by Rob Hart
It also looks so much like the set of Law & Order: SVU that this feels like someone is playing a joke. I expect Benson and Stabler to come in to question me.
The cuffs are digging into my skin and I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes already. This doesn’t bode well. I need to be at The Patriot. I need to be out of here now. I need for rational things to happen. I’ve stopped holding my breath.
The door slams open and Medina marches in, dragging a chair across the floor. The harsh squeal echoes in the small room. He undoes the cuffs and I stretch my arms, get the blood flowing into my hands.
He places a tan folder on the table in front of me. Next to that he puts down my umbrella, then pokes it with his finger. “That’s an interesting thing to carry around.”
“Those five dollar bodega umbrellas can’t stand up to a gust of wind. I wanted something a little more sturdy.”
“This is a weapon. I can throw you in a cell just for this.”
Fine. If this is the way it’s going to be, then I’m going to play to my strengths by making it worse. I tell him, “Guns are for pussies. What model firearm do you carry?”
“Funny. We’ll see how long you’re laughing.”
“Look, I don’t know what kind of power trip you’re on today, Detective Keystone, but I’m exhausted and my tolerance meter is completely run out. Am I under arrest?”
“Being a wise guy isn’t helping your case.”
“Now I’m on trial? What’s your name again?”
“Medina.”
“Great, thanks. You’re so insignificant to me I forgot. What were you saying about being a wise guy?”
He nods and smiles, lifts up the folder and lets it drop open in front of me. It’s an old file, the pages inside yellowed with age. I don’t even need to read it to know what it’s about. I nod toward it. “Funny that you have files. There were never any formal charges filed.”
“Well, the police department likes to keep files on individuals such as yourself.”
“Such as myself.”
I knew this would never be behind me. It’s the reason I don’t like cops. Very long story told short: Back in high school I knew this girl, and she got raped at a party, and I found the kid who did it. The way I hear it, he still walks with a cane.
It was the first time I felt skin split under my fists.
Problem was, the kid’s dad was a cop.
The memory of what came after stings. The cops harassing me on my way to school, confiscating my books as evidence in some crime they could never describe. The nighttime phone calls to my mom telling her I was dead. The broken window on her car. My dad was gone at this point, but my mom got in touch with his friends in the fire union. They got things settled.
It goes away and you think it’s gone, but it’s not.
Medina says, “You beat up a cop’s kid. Hurt him real bad. Violent individuals, such as yourself, tend to get an early start on that kind of thing. And you got started all the way back in high school. I guess this is a long time coming.”
“And I guess that paperwork doesn’t say that cop’s kid was a rapist. Look him up now. He’s doing a stretch his daddy couldn’t get him out of.”
“I don’t see that report here. In fact, there’s no indication of any kind of rape claim from when you were in school with him. So you know what I think?”
“That you’re ignoring the rape that put him in jail so you can fuck me? This is a stats thing, isn’t it? It’s easier to arrest me so at the end of the month the brass doesn’t wonder why stuff’s not getting done. This is why no one trusts cops. Even the ones who claim to be good will protect the bad ones without question.”
He smiles, not listening. Hungry. “I see a history of violent behavior. I see someone who doesn’t have a good alibi. I think you see what I see.”
“I see a detective who needs to close a case and is willing to smack it on an innocent person to keep his numbers up. That’s what I see.”
He closes the file, asks, “Want to tell my why you were in her apartment after she died?”
Dammit. The couple who found me after I cleaned up the gunshot wound. They must have called it in, Medina matched the description. I take it back. He’s a passable cop. I tell him, “She borrowed my blender. I loved that blender.”
“Let me tell you what I think. You were looking for something.”
“Wow. You’ll make captain in no time.”
He’s getting angry but he doesn’t want to show it. Not sure if that plays in my favor or against. He asks, “You left quite a mess back there. Why don’t you tell me the truth, huh, about why you went back?”
“Why don’t you believe me about the blender?”
He puts aside the report and folds his hands in front of him on the table, asks, “Did you kill her?”
“You know what? I don’t even think I’m under arrest. I think you’re just an asshole. I want a lawyer.”
“I know who you are. I know who your father was. Don’t think that gives you any kind of special treatment in here. In fact, I thought I would get a little professional courtesy.”
This suddenly stops being funny.
I tell him, “In one day my father made this world a better place and then he died for it. You’re a bully with a badge. And you will never, ever deserve to be spoken of in the same tone as him. He was a hero. You’re a joke.”
I’m spitting by the time I finish the sentence, choking on my words. Medina pauses, wide-eyed. Then he shakes it off, pushes out from the table and comes to my side, looms over me. “I like you for this. Which is why we’re going to swab you for DNA, match you to this murder, and put your ass in jail.”
I laugh at him. “You want my DNA? Here.”
And I spit on the table.
He nods his head, puts his hand on the back of my neck, and slams my forehead into the wet spot. Pain ricochets through my skull like a rubber ball. Over the course of my life I’ve taken many blows to the head, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen stars. I didn’t even know that was possible.
