Last Words

by Rich Zahradnik

  Laura looked at Taylor.

  He wasn’t even going to try for an explanation. “Have you had any more trouble at the shelter?”

  “None. Maybe you scared off the Street Sweepers for good.”

  “I hope so. I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.”

  “Joshua? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “How?”

  “Had a heart attack outside the Akron bus station.”

  “This is terrible.” Jansen’s voice lost the electric charge that made him sound like a gypsy prince. “Seven dead in two weeks for the want of simple shelter.”

  “I don’t think that’s the case with Joshua. The Akron police said it was his heart. He was trying to get to his wife and kid and ran out of money. Maybe he was drinking?”

  “I don’t see how it’s any different. What’s happening to the body?”

  “I don’t know. It’s up to the Akron cops.” Taylor understood Jansen’s anger. The man felt responsibility for his transient tribe. Some didn’t want help. Some didn’t know they needed it. An impossible job, and all the while Jansen was trying to keep himself alive.

  “His wife isn’t doing anything?”

  “I doubt it. She’s finished.”

  “Then we will. We’ll go get him.”

  “You can’t move the body. Only an undertaker can.”

  “Get us one. Get us an undertaker to move the body. We’ll give him a funeral here where his home was.”

  “Do you know what that will cost?”

  “We’ll get the money.” Jansen pulled the black poncho tight. “Please, just make the arrangements. You know all those wonderful people in the death business. Set it up. We’re not leaving Joshua in Akron.”

  “All right. I’ll make some calls.”

  “This is such a bad business. Our people are dying out here. What about the boy at Bellevue? Do you still think his death is suspicious?”

  “He wasn’t homeless, but I won’t know why he was found in Voichek’s field jacket until I talk to Voichek.”

  “The news there isn’t good either. I just don’t know how bad it is. Voichek’s certainly in trouble. He’s moving around the city, fast, never stopping long. Torres the Kid saw him about eight hours ago rushing through Port Authority.”

  “Leaving town?”

  “Torres the Kid thought so. Until Voichek hustled out back past the buses and kept on going. The Kid tried to follow. Voichek got furious. That’s not like him, particularly with the Kid. He screamed at the boy. Said everybody must stay away. Someone is after him.”

  “Who’s Torres?”

  “One of ours. Been on the street about two years. He’s thirteen, maybe fourteen. Voichek was teaching him how to survive.”

  Laura stepped in a little closer as the wind picked up. “Did the two of them have a relationship?”

  “No! Voichek looked after Torres. That was it. He’s not into boys. Not at all. Torres’ father beat him something terrible. He moved out with nowhere to go. We don’t allow abuse.”

  “You’re doing a lot better than the city shelters,” Laura said.

  “That’s why they have empty beds when it’s freezing cold. It’s fear, not madness, that puts people on steam grates.”

  Taylor pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. “If Voichek is on the run, how do we find him?”

  “Everybody’s looking. I’ve got all the vets walking the Manhattan grid like they’re scouting the Mekong.” Jansen lit a cigarette with a silver lighter, inhaled deep and blew out. The blue cloud’s tobacco scent somehow made Taylor a little warmer in the frigid air. “We will find Voichek. Whatever he’s up against, he’ll get our help. I’ll call when I have news.”

  He stepped off the curb and walked west. Two sailors in Navy pea coats and dress-white bellbottoms crossed the other way. Each had a good-looking young woman on his arm. They were all laughing. Laura nodded at the four. “Some things don’t change.”

  “Yeah, but they’re the exception now. Grandpop used to bring me here when I was a kid. My God, the place was crowded. Families, teenagers, service men, old couples, tourists. Everyone was dressed to the nines. And the lights. Neon in every color. News zippers slipping headlines around buildings. Nothing was more amazing than that Bond sign.” He pointed four stories up at the word Bond, which was all that remained. “It stretched the entire block. A giant man and woman, and between them, a waterfall four stories high. A real goddamn waterfall in the sky. The signs here were like Broadway productions. They changed them to keep everyone’s attention. Now they don’t even bother to turn the lights on.”

