by Rob Hart
There’s got to be something here, something in the vicinity. Some kind of tip.
On the phone is a sticker with a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge on it. The rest of the phone looks like it’s been dragged through a field of rocks but the sticker is bright and clean. I run my finger over it. Not even scratched.
The napkin from the apartment. BB-M. Could mean Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan side. It makes sense as a meeting place. Plenty of public transportation nearby. And it’s crowded. Way too many people to pull a stunt.
That could work.
The pedestrian walkway is packed with joggers and walkers and bikers. It’s sunny and it’s not too cold and it’s difficult to find a clear footpath. I look for open spots, dive through them, push forward, but spend most of my time stopping and stalling. I fumble through my pockets for a smoke but can’t get it lit because the wind is too strong.
At least it’s pretty up here, the city stretched out in the sun, clear and crisp in the afternoon air, windows catching the sun. I rarely see it when it’s not shrouded in darkness. I walk past the bench where me and Chell sat, where I made the biggest mistake of our relationship. Four children eat sandwiches being passed around by a frazzled mom. They’re sitting there like it’s just a bench.
At the foot of the first tower is a guy in a trench coat holding a briefcase in one hand, a big soft pretzel in the other. He looks the most out of place among the gawkers so I figure he’s my guy. As I approach, he backs up a little, and through a mouthful of pretzel asks, “Who are you?”
“Terry Lennox sent me.”
“Do you think I’m retarded?”
“That’s offensive. But it would also make my life a whole lot easier if you were.”
He takes a step away from me, placing a hand over the briefcase. Which means, clearly, I need the briefcase.
“What’ll it cost?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“The transaction fee. Like an ATM. To let me take the case. How much?”
He thinks about it. “Two hundred.”
Fancy that, I’ve still got a few hundred in play money stuffed in the envelope. I guess they made this one easy, considering the last step was a bit of a brain bender. I count off the money and hand it over to the guy.
“Not a word to Frankie,” he says. “This was supposed to go to Terry.”
“I don’t even know Frankie.”
“When you’re done, you should check out the pretzel cart at the foot of the bridge.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
He tilts his head and bites off another chunk of his pretzel.
I take a knee and flip the case open. It’s holding two phone books, probably there to give it enough heft so that whoever picked it up would have thought it was full of something else. Nestled between them is a note.
Dear Frankie,
Consider us even.
Owen Taylor
Makes me think of the package I brought to T-Rex’s. My life is stupid lately. When I look up the guy in the trench coat is gone.
I toss the briefcase onto the ground and lean onto the railing. This time I get a cigarette lit. I look north, up the Hudson River. This is exhausting. I wish I could skip to the end. But feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to figure this out.
Next step, next step, next step…
The way you find something you’ve lost is to retrace your steps. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
I turn and smack right into two bearded hipsters assholes. I think maybe they’re just in my way so I try to walk around them but they box me into the corner against the railing. It takes a moment before I recognize them from Dymphna’s.
The big one is a redhead, with a beard showing blonde and white in spots. He smiles. “Hey Ashley.” He leans on it heavy, like he doesn’t want me to forget I have a girl’s name.
The thin one, his blond, salon-quality hair floating in the wind, says, “Our friend is looking for you.”
I ask, “So, you’re the guys who tried to stab me.”
The blond strokes the cast that extends from his fingertips, down to the middle of his forearm. “Thanks for this, by the way.”
“You pulled a fucking knife on me. What did you think was going to happen?”
“Most people cool it when they see a knife.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint. But I’m not sorry for breaking your hand. You deserved it.” I lean against the railing, contemplate my cigarette. They’re standing in my personal space and I don’t like it. “So your friend wants to see me? The king? You can go back and tell him I’m busy. I don’t have time for his bullshit.”
“You don’t understand.” The redhead pats the waist of his jeans. There’s a bulge, and it’s not a penis. “You’re coming with us.”
Another one of my rash decisions comes around to bite me in the ass. The problem I’m having is this: If they saw me talking to the other guy, then the game is blown and Cairo or Paulsen or whatever the fuck his name is, he’s going to get wise to what I’m doing.
But maybe they were just following me, and they don’t know about the game. That’s within the realm of possibility, I think. I don’t want to ask and tip them off. So I settle on another question. “What’s on that drive that you want it so bad?”
The redhead shakes his head. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“Fine. I don’t have it on me anyway. How’d you guys find me?”
The blond says, “We have people everywhere.”
“So if I come with you guys, what happens?”
“The king has some questions for you.”
“Well, you’re not going to shoot me in the middle of the bridge. That gives me a pretty distinct advantage.”
The redhead says, “It doesn’t matter how fast you run, you have to slow down eventually.”
I smile. “Point taken.”
We’re on a public landmark with a lot of foot-traffic, which means there’s got to be some sort of anti-terrorism SWAT team hidden around here somewhere. At the top of my lungs I scream, “These two guys have a bomb and they’re trying to blow up the bridge!”
Fear takes hold like an electrical storm.
