“We’re just trying to get a picture here. Every bit helps.”
“Well… I don’t know what else I can tell you about Father Conlon. He was liked by everyone and committed to the wellbeing of young people. He’ll be missed around here.”
Danny and I looked at each other. We’d heard that refrain before.
***
Sandy and I were sitting at my kitchen table enjoying coffee and donuts. I was munching a Boston Cream while she broke small pieces off her butternut crunch and dunked them into her coffee. It had rained all night, but the sun had broken out early and the rays coming through the kitchen window bathed the table in a warm yellow. Sandy looked almost angelic with the sun’s rays reflecting off her auburn hair.
“The interviews I’ve conducted so far have gotten me nowhere,” I said. “Everyone agrees that Andy Conlon was an amiable, altruistic father-like figure that devoted himself to the underprivileged.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Sandy said. She was holding her coffee cup with both hands and talking to me over the rim in between gentle sips.
“My point,” I said.
“There may be something about Andy that you don’t know that will help you find his killer,” Sandy said.
“I’ve known Andy since I was a kid, and for most of my adult life,” I said.
“Yet, you didn’t know he had a brother,” Sandy said.
“True,” I said.
“I wonder what else you might not know about him,” she said.
I finished my donut without saying a word and downed the rest of my coffee. Sandy was right. I wondered if there were other aspects of Andy’s life I had missed that would help me figure this thing out.
Sandy got up and brought her cup to the kitchen sink and poured the rest of her coffee down the drain. “Andy didn’t have an enemy in the world,” she said.
I got up and set my empty cup in the sink beside hers, “He had one,” I said.
I cleared the kitchen table and then went to the living room and sat on the sofa while Sandy washed the coffee cups. I grabbed the remote and was about to click on the TV to watch the news when my cell phone rang. I picked it up from the coffee table in front of me.
“Who is this?” I said.
“It’s Gwen Regan,” a shaky voice said. “I didn’t—you said to call you if I had a problem.”
“I did,” I said.
“Arnie was here today He’d been drinking and forced his way into my apartment.”
Arnie Regan was under a restraining order to stay away from Gwen and Kevin other than during the times the court permitted visitations. He could be in a heap of trouble if Gwen Regan chose to report him.
“Was Arnie drunk?”
“Of course,” she said.
“Is Kevin okay?”
“Yes, but…Arnie got upset when he learned you had come to see me. He threatened to kill me if I spoke to you again.”
“A threat like that is not to be taken lightly,” I said.
“He was drunk,” she said. “He didn’t mean it.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No. I called you.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, but I’m afraid. He said he’d be back if he found out that I’d spoken to you again. I’ve never seen him so violent, or so drunk,” she said.
“Where is Kevin now?”
“In his room. He was frightened and upset, but I’ve managed to calm him. He’ll be all right.”
Sandy came over to the sofa and sat beside me, looking a bit more than curious. I mouthed the words: Gwen Regan to her.
“I’ll send someone over,” I said.
“No, please,” she said. “No police.”
“But, if he—”
“I’m afraid he’ll be back. But I don’t want the police involved. I don’t know what to do.”
“Lock your apartment door and stay with Kevin,” I said.
“I can’t,” she said. “Arnie broke the door lock.”
“Then stay by the phone and don’t do anything until you hear from me. I don’t think he’ll be back. He’s made his point.”
It took an hour and a half for me to get to Arnie Regan’s Rivington Street apartment in the Lower East Side. During the ride, I wondered how he’d found out I’d been to see his ex-wife. I parked several doors down and walked to the single door between a butcher shop and a hairdresser. The door was unlocked. Inside an unlit hallway, I found myself at the bottom of a long staircase. A window at the top of the stairs provided the only light. I took the stairs up to a second-floor landing. From there I climbed a second, and then the third flight of stairs until I was on Arnie’s floor. There were several doors on the right side of the hallway and a set of dirty windows to my left. I walked by each door until I found Arnie’s number. I listened, but heard nothing from the other side of the door. I knocked. The silence from inside continued. I knocked again…. Nothing. I turned the knob. The door opened easily. I peered in at a dingy, unkempt living room. Something I’d expected from Arnie. I put my hand on my gun and pushed the door back slowly. I stepped inside, my eyes darting in every direction; sure I’d run into a belligerent Arnie Regan waiting to do me harm.
A sofa stood against a far wall covered with a grimy white bed sheet. In front of it was a coffee table cluttered with crumpled cigarette packs, a large metal ashtray, overloaded with cigarette butts and an assortment of empty beer cans, an old television set, complete with “rabbit ears” sat on top of a bookshelf in one corner. Two front windows let in what light could pass through the grime on the glass. A door in the back wall appeared to lead to a bedroom. I could see a dim light coming from the bathroom door to my left. Before I could close the apartment door, Arnie Regan came out of the bathroom wiping his damp hands on his jeans. He looked like the effects of the alcohol he had drunk were still with him.
“The hell is this?” he said when he saw me. “Get the hell outta here.”