  “I thought that was because of the energy crisis.”

  “Times Square should be exempt. The world looks at this place.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Maybe not, but giving up is half the reason why.”

  They crossed to the west side of Broadway. The clock centered in the “O” of Bond said it was already past three-thirty. Marmelli was going to be furious. Again. Taylor couldn’t tell if he was going two steps forward and one step back or the other way around. Was he fighting to win back his old job or getting himself fired from the awful one he had?

  Laura turned to him. “Does it really matter to you whether Harper’s body gets home?”

  “I said I’d do it.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It matters to Jansen.”

  “I want to know what you care about. You’re arranging a funeral for a homeless man. I think that’s pretty amazing.”

  “Hardly.” He waved her off. “I need Jansen’s help.”

  “I know. ‘Facts are stubborn things. And whatever may be our wishes—’ ”

  “Now you’re getting it.” He smiled. “I should get back to the paper before Marmelli has kittens. You know everything about what I’m working on. Want to help?”

  “Definitely. I’ll call when I get back. I’ve got to pick up some court documents for the boys.”

  Her snorkel hood was down. She smiled and her beauty warmed him. He’d been an idiot to avoid her. He wanted to tell Laura but didn’t know how to admit the mistake without making it worse.

  She squeezed his forearm and started walking down Broadway. “I’ll find a good place for us to go tomorrow night.”

  The words slipped around One Times Square on the sole remaining news ticker:

  NORTH VIETNAMESE MARCH SOUTH THROUGH CENTRAL HIGHLANDS … CONSTRUCTION STARTS ON ALASKA PIPEPLINE … MARINER 10 HEADS BACK TOWARD MERCURY …

  For the first time in weeks, he could look forward to an evening out. He couldn’t leave it be, though. What if Laura chose somewhere he didn’t fit in? What if he came off as old-fashioned or just plain old? He shook his head at his insecurities and took the stairs down to the subway.

  Chapter 7

  As soon as Taylor was at his desk, Marmelli came over. “I will not have you disappearing for an entire afternoon.”

  “It was lunch.”

  “I’m telling you. This is your last warning.” His voice was pitched so high it had to be annoying the little dogs on Park Avenue. “I’ll go to Garfield and Worth. I didn’t want to take you in the first place.”

  Taylor’s phone rang, and he held up his hand. “Sorry, Lou, probably a funeral home.” He grabbed the receiver. He welcomed a mortician at this point.

  “I’ve missed your work, Taylor.” A familiar lisp. “You know what a fan I am.”

  “Pickwick?”

  “Did you miss me?”

  “Didn’t expect to hear from you.” He lowered his voice. Marmelli returned to his desk and continued to watch. “What, you need an obit now?”

  “Oh ye of little faith. How can you be so cruel to your very best source?”

  “You’re not a source. I know all my sources. You’re an anonymous tipster who for some reason enjoys using me.”

  “You have struck your Pickwick in his heart. Would you prefer to meet in a parking garage? Give me a disgu
sting pornographic nickname? Deep Throat. Disgusting. Have I not been the source of some excellent scoops for you and your Empty?”

  “You also sent me all over Staten Island looking for a gambling ring fronted by church bingo nights.”

  Pickwick giggled like a TV comedian. It wasn’t funny to Taylor. His anger rose. He’d spent two weeks traipsing the wilderness of New York’s most outer borough before Pickwick admitted there was no ring.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Taylor.” Pickwick snickered again. “That was a good one. I told you why I did that. I need to protect my situation here. If I throw in a smelly red herring or two, the people who watch you won’t be led back to me. You see that, don’t you? We must have some false scents to keep the hounds at bay. What about all the other stories?”

  Marmelli took a call. Thank God. Taylor faced away from his desk to put his back to the obit editor. “Yeah, sure. I got a couple leads.”