When my vision swims back into focus there’s a splotch of blood on the table where my forehead connected with it.
Medina says, “Are you all right? You seem to have slipped there.”
I get up and take a step, fall to the floor. He puts his hands under my arms and pulls me to my feet, or tries to because I don’t want to cooperate, when another cop comes into the room. The new guy looks very angry. “Detective. Outside. Now.”
Medina lets me fall to the floor and leaves the room. I stumble around like I’m dizzy. I figure if I pretend to have a concussion they’ll feel obligated to take me to the hospital instead of putting me in holding.
Also, I might have a concussion.
Another officer comes in, this guy clearly a desk cop, because he’s too heavy to be expected to chase people down a street. He’s also way too earnest. He asks, “Are you okay?”
I steady myself on the chair and stare off into space, shake my head like he asked me a question about nuclear physics. He takes my arm and leads me through the station and I see Medina through the glass window of an office where he’s getting screamed at by a guy in a fancy uniform. Grabowski is standing there too, off to the side, arms crossed. Good. I flip Medina off but he doesn’t see it.
We get outside and the cop brings me to a squad car. “Look, this is a tough case, kid. Everyone’s under a lot of pressure. Medina can be a little gung-ho… he’s just trying to do the right thing. Maybe we can just call this no harm, no foul?”
“You’re kidding, right? This asshole brought me in and tried to split my skull open and you want me to forget it? Like it was a happy accident?”
The cop shrugs. Smiles. He’s genial. Probably used to doing this. “We’re going to get you to a hospital. Get this taken care of. We’ll make it right. No need to turn it into a thing, you know what I mean?”
“I don’t need a hospital. I need to go.”
“Regulation. Sorry ki
d.”
There’s no one else around and he’s not spry enough to chase me so I fall to a knee and tell him, “I need orange juice.”
“What?”
“I’m diabetic. I need orange juice or a candy bar or something.”
“We’re getting you to a hospital right now.”
“No, orange juice first. If you don’t get me some sugar I’m going to have a seizure and I could crack my head open on the pavement.” I look up at him. “Please. I’ll wait right here.”
The cop pats me on the shoulder and nods. He looks genuinely concerned. Which makes me feel bad for the fact that by the time he comes back out, I’m gone.
Me disappearing isn’t going to look good, but now the pressure to get this thing solved is weighing on me a little heavier. If only because Medina clearly has some kind of misappropriated hard-on for me.
As I duck around the corner the world spins on an invisible axis. I grab the side of the building to steady myself. I probably should go to a hospital, but I’m passed the point of patience.
I just need something to set me straight first.
Snow White is sitting outside, just like she always is when I need her. I sit on the step of her building and tell her, “Sixty.”
“No small talk, huh?” She reaches into the coin pocket of my jeans for the money. Then she gets a good look at the welt on my forehead. “Babe, you’re bleeding.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
She shakes her head. “Your call.”
When she pulls her hand away the vial of coke has replaced the money. I duck into the bathroom of the bar next door.
The first rip wakes me up.
The second brings the world into focus.
I’ll save the rest for later. The mirror shows me things I don’t want to see so I try not to look, just get myself straightened out, wipe down my face with a wet paper towel. It comes back pink with blood.
At the bar I order three shots of whiskey. The bartender looks around to see who else I’m with as he pours them. I throw them back one after another. Outside I light a cigarette, let the tastes mingle at the back of my throat.
Fuck moderation.
My umbrella is back at the precinct. It would probably be bad form to go and ask for it back. Doesn’t matter. I don’t need it anymore.
As soon as I walk into The Patriot, I fall in love with the place. The wood is stained and rotting, the floor sags, the stools don’t look safe, and the paint on the walls is peeling. Cheap drink prices are scrawled on blackboards in multi-colored chalk, and country music is blasting from the juke box. The entire place reeks with the sweet bread smell of dried beer. It’s a real dive, not dive-chic.
First thought: I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.
Second: I wonder if the bars in Austin are like this.
Third: I need more coke.
After topping off in the bathroom, I climb the uneven stairs to the second floor. There’s a lot to take in but only one thing I notice. Up on the bar is a girl in jeans and nothing else, swinging her hips in time with Willie Nelson’s voice. Her body is so perfect she looks like a mirage. There’s a crowd of guys belly-up to the bronze, drool pouring in rivers down their faces.
I slide up to the bar and she shimmies over, leans down and ruins the mystique when she opens her mouth. She has a harsh Jersey accent, the kind that sounds like she’s kicking her vowels in the ribs. She asks, “What can I get you, honey?”
Her fantastic breasts are literally hanging in my face. The lengths I go to.
“Three shots of Jay,” I tell her.
She jumps down and pulls on a gray t-shirt. Every other guy in the bar looks at me like they want to shank me.
The girl puts down the shot glasses and pours the bottle of Jameson across them, and she even manages to keep from spilling too much on the bar. She asks, “Who else is drinking?”
I respond by downing all three of them. Then I put the photo of Lindsay on the bar, ask, “Where is she?”
“Lola?”
“Lindsay.”
