“You’re right, I’m afraid. I’m just tracking down a missing homeless man.”
“I see. Bits and pieces.” He shook his head and puffed on the little cigar. The gray smoke gave off a hint of cinnamon. “I’ll watch the fire from Jersey City.”
He went back to his files, and Taylor headed to the subway. Not far away, orange flames inside of billowing black smoke were still consuming the apartment building.
When Taylor arrived at his desk, Lou Marmelli was pissed off, his watery green eyes glaring. The obituaries editor resented typing one more word than his self-established daily quota, and the calls from the funeral homes had come in thick and fast. The arctic weather killed six old people overnight, in their homes or in hospitals. Pneumonia was the featured player. Taylor offered to handle all of them. That calmed Marmelli down enough to go downstairs to get tea, though probably that break included a stop at the City Desk to whisper a complaint in Worth’s ear.
Taylor propped the Polaroid of the dead kid against an empty coffee cup and studied it. He slid it across the desk then held back for a second. He didn’t want to feel stupid or crazy or both, but he couldn’t help himself. He finished the trip to place the snapshot side by side with the framed picture of an Army corporal in dress uniform. His brother, Billy. The same brown hair. The resemblance ended there, though. Billy’s features were handsome enough yet lacked the boy’s delicacy. Billy’s nose had been broken twice in Golden Gloves. His eyes were brown and fierce in the way they searched out something inside, perhaps behind, the camera lens. The boy’s were empty gray in death. Taylor leaned the Polaroid back against the cup.
The Criss+Cross Directory provided a phone number for Joshua Harper’s address in Queens. A woman answered and said she and her husband bought the house from Marion Harper almost two years ago. Did she have a forwarding address? No, but she knew Marion moved to Topeka. She asked Taylor to tell the paperboy to stop trying to get them to take the Empty. Her husband was a Daily News man.
Topeka directory assistance had two Marion Harpers. The first was eighty and near deaf. The second answered on the third ring. She was Joshua Harper’s wife.
“I don’t want to talk to the paper. Why should I? I split with him two years ago. Leave me alone.”
“I’m just trying to find him on behalf of some friends.”
“Friends? What kind of joke is this? He’s already been found. The police phoned yesterday. He’s dead. Isn’t that what you’re calling about?”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Taylor straightened as his missing person search became something else.
“Are you? Why?” Her voice was hard.
“Some people here were worried about him. He’ll be missed.”
“You don’t ….” Her voice softened. “Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t wish him dead. I stopped crying for Joshua a long time ago. Jimmy doesn’t need any more tears. Joshua kept telling me he was sick. He wasn’t sick. He was weak. Ruined everything we had in New York.”
“The NYPD called you?”
“No, Akron police.”
“Akron?”
“They said he had a heart attack in the Greyhound station. He’d been there all night. He had no money on him and a ticket that only got him that far. He was coming out here to see us. To see Jimmy, our son. To talk to me, he said, all sozzled when he called a couple days ago. I don’t know what made him head out during this awful freeze. Or maybe I do. Another one of the brilliant ideas he got on a bender. I didn’t want this to happen, but I didn’t want him to get here either. That was the last thing I needed. So, in a way, maybe I wished him dead. That’s what I’ve been crying about all morning. The only thing.”
She hung up.
Marion Harper was the first widow he’d talked to since moving to obits. Now there was an irony. He was used to grief from the police beat. It was like listening to the same tune over and over again, while waiting for that one different riff, the piece of information that mattered. God help him, he missed everything about being a police reporter.
The Akron Police Department confirmed the death.
Taylor couldn’t write an obituary for Joshua Harper; Lou Marmelli would never allow a nobody on his page. Death notices, on the other hand, were for everybody. More accurately, for the nobodies who didn’t merit obits. Families paid fifty cents a word for classified ads printed at the bottom of the obituaries page in tiny, seven-point type.
