.
“Hey,” I said when she came up to the bar. “Long time no see.”
“I wish I was here under more pleasant circumstances.”
“Fuckin’ sucks, doesn’t it?” I said. “I still can’t believe it. Do they know what happened to her yet?”
“Suffocation was the probable cause of death, but they’re still running tests.”
“Jesus,” I said, shaking my head.
“Did you know her very well?”
“Not too well,” I said. “I mean just from the bar. So are you working on this case too?”
“No, investigators from Homicide will be handling it. We’re just here for routine reasons. Since the robbery was only a few days ago, we want to see if that had anything to do with this.”
“The robbery—I didn’t even think about that,” I said. “You think the robbery has something to do with my boss’s wife—”
“You never know,” she said. “In any case, we might be able to provide the Homicide detectives with any details they might need.”
“Anybody ever tell you you have beautiful eyes?”
She looked uncomfortable.
“I’m engaged,” she said.
I looked down at her left hand and sure enough she was wearing a big rock—probably cost the guy ten grand. It was so big and shiny, I didn’t know how I could’ve missed it the other day.
“So?” I said. “I’m just complimenting you. What, you’re gonna arrest me for that?”
She smiled.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just working overtime today and it’s been a very long day. Thank you very much—for your compliment, I mean.”
“No problem,” I said. “So what do you do when you’re not trying to catch crooks?”
“Excuse me?”
“You like movies, dancing, Italian food...”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Didn’t you understand what I told you? I’m engaged.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t go out sometime, does it? I mean I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, but I’d love to take you out to dinner on my next night off.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“That’s okay,” I said. “Maybe some other time.”
A few minutes later, a couple of other detectives arrived and asked all the reporters to leave the bar. One of the detectives looked familiar, but I didn’t know why. He was a big guy—about my height, but fatter—and he had short blond hair. He saw me noticing him and came over to the bar.
“You mind if I ask you a couple of questions?” he said to me. He had a Brooklyn accent.
“No problem,” I said.
He took out a little notepad.
“My name is Detective Scott. I work in Homicide—Brooklyn South. And you are?”
Hearing that name, Scott, made it all click.
“Mikey?” I said.
The detective looked up from the pad.
“Do I know you?”
“It’s me—Tommy. Tommy Russo. Remember—Sophomore year, the Canarsie High football team. I played left tackle, you were center.”
The detective was still staring at me. For a second, I thought I’d made a mistake, but then he smiled and said, “Holy shit, Tommy fuckin’ Russo. How the hell are you?”
We shook hands.
“I can’t believe you didn’t recognize me,” I said. “What, I look so much different?”
“Well, you look like you might’ve put on a few LBs.”
“Look who’s talking,” I said.
We laughed.
“So what’ve you been doing for, what, the past fifteen years?”
“I work here,” I said.
“I see that. What are you, a bartender?”
“Bouncer,” I said.
“Tough guy.”
“Yeah, you know how it is. What about you? How long you been a cop?”
“I’ve been with the department eleven years, a detective for three.”
“I always knew you were gonna go places.”
“I’d love to catch up, but we better just get down to business here,” Mike said. “This is all routine, but I just gotta ask you a few questions here.”
“Shoot,” I said.
He asked me some questions—how long have I been working at the bar, did I know Debbie O’Reilley, and other questions I could’ve answered without even thinking. Then he said, “And can you tell me what your whereabouts were last night?”
He must’ve seen the look I was giving him because then he said, “This is all routine. We just try to get little snapshots of the way things were last night and it helps us put a bigger picture together.”
“I was working at the bar,” I said.
“When did you arrive?”
“Around six.”
“And when did you leave?”
“Early—around eleven-thirty. I was fuckin’ zonked. I got home from Vegas three o’clock yesterday afternoon.”
“What were you doing in Vegas?”
“Losing my balls, getting laid. The usual.”
Mike smiled, writing in his notepad.
“Let me ask you something else,” Mike said. “Do you think Gary O’Reilley would kill his stepmother?”
“That’s what the reporters were asking me before. Jesus, I don’t know. I mean I know the kid was hotheaded, but I hope he didn’t do something like that.”
“What do you mean, ‘hot-headed’?”
“I don’t wanna bad-mouth the guy, but let’s just say he had a probl
em with the way Debbie treated Frank.”
“For example...”
“He’d say things to me about how much he hated her. I mean, I don’t know if you heard, but Debbie was a real slut. She’d come in here all the time with guys, shooting her mouth off in front of Frank, and Gary wouldn’t do anything, but you could tell it was pissing him off. Then he’d say things to me, about how he wanted to kill her, get rid of her, shit like that.”
“He said he wanted to kill her?”
“Yeah, I guess he did. I’m not saying I think he meant it. I mean a lot of people say shit like that when they’re mad. But he did say it—a couple of times.”
“How many times?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. Two or three. Maybe it was more than that.”
“Did he tell you anything specific? I mean did he say he had a weapon of any kind?”
“No, nothing like that. Like I said, it was just talk.”
“Did you see Gary O’Reilley yesterday?”
“Nah, I haven’t seen him since Monday night, when he stormed out of here.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“He had a fight with Frank. Frank wanted to make me manager of the bar when he moved to Arizona and Gary was pretty pissed off.”
“Detective Edwards here tells me that you were the one who saw Gary outside the bar the night the safe was robbed.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“What about Frank O’Reilley?”
“What about him?”
“You think he could’ve killed his wife?”
“Frank? No way.”
“How could you be so sure?”
“First of all, whoever killed Debbie was an animal and Frank doesn’t have a sick bone in his body. Second of all, the guy loved his wife.”
“You said Debbie O’Reilley was always showing him up to his face. Maybe it got to him and he snapped.”