He rushed toward the coffee table, picked up the ashtray and came at me with it. I kicked the door closed behind me and reached up and caught his hand as he tried to smash the ashtray against my skull. He dropped the ashtray and followed it to the floor when I brought my knee up between his legs. He squirmed about on the floor, moaning and holding his crotch before he was able to say, “This is illegal. You can’t bust in here like this.”
“You’re right,” I said. I took hold of his arm and helped him to his feet. When I was sure he’d regained his balance, I punched him hard on the side of his head. He bounced off the wall and slid back to the floor. He sat there with his legs buckled under him, rubbing the side of his head with one hand while holding his crotch with the other.
“The hell’s wrong with you, Graham,” he said. “I’ll report you for this.”
“You better worry about your ex-wife reporting you,” I said.
“For what?” he said.
“Threatening her, the way you threatened Father Conlon.”
“I ain’t done nothin’,” he said.
“Except, A&B and disregarding a restraining order, that’ll get you time,” I said.
He struggled to his feet, hobbled over to the coffee table and removed a cigarette from a crumpled pack. He lit it with a shaky hand, took a long drag and let the smoke out easily.
“She won’t say a word,” he said. “She’s too afraid.”
“She wasn’t afraid to call me,” I said.
“Stay outta this,” he said. “It’s between me and my wife.”
I reached out and grabbed him by his shirtfront.” Keep away from her,” I said.
“It’s none o’ your business,” he said.
“I’m making it my business,” I said. “If she calls me again—”
He twisted himself out of my grip and moved to the front windows.
“Think you can do what ya want because ya carry a badge,” he said. “You know where you can put that badge.”
He rubbed the side of his head and touch
ed his crotch again.
I walked to the door and opened it.
“I’ll get your ass for this, Graham.”
“Sober up,” I said.
Before I could shut the door behind me, I heard him say, “asshole.”
When I got back to my car, I called Gwen Regan. I assured her; her ex-husband wouldn’t be bothering her any time soon. She asked me what I’d done. I told her I’d employed simple police procedures to convince him it was in his best interest to stay away. She thanked me, but didn’t sound very reassured. I drove back to my apartment feeling like I hadn’t accomplished much. I was sure my meager threats wouldn’t keep Arnie Regan away from his ex-wife and kid. Maybe he’d think twice and begin to treat them better.
Chapter 14
It was 5:30 in the morning. The air was cool. I was jogging the path at Oakwood Park. I had been neglecting my usual early morning run since the business with Andy Conlon came into my life. But today I’d decided to loosen up and stretch my lungs with a more than vigorous run around the lake. I had forced myself to get up early, put on my shorts, a pair of running shoes and my sleeveless sweatshirt, and walk the three blocks to the park. The jog felt good. The crisp morning air burned my lungs and my legs ached a bit, but when I slowed to a more reasonable jogging pace and found my stride, the running came easier. The sun was rising now, slicing obliquely through the trees and reflecting off the still water of the lake. I was the only runner on the path, and other than a few Sunday morning dog walkers; the park was quiet and fresh, as most summer mornings are. It was therapeutic, to say the least.
I was making my second turn around the lake, approaching a small boathouse on my left that had been closed for years. It had been used as a place where young lovers could rent a rowboat to cruise the lake but had since morphed into a dilapidated configuration of wood beams, broken windows, and lath. Weeds surrounding its perimeter had grown to several feet in height in some places, and if they continued to grow unattended would probably conceal the entire structure.
As I passed the boathouse, I wondered why the eyesore hadn’t been demolished long ago. It was then that I felt like a truck hit me from behind. I fell to the ground startled and stunned. As the world began to spin, I felt myself being lifted by my shoulders and ankles and carried behind the boathouse into the high weeds. The area was in dark shadow from the surrounding trees. I was unable to see who or what it was that had dragged me there.
A barrage of kicks and punches ensued from every direction. By the number and frequency of blows, I calculated there were, at least, two assailants. There were more kicks than punches, and it wasn’t long before they knocked the wind out of me. My chest muscles began to spasm. I couldn’t catch my breath. The attack was quick and steady, and I was unable to fight back. All I could do was try to protect myself and hope I wouldn’t be beaten to death. I put myself into a fetal position, but that did little good. What felt like heavy construction boots slammed into my stomach and ribcage. I held back my cries of pain, not wanting to give these “son’s o’ bitches” the satisfaction that they were doing a good job of it.
I awoke to the sounds of summer. I opened my eyes slowly and squinted at the blinding sun. I could hear children laughing and dogs barking. I had no idea how long I’d been out, but during that time, Oakwood Park had come to life. I sat up slowly and leaned against the shed. My head felt light and my body ached whenever I moved. I held on to the shed wall and got to my feet. I looked down at myself. I was mottled with dirt and clumps of grass. I brushed myself off as well as I could, steadied my legs and walked out to the path. A woman pushing a baby stroller passed by me and a young girl on skates neither paid me any attention. With my head spinning, I managed to walk out of the park and trudge the three blocks back to my apartment.