People run and scream, but they don’t know what direction to go so they swarm us. The redhead can’t pull his weapon. Within moments there’s a cop working his way toward us but he’s moving slow, pushed back by a tide of terrified tourists.
The two hipsters are looking at me with wide eyes.
“See ya, assholes,” I tell them.
And I jump over the railing.
When I was lost in thought, staring over the railing and feeling sorry for myself, I noticed traffic was moving pretty slow. About a hundred feet from where I was standing it opened up like a floodgate after passing a construction crew.
So I do the absolute dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, which is saying something.
First I feel air, and then the sharp crack of roadway as I tuck my legs underneath me and try to keep my head from rolling under the tire of a moving car. I land on my right leg and pain hits me like a tidal wave. My hat falls off and rolls in front of a truck. I grab it just before it’s crushed.
Cars slow down to avoid hitting me, drivers slamming on their horns. There’s a cab to my left so I open the door and crawl inside. The driver yells at me in a language I don’t know.
I tell him, “My car broke down. I’ll pay you whatever you want, just take me to the bottom of the bridge. Get me down to Chambers.”
He argues with me while keeping with the flow of traffic. “Sir, I cannot pick up a fare on the bridge. Please get out of my cab.”
“I bet it’s against the rules to discharge a fare on the bridge, so it’s sort of a catch-twenty-two then. Help me out, my car broke down and some guy bumped his car into me and knocked me down.”
“Where’s your car, sir?”
“It’s back there, it doesn’t matter, just keep up with the traffic and let’s get out of here.”
“Twenty dollars to Chambers.”
Actual cost on the meter, probably three bucks. I don’t say anything because twenty is much less than I planned on giving him.
When we get down to street level I hand him a hundred dollar bill. He looks at it and back at me. I tell him, “Forget what I look like.”
“Sir.”
“Forget me.”
And with that, I limp my way into the crowd to find another cab. I take it north, change cabs at Union Square. The third one I get into is the one that takes me back to the apartment in Chinatown.
My phone buzzes as I climb the stairs of the apartment building. The number is blocked.
A voice on the other end asks, “Johnny?”
I get confused for a second, forget that’s my assumed name, but then recognize that it’s Iva and she’s talking to me. I tell her, “Yes.”
“Just wanted to see how things were going. If everything was okay?” Her voice is confused, expectant. Like she wants to be able to see me right now. I wonder if she’s setting me up, trying to figure out where I am so the hipster thugs can come back after me. Or maybe I’m being paranoid.
I tell her, “Just got a little tied up taking care of something.”
“How’s the search?”
“Good. Going good.”
“Okay. I mean. Just wanted to let you know. Sometimes the easiest way to find someone is to retrace your steps.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” And I hang up the phone.
I must be running behind, which means I need to move faster. The lines here are crossing way too close.
The apartment is exactly how I left it. Doesn’t even look like there’s been anyone in here since me. I flop onto the bed and the cheap springs squeak underneath me. I lay there, just to catch my breath, until I realize the light on the answering machine is flashing. I press the ‘play’ button.
“Terry, you moron, it’s Frankie. Get up to the courts at Astoria Park.”
Click.
Queens. Goddamn Queens.
For the first time in a long time, I’ll have to consult a subway map.
I flash Lindsay’s picture to a dozen people around the Astoria Park basketball courts and they all look at me sideways. Just a bunch of young kids playing around, none of them looking like they’re expecting a mysterious stranger.
So I get a cup of coffee and a pack of smokes from the corner bodega and sit on a bench and use the two to keep me awake. I can’t remember the last time I was in Queens that I wasn’t trying to get somewhere else.
I keep waiting for something to happen and nothing does. Iva called when I was running late and now I’m sitting here and no hints, no nothing. Granted, I played express train roulette, hoping between the subways that skipped stations, and probably shaved a good twenty minutes off the trip. But still. Nothing.
Unless I’m wrong.
The guy on the message said to meet him at the courts. He didn’t specify which courts, he just said courts. And he sounded like a Goodfellas reject.
I’m an idiot. An old Italian guy isn’t going to be playing basketball.
It doesn’t take long to find the bocce courts, and a couple of goombas in polo shirts and slacks. One of the guys, with slicked-back hair and a heavy gold chain around his neck, looks up at me and stares. He looks away, hoists a lime-green ball, and tosses it at a bunch of yellow balls, scoring a couple of points. At least I think he does, because the guys on the opposing side don’t look happy.
I call out to him. “Frankie.”
He waves to his friends and walks over to me. Stares at me like he’s trying to exert his dominance, says, “I do not know you.” He talks like he’s bored with me. “What’s your name?”
“Johnny.”
He swings his arms so wide he nearly hits my face, as he talks to everyone in the world except me. “Nice hat. Did it come with a free bowl of soup?”
“I saw Caddyshack too. Let’s get serious for a moment. I’m here about your business with Terry Lennox.”
He snaps his fingers. Two burly guys, both in velour track suits, materialize at my side. Frankie steps forward and asks, “Where is Terry?”