Harper’s personnel file gave Taylor enough to write the notice. He added one more line. “He leaves behind his beloved wife Marion and son James of Topeka.” He put his address down for the billing department. Obit duty was making him soft. Or maybe he couldn’t stand to see Harper miss his one shot at making it into the paper.
Taylor put a call into the missing persons bureau. A harried clerk said he’d “try” to call back with reports on all the teens from the past couple weeks. Try was the kiss of death from an NYPD clerk. He’d have to go down there and wait until he got the information he wanted. The dead boy hadn’t lived on the street much more than two weeks. That he was sure of.
He spent the rest of the morning churning out one obit after another, hardly noticing what he was writing as he strung together the laundry lists the morticians read off to him. At two, he dropped the last copy in Marmelli’s box and put on his jacket.
“Lunch.”
“It’s a lunch hour. Remember that.”
Chapter 5
Taylor took an empty stool at the counter of the Odysseus Coffee Shop at Madison and 75th. The red vinyl seats still shone like new. That was his grandfather’s handiwork.
“You see the Acropolis there,” Grandpop explained to him once, pointing at the picture on the wall of the Oddity, the name regulars gave the coffee shop. “Place like that, wonder of the world, doesn’t fall apart all at once. It’s little cracks. That’s what starts it crumbling. I’m not letting that happen to my restaurant. I fix the little cracks right away.”
Two minutes after Taylor’s arrival, his grandfather slid a cheese omelet onto the counter and filled a coffee mug.
“You look awful, Coleridge.”
“Grandpop!”
“All right. Then Col. I won’t call you by just a last name like we’re truck drivers working together.”
Grandpop, barrel-chested and wearing his year-round uniform of an apron over a white T-shirt and dungarees, stood behind the counter holding the glass coffeepot. He had a big head, big hands, and bright dark eyes. The old man claimed he always knew Taylor’s order. He usually did. Taylor liked an omelet when he was at a loss for what to do next.
The aroma of omelets and coffee enticed him and he dug in. The spikey taste of onion mingled with the cheddar cheese. Just the way he liked it. He followed with the coffee and went over what he had so far. There was the unidentified dead boy, the jacket sewn with flags, and its owner, the missing Mark Voichek. Plus the late Joshua Harper. They weren’t all linked, but one way or another, he had been chasing all of them at once. He walked a difficult line, trying to prove himself to Worth and Marmelli before they could fire him. He hadn’t thought through how he’d work a story on the side. It was easy to forget the challenge when he was out after a lead in the Bronx. The difficulty crashed down on him after three hours of pounding out obits.
“Why are you dodging me?”
Laura Wheeler had arrived unannounced. Though angry, she was still beautiful, with thick, raven hair and dark brown eyes that snapped with emotion.
He turned on the stool. “Listen, I’m sorry. I wasn’t dodging you, not really.”
“Bullshit!” Her dark brown eyes flashed. “You were. Or you wouldn’t be apologizing.”
Two cabbies at the counter looked over.
“Hello, Laura.” Grandpop moved down the counter and addressed her as if he hadn’t heard a thing. “Very nice to once again see one of my grandson’s colleagues at the great New York Messenger-Telegram. Col, show some manners. Take Laura to a table. Booth six in the corner. Very
private.”
“I don’t think Laura wants—”
“Hello, Stamitos. I’d love lunch. Your grandson’s a hard man to track down.” She turned and headed in the direction of the booth.
Taylor got up and moved to take his plate and coffee cup. Grandpop waved him away. “You’re not working here today. Go sit down.”
Taylor slid across the bench, and Grandpop delivered his lunch. “What can I get you, Laura?”
“That omelet looks great. Tomatoes and green peppers, please.”
“No cheese, Laura? American? Swiss? Good feta?”
“No cheese, thank you.”
“Col, you want anything else?”
“I’m fine.”
His grandfather left with what was supposed to be a sly backward glance.
“I’ve met someone who gets to use your first name.” Laura sounded impressed.
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“You wish.” She smiled, and like any smile that played across her face, it made her more stunning. “Why are you pissed at me?”