“She called herself Lola. It helps when the regulars don’t know your real name.”
“Fair enough. Seen her lately?”
“Maybe.”
“When?”
She hesitates, looks around.
I ask, “Is she here now?”
“She just left. Half hour ago.”
“Do you know where she was going?”
“She came to get her pay but we didn’t have her envelope, so I...”
“You what?”
“Look, I’m sorry, I probably told you too much already. I shouldn’t be saying so much about Lola. Who are you anyway?”
The whole paying-for-information thing is getting old, and I’m pretty sure I lost the play-money at this point, so I lean over the bar and drop my voice. “I’m tired of this fucking game. It’s been a long night.”
“I don’t...”
“Just give me the address.”
The floor creaks behind me. A voice says, “Is this guy giving you trouble?”
The guy is in his mid-thirties, gelled hair, Ed Hardy t-shirt, but also dress slacks and wingtips, so he must have been wearing it under his suit in anticipation of going out. Wedding ring. Probably told his wife he was working late and he’s in love with the bartender and he wants to be her hero so she’ll blow him in the back.
I ask, “Do you work here?”
“No.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“Good.” I grab his shirt and twist it up in my hands, pull him close and whisper into his ear. “Then mind your fucking business.”
I push him into a stool and he crashes onto the floor. Everyone watches but no one goes to help him up. The bartender is standing with her back against the bottles that line the wall.
“Give me the address and I’ll leave,” I tell her.
She reaches in her pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper, tosses it across the bar at me. It’s an address in Alphabet City. I nod, stick in my pocket, and leave. No one tries to stop me. The guy hasn’t even gotten off the floor.
That wasn’t graceful. And she’s probably calling Paulsen to tell him I’m coming.
Which is fine. I think he knew that anyway.
Craig is sitting at the top of the subway steps with an empty paper coffee cup and a cardboard sign at his feet that says he served in the Vietnam War and could you please spare some change. When he sees me climbing toward him he waves at me but I keep going. “Not now.”
He says, “I have something.”
The two of us walk out of the way of the crowds filing up and down the stairs. He shakes the cup a little. I pull out three twenties and cram them into the cup.
“Found someone who saw the girl,” he says.
“Where?”
“Astor Place train station.”
“What was she doing?”
“Ran onto the train, like she was trying to get away from someone.”
“Did your guy see who she was running from?”
Craig nods, slowly. “You.”
A hand grips my heart, squeezes.
He holds out the cup again, like I’m going to give him some more money. I knock it out of his hand. Changes scatters across the sidewalk. “Fuck you, and fuck your friend. He’s wrong.”
Craig stoops down to pick up his money and says, “Nice knowing you.” When he’s done he gets up and walks away like I’m not standing there.
It’s not true. I know it’s not true. So someone saw me stumbling around and they saw her running to catch a train. It’s a small fucking city. I didn’t hurt Chell. I see her face when I close my eyes. Twisted in pain. It’s a reminder. That’s all it is. All it has to be.
Paulsen did it. He’s the one I’m after.
The city is in twilight, and I am more awake and more alive than I’ve ever felt, because in front of me is a building, and inside that building is Rick Paulsen. And he is the person who kill
ed Chell.
I know it.
I’m going to kill him. I know that, too. I don’t know how. With my hands, I think. I want to feel the life leave him. He has to die. You can’t do something like that and come back.
The front door is locked. I ring some bells, figuring someone will buzz me in, but the intercom doesn’t light up so I go to the building next door and use the roof to cross over.
The door leading inside has a heavy padlock on it. I find a cinder block, come back, and smash it off. This clearly isn’t the way I’m supposed to be going in, but at this point, I don’t fucking care.
The apartment is on the third floor, one of three doors on the landing. I press my ear to the door, slow my breathing, try to hear what’s going on, can only hear blood gushing through my body like a river.
I try and formulate a plan, but I’m still not even sure what I’m going to do when I find out who’s inside.
Completely bereft of ideas, I knock, and when the door opens, for a second I think I’m going to see Chell, and that this has all been a terrible, mean-spirited joke.
Instead there’s a gun in my face.
The gun is connected to the arm of an older guy with salt-and-pepper hair and a nice enough demeanor, despite the firearm.
He says, “Ashley McKenna.”
“That’s me.”
“I’ve been waiting.”
“So I guess I shouldn’t even bother pretending my name is Johnny?”
The more my eyes adjust, the more I can see of the guy. Nice face, like an aging movie star. Gray at the temples. He’s lean but not stronger or faster than me. I would kill him in a fair fight.
He says, “We made you right at the start.”
If I try and take the gun from him, I could get myself killed. No matter how bad I want to jam it down his throat, now is not the right time. I ask, “Are you going to shoot me in the face? Because at this point, you may as well warn me. I think I deserve the chance to turn the tables.”
He regards the gun, all without pulling his eye off the sight that’s aimed squarely at my nose. “No, I’m not going to shoot you. Not here. You know, it’s funny. I use this gun in the game, in Noir York. It usually has blanks in it. Do you know how hard it is to get real bullets in this city?”