  Actually, five stories had panned out. The one about a con artist who worked for the Brooklyn bunko squad was the best of them, though the drug ring in a midtown pharmacy got good play too. Taylor could no more ignore Pickwick’s anonymous tips than he could walk past a four-alarm blaze. He was certain of one thing. The man worked somewhere in the system that gave him visibility into what the police were doing and the crimes they were missing.

  “You do joke. You’re wasted on obits, you know. I can’t even tell which are yours. Do they force all of you to write in the same morbid style?”

  “Did you call to insult me? I’ve got a whole newsroom full of people to do that.”

  “I’ve decided your banishment has gone on long enough. Such an awful sentence.”

  “Do you know who set me up?”

  “Not yet. I’m working on it.”

  “Did you set me up?”

  “Well, I’d know already if it was me, wouldn’t I? I don’t act. I’ve told you. I watch and I write my papers. I tell you some of what I see.”

  “What do you know about Tinker Bell?”

  “At this point, only what I read in your rapidly retracted article. You’re right, though. Someone set you up. The big problem is figuring out who. You’ve pissed off so very many people, inside the police department and out of it. Tell me now. You’re looking for a teenage boy at missing persons?”

  That didn’t surprise Taylor. It wasn’t the first time Pickwick had already known what Taylor was working on. “There’s a dead teenager at Bellevue. He’s dressed to look homeless, but I don’t think he is.”

  “Yes, I know. Two families on the Upper East Side are missing boys similar in age and description to your corpse. All reported in the past two weeks.”

  “What about other neighborhoods?”

  “Nothing even close. There was a boy on the Westside, but he came home last night.”

  “Pickwick, if this is another—”

  “You’ll still follow my leads.”

  There was nothing to do but write down the addresses as Pickwick rattled them off.

  Chapter 8

  Deep in winter darkness, the streets of the Upper East Side were still busy as the well-bred, moneyed set jumped out of cabs and private cars and headed for the warmth of luxury living. Taylor arrived at the first address, a townhouse in Yorkville. All the lights were on, a seemingly warm invitation in the aching cold. Men and women were silhouetted against the windows.

  At the door, a gray-haired man said the missing seventeen-year-old had been dug out of a drift on the thruway two days ago. The family was holding the wake. “Why are you bothering us now?”

  “Vulture,” said a younger man, who stepped forward and pushed Taylor in the chest. “Vulture!”

  Taylor backed down the steps to the sidewalk.

  “I’m sorry. I’m trying to identify someone. Similar age and build. My mistake. You have my condolences.”

  “I’m calling the cops,” said the older man. “Taylor, right? The Empty? You have no right harassing the grieving.”

  Yeah, and I’ll be the one writing your son’s obit in the morning.

  He shoved his leather-gloved hands into the field jacket, repeatedly looking over his shoulder for a bus to hop to get to the second address. His legs were losing their bravado. No buses came, and he walked all the way to the heavy oak door and polished brass knocker of a four-story, redbrick townhouse on 69th off First Avenue. More than one floor in Manhattan meant money. Four said these folks swam in the stuff. If you pissed them off, your publisher got the phone call. Then he’d learn his fate a whole lot sooner than Tuesday. He’d never once gotten a story by worrying. Now wasn’t the time to start. He rapped the knocker three times; the metallic crack echoed inside the house.

  A good-looking brunette in a little black dress, the kind for something formal, answered the door.

  “I’m Taylor with the Messenger-Telegram. I’d like to—”

  “My husband’s out.” She swayed as if she heard music. Warm air from the house blew out a hint of expensive perfume. “We were at a dinner, and the men needed to talk. They always need to talk. You’ll have to get him tomorrow.”

  “I can talk to you about this.”

  “Oh I don’t talk about legal business.” She was ready to swing the door shut in his face.

  “Legal business?”

  “What else? He’s the assistant corporation counsel for New York. Big whoopty doo!” She wobbled on pointed, three-inch heels.