“I’m not.”
“So, Roddy’s right. You’re pissed at everyone?”
“That the prevailing view in the cop shop?” He took a bite of omelet.
“Look, I figured you needed some space. All that pride. You’re in a deep funk. So I gave you a month. Two months go by and you’re still avoiding everyone at the paper but Worthless. Of all people! Him and that old fart who runs obits. I call and you ignore my messages. You’ve helped me more than anyone else at the MT.”
“I can’t help you now. I’m an obituary writer.”
“You’re the best goddamned reporter in the place.”
The passion in her voice forced Taylor to raise his eyes from his plate. Laura’s porcelain-white skin reddened delightfully at any sort of emotion—anger, embarrassment, happiness.
He didn’t have a good answer. “I don’t need your pity.”
“No, you don’t. You’re wallowing in it fine all on your own. I stopped by again this morning. How can an obit writer be out of the office so much?”
“I was over in the South Bronx.”
“South Bronx?”
“I’ve got a lead on a good story, believe it or not.” He couldn’t help it. He needed to talk to someone. He told her about the search for Joshua Harper and Mark Voichek, all to ID a dead kid at Bellevue. He threw in the Street Sweepers for good measure.
“Man, Taylor, I’d hate to see what you’d do if they put you on the society desk.”
In spite of himself, Taylor chuckled and shook his head. “What do you want from me, Laura?”
“I’m worried about you. You’re one of the smart ones in that place.”
“That’s not saying much.”
“And to be honest,” she sipped her coffee, “I need your help.”
“Help?” It surprised him. He was having a hard enough time helping himself.
“They’re sticking me with all the nickel-and-dime stories. Two alarms, B&Es. Half don’t even make the Metro Briefs. Worse, they’ve got me doing research for other reporters. You know why? Because I’m a woman. Merton is covering a multiple on the Upper West Side. He just got out of grad school. Even I’ve been there longer.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“He’s a man. That’s all he needs. I talked with Kathy Loring on the political desk. Unless I want to work the society beat, girls end up doing research at the mighty MT, beacon of reform and liberality.”
Grandpop set Laura’s plate and coffee down. She took a bite and smiled. “Mmm, that’s so good, Stamitos. Your food is amazing.” Her cheeks tinged pink. “My plan is to uncover my own leads. I want your help.”
“Welcome to the find-your-own-story club.”
Grandpop topped off their coffee cups. He was visiting the table at least twice as often as necessary. He squeezed Taylor’s shoulder as he went back to the counter.
“I like your grandfather.”
“Such an old dear.”
“I don’t mean it that way. He cares about you. It’s obvious.”
“He’s the best my family has. Left, that is.”
“Your family did pretty well by you.”
He stabbed a couple of fries and a piece of his omelet. He so missed talking to Laura. Was she interested in him or his story ideas? He had never been sure. Christ, trying to figure out what a woman wanted turned him into a complete idiot. Everyone seemed to be playing by a different rulebook. The younger women, certainly. The sexual revolution and all that. The ones in their thirties, like him? They’d settled down long ago with other men after adding up the hours and pay of a newspaperman.
The silence opened between them. Two months ago, they’d talked all the time about crimes, stories, and competitors. What to bring up? Taylor would die before he’d talk about writing obits.
“I watched Dragnet last night.” Laura smiled. “It made me think of you.”
“How’s that?”
“Joe Friday is always saying that thing, ‘Just the facts, ma’am.’ ”
“That’s very funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. That’s you. You always say it’s about the facts, always about the facts.”
“ ‘Facts are stubborn things. Whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passion, they cannot alter the state of facts.’ John Adams.”
“You don’t usually throw quotes around. That’s Worth’s habit.”
“Okay, that hurt.” He clutched his heart in mock pain. “There’s only a couple I’ve liked enough to memorize. I do get the facts. Enough of them and I know what happened. Then I write the story.”
“You still trying to find the girl?”
“Yes.”