I take a shot in the dark. “I have no idea. But I do know where your case is.”
He pauses. His eyes narrow. “Do you have it?”
“I do. Not here.”
“Bring it to me.”
“Not for free. But I’ll trade it.”
“What do you want?”
“Information.”
He crosses his arms. “What do you want to know?”
“I need to find Terry.”
“That’s too bad. Because I need to find him first.”
“Well, really, I just need to find the girl he’s with. So I’ll make you a deal. I won’t touch Terry. I won’t even tell him you’re coming. But I need to know how to track him down.”
Frankie looks at his men, then at me. He waves them off. They walk away but they keep staring at me like they want to murder me. Frankie says, “I don’t know where Terry is. But I know where you can find his girl. Little bar down in Tribeca called The Patriot. She’s a bartender.”
“Back to fucking Manhattan then.”
I turn to leave and Frankie calls out after me. “What about the case?”
“It won’t be of much use to you.”
“Why not?”
“It was full of phone books and a note from some guy named Owen Taylor. I could go get you the case but all you’ll have is a briefcase. It’s not even that nice.”
“Owen.” Frankie shakes his head. “Damn it. Damn Owen, damn Terry.” He takes out his cell phone. Without looking at me he says, “You can go now. But you should stop up the block at Ray’s.” He kisses the tips of his fingers and fans them out. “They make a beautiful slice of pizza.”
I figured it out. Or I figured something out, which is better than all the nothing I’ve been figuring out.
This is a game for tourists. It’s an interactive walking tour. That’s why everyone is pushing food on me. The restaurants and bar are probably helping sponsor the thing, for the increased foot traffic. Between not stopping to eat, and knowing how to get around quick, I’ve been able to keep pace.
This is the perfect sort of thing for a tourist with a little adventure in his heart, some time to kill, and a desire to see the far-flung neighborhoods that don’t make it into the movies.
I must be getting toward the end. The sun is starting its downward arc and I’m being sent back into the heart of the city.
A black gypsy cab is sitting at the curb, the driver leaning against it, eating a sandwich wrapped in white butcher paper. Gypsy cabs aren’t supposed to pick people up on the street, but when he sees the wad of cash he doesn’t ask questions, just points toward the back as he crams the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.
When he asks me where to go I tell him Tribeca and we pull into traffic. But then I figure, I’m in Queens, in a car, and I may have some time to spare. So I tell him to take me down Merrick Boulevard first.
Yellow planks with sloppy red lettering, just like I saw in the aerial shot on the television the morning Chell died. I tell the driver to stop and wait.
I wander into the lot, where there’s some ripped-up police tape caught on a pile of broken wooden planks, flapping in the wind. Other than that, no evidence of what happened here. The cops must have picked this place clean.
I walk around the property, a small patch of dirt covered with broken glass and old tires and scraps of metal, blocked from the street and the surrounding sidewalks. A little alcove the people who live around here probably don’t even know exists. I could scream my head off and the nearest apartment building is so far back no one would hear me.
I take a knee, run my fingers over the ground. It’s cold and unforgiving and doesn’t smell anything like lavender.
Is this where he did it? Or did he do it in his van?
Did he strip her naked before he did it,
or after? Was she drugged, or fully aware of his body crushing her?
Why am I asking these questions?
I close my eyes and I see Chell’s face, contorted in pain. So clear, like she’s right in front of me.
You promised.
Who promised?
Behind me there’s a crunch and I hear, “Mister McKenna.”
Detective Medina walks toward me a smile so wide it looks painful. “You know, we’ve had a guy sitting outside here for the past few days. Some crazy idea about maybe the killer returning to the scene of the crime.” He points over his shoulder at Grabowski lurking by the car like a mountain in the mist. “As luck would have it, me and my partner here decided to do some thinking, talk the case over, and we figured maybe we should do it here. He was just saying, and I mean just saying, how it was a waste of time. That no one would be stupid enough to come back to the scene of a body drop. So, Mister McKenna, do you want to tell me exactly what the hell you’re doing here?”
I shake my head at him. “I’m sorry, are you still talking?”
He pulls a pair of handcuffs from his belt and lets them dangle in his hand.
“Mister McKenna, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions down at the station. Would you like to take a ride with us?”
“Not really, no.”
“It’s not a request.”
“Well, you fucking framed it like a question, asshole.”
Medina sticks his finger in the air and twirls it around. I turn and as he slaps the cuffs on me, the cab driver shrugs his shoulders, salutes me, and drives off.
Small wonders. Instead of some station in Queens they bring me back to the 9th Precinct, a few blocks from Bombay’s. At least I got a free ride back into the borough, even though it was an awkward trip. No one said a thing the entire way. Grabowski shot Medina a couple of long, judgmental looks from the passenger seat.
The interrogation room walls are mental-institution green, polka-dotted with hard water stains. There’s a big, scratched window that I think I can see flashes of movement behind. Other than that there’s a scratched metal table and scratched metal chair across from me. Everything is scratched. It smells like mildew and sweat.