  “I wasn’t aware.”

  “You must be aware of Johnny Scudetto.”

  “The Democratic boss for New York County?”

  “Give the man a prize. Big Johnny is certainly the boss. And my father. Him I never talk about. City business I never talk about.” She leaned out toward him and brought with her the juniper and lemon of gin and tonic. She acted like she’d had more than one. “Bad for the girls to talk about any of it. So don’t play like you don’t know who we are.”

  “I don’t cover politics. I’m following up a missing person report.”

  “Declan?”

  “You’re Lydia McNally?”

  She swung the door wide and the plaything look fled her face. “Oh God, I’m worried sick. Do you have information?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes, please. This way.”

  Lydia McNally walked down the hallway, showing off her slender, bare back and long, tapered legs. The view made him wish the hallway was a block long. The slight wobble from the alcohol and the high heels only made the show that much better. Declan McNally’s mother probably wasn’t too drunk to know the effect she was having. She turned off the hall into the living room and settled into the kind of brown leather chair you usually found in a private club. Another, similar chair stood opposite. She motioned to it, picked up a clinking glass and took a sip.

  “Do you want something to drink?”

  If you don’t drink on the job, you’re not a drunk. “I’m fine. Thanks. What was the dinner this evening?”

  “You said you’re here about Declan.”

  Lydia McNally’s features were those of a beautiful Italian peasant girl somewhere in her ancestry. Thick brown hair, darker eyes and voluptuous lips.

  “No, I said I’m here about a missing boy.”

  “Declan’s been gone since Sunday night. Four days!” She rubbed her temples, and it was as if a shadow fell across her face. “The police have been fucking useless. My other son’s a cop. My husband was a cop. Still they’ve turned up nothing. Declan’s doing this to piss us off. Fine, I dig that. Somebody must have laid eyes on him.”

  “When exactly did you see him last?”

  “At about eight that evening. He had an argument with his father.”

  “Over what?”

  “The usual teenage shit. Yelling about homework. I walked in right after Declan stormed out. Con waited up till four. Next morning we started calling the other kids. His friends know where he is. I’m sure of it. They claimed they don’t. The little shits. He’s staying with one of them, and th
e kids are all lying about it. The maids won’t say a thing. The parents don’t even know what’s going on in their own homes.”

  “Does he fight with your husband a lot?”

  “He fights with everyone a lot. Me. Con. His teachers. He’s smart. Too smart for his own damn good. He gets this look. I swear it’s just like my father, like when Big Johnny is really playing political mind games with someone. That’s the hard part for Con. He can’t fight with my dad. So it all comes out with Declan.”

  The fireplace mantle was crowded with pictures, but Taylor couldn’t see them from the chair. He wanted to be sure before showing her the photo.

  “Think I’ll have a beer now, if that’s okay.”

  “The housekeeper’s off. Please help yourself. The kitchen’s the second door down the hall.”

  He passed half a dozen pictures with the boy at the morgue in them. Different ages, same face. Excitement mingled with a hint of fear. The adrenal charge that came from knowing very bad news before anyone else in the world. He was on dangerous ground. Lydia McNally couldn’t think he kept digging for information after he was sure the boy was Declan. He came back into the room with the beer, took a swallow and set it in an ashtray on a side table.

  “Mrs. McNally, I need you to look at a picture.” He got up and slipped the Polaroid out of his pocket.

  “Declan?”

  “I’m very sorry. This was taken at Bellevue. If this is your son—”

  “Oh, God. No no. Of course it’s him.” Tears welled and she started crying. She gasped to get the words out. “What happened?”

  “It appears he froze to death in Gansevoort Market.”

  “Froze to death? In Gansevoort Market?” Spoken like the strangest possible combination of words. Words she couldn’t make meaning out of in that particular order. She gave out a sound that wasn’t a word, more like a groan, fell back into the chair and sobbed. After a few minutes, the sobs turned into a quiet sort of moaning.