“You got the facts on her. It was an incredible story.”
Taylor stared at her. “You know it was a fraud.” Gloom dropped over him. It was as if the mistake followed him around, waiting for someone to bring it up.
“No. You said the cop who introduced you to the little girl was a fraud. The girl wasn’t.”
“I can’t prove it.”
“You watched her mother jab a needle into her skinny arm. I can see it like I was there. You wrote it that well.”
“Everyone believes I invented the whole damn thing.”
“I believe you.” A simple declarative sentence followed by a simple declarative smile. “I’ll help. If you find Tinker Bell, everyone believes your story. You’re back on cops. I can do a lot of reporting while pulling files for the boys at the MT.”
“All right. Since we’re both looking for stories, come with me.” Taylor got up, determined to move rather than wallow. He stopped at the gray cash register. “I’ll pay for both, Grandpop.”
“No you won’t.” Laura pulled a big wallet out of her bag.
“No you won’t,” echoed Grandpop. “Nobody pays. Family guests never pay.”
“But Stamitos—”
“No buts. Go make the city safe for truth and democracy.”
“I wouldn’t argue with him.” Taylor put his wallet away. “No one ever wins.”
“Not even you?”
“Definitely not me.”
They headed for the door.
“I’d pay to see that.”
“Save your money.” Taylor pulled open the door and the bell jingled.
“For what?”
“Buy me a drink.”
“You let girls buy you drinks?”
“Nope, only women.”
“Let me think of a place. Tomorrow night work?”
“It does.”
Chapter 6
In Duffy Square, Taylor and Laura stopped in front of the statue of Jimmy Cagney. Really it was George M. Cohan. That was the problem with fiction. It cast a shadow over reality. The whores and pimps of the night before were gone, replaced by three-card Monte teams, yelling and waving hands so violently Taylor was sure they weren’t working marks yet. Each team’s lookout loung
ed half a block away in such obvious fashion it was clear the biggest surprise to any of them would be actual cops coming to bust up the games. The barkers for the sex shows had been replaced by the day shift. Same clothes, same gestures, same patter. A string of scruffy students lined up at the TKTS booth for half-price Broadway shows.
Taylor leaned his shoulder against the statue’s rough granite plinth and looked across the intersection of Broadway and Seventh Avenue. Here was the “X” that marked the Crossroads of the World. A low gray ceiling swirled above. A front was coming down from the Great Lakes. Snow was in the air, the wet odor of a lot of snow. The temperature had moved up to 20, balmy if it weren’t for the damp. Laura hugged her black parka tighter, and people hurried by with their heads down. The chill from the granite seeped through the layers of Taylor’s clothing into his shoulders until he had to straighten up to escape the ache.
“Who are we waiting for?” Laura asked.
“A source of mine. A leader of the homeless of sorts.”
“That story you did? About the homeless guy who was beat to death. You quoted a guy named Harry Jansen.”
“Good memory.”
“Your stories stick.”
He turned to see if she was joking. The Nanook-of-the-North coat hid her curves. Another curse of the extended winter. Inside the tube hood, her mouth was drawn in a serious line. He was wrong. He didn’t know how to deal with her on this basis. Kidding around always made everything easier. Less risky.
“Here he comes.”
Harry Jansen crossed from the west side of Broadway. He wore a poncho that flapped up in the wind like black wings.
“This is Laura Wheeler, a colleague at the paper.”
“A pleasure, Miss Wheeler. Or is it Miz?”
“It’s Miz, or I’d like it to be. The newspaper business is pretty old-fashioned. Call me Laura.”
“Hello, Laura. It remains a pleasure.” Jansen looked at the statue. “I’m mighty glad I’m living, that’s all.” He patted the base. “It’s from one of his songs. No one remembers it now. ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy,’ ‘Give My Regards to Broadway,’ ‘Over There.’ Those people recall. The upbeat, patriotic ones. Never, ‘I’m Mighty Glad I’m Living, That’s All.’ I wonder why?”
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