I was doing okay until I reached the front steps of my apartment house. My head began to buzz, and I began to feel lightheaded again. I sat down on the steps and lowered my head between my legs. It seemed to help, so I stood up slowly and felt my equilibrium return. I made it up the front steps to the vestibule. When I pushed open the front door, I saw Mrs. Jankowski or rather she saw me first.
“Oh, Lord,” she said. “What has happened?”
“I’ll be okay, Mrs. Jankowski,” I said. “I stumbled and fell during my run in the park.”
“Looks like you did more than stumble,” she said.
She reached under my arms to keep me from collapsing. This woman was smaller than me and half my weight, but she managed to guide me up to my apartment, one step at a time. When we reached the top of the stairs, she struggled to open my door with one hand while continuing to stabilizing me with the other. She led me to my sofa where I immediately collapse onto my back.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” she said.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”
She walked to the kitchen and brought back a glass of tap water. The cold water felt good going down, but the muscles in my throat hurt where I had been kicked more than once.
“I’ll just call my doctor then,” she said.
“I don’t need one,” I said.
“You look like you do.”
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
“Well, if you have a first aid kit, I’ll wash those wounds for you,” she said.
“Thank you, but most of that is just mud and dried grass stuck to my skin,” I said.
“Then I’ll call your mother,” she said, “and let her know.”
“No, no,” I said. “I’m okay.”
I sat up and began poking my ribcage and shoulders. “See,” I said, “nothing cracked or broken. It looks worse than it is.”
“Well…if you think so,” she said. “But I think you should call your mother.”
“I will,” I said.
I stood slowly and walked her to the door. The room went around once and then stopped. I tried not to let it show.
“I’ll take a warm shower and climb into bed,” I said. “The next time you see me, I’ll be as good as new. Thank you for your help.”
I smiled to ease her concern.
“If you need me, I’m right downstairs,” she said.
“I know,” I said. I leaned down and kissed her cheek. I opened the door and she stepped into the hallway. She turned to me and said, “Remember I’m right downstairs.”
“I will,” I said, “thank you.” And I closed the door.
I examined my face in my bathroom mirror. There were no cuts or bruises, but my body had been bombarded unmercifully. Everything hurt from my ankles to my neck. I stripped off my clothes and stood under a warm shower. It hurt to rub soap over myself so I just stood there and let the water soothe my pain. I put on a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt and got into my fuzzy slipper, then went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea. At the table, I collected my thoughts while I sipped my tea. What had happened? I had been attacked twice in the same number of weeks, once by a gorilla and now by at least two assailants. I hadn’t been mugged and nothing had been taken from me. There had been no verbal warning and no indication as to why I was being assaulted. And there was nothing to indicate that the attacks were in any way related. But there was no coincidence here. Arnie Regan said he would get even with me. Was this his way of trying to get me to stay out of his life? Or was he trying to get me to halt my investigation into the murder of Father Conlon? He seemed dumb enough to believe he could pull off something like that. Nevertheless, I’d be a fool to think my life was not now in jeopardy. Regan had become a desperate man. There was no telling how far he’d go. I had no choice but to go to him before he came to me.
I walked into my bedroom, took my wallet from my night table drawer, and fished out the phone number Chestnut had given me. I punched up the numbers and waited.
I was tired of getting beat up.
***
Chestnut got his nickname because his skin color resembled the smooth reddish-brown color of a chestnut. He was born in Kingston,
Jamaica, the accident of a dope addict mother and a father who abandoned him when he was eight. After a period of running with the wrong crowd, he was saved from the streets by an aunt who raised him until he was of age. He worked a series of menial, low-paying jobs, until he decided to take advantage of his physical attributes, and developed an interest in the martial arts. He spent years studying Karate, to the point that it became a passion. His efforts earned him a black belt, fifth-degree. I knew him as a person of integrity and self-assurance, with an innate understanding of the human spirit. He hated “bad guys” and let them know it. Those who knew him gave him the respect his presence commanded.
Chestnut’s nose had been broken more than once, so that now, it lay slightly off-kilter on his face. Despite this slight misalignment, it was a good nose, smooth and thin and situated between a pair of dark, deep-set eyes. His head—for as long as I had known his—had always been shaven as smooth as a baby’s butt and maintained with a subdued degree of luster. He towered above my six-foot height by four inches, carrying a solid, well-defined physique, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. I couldn’t see a visible ounce of body fat on him.
After closing his unsuccessful karate school on the island, he migrated to the U.S. and found work as a custodian in a midtown hotel. Our paths crossed when he erroneously became a suspect in a case I had been working on, involving the murder of a hotel security guard. In the course of my investigation, I’d discovered he was in this country illegally. Chestnut’s co-operation in helping me solve the case was invaluable. My thanks to him was not reporting him to Homeland Security. His gratitude and concern for my welfare never waned. Other than Chestnut’s early years, I knew nothing of his current situation, where he lived or what he did for a living. Although I could have obtained that info anytime by making a few phone calls, I chose not to. Our friendship had survived on confidentiality and his anonymity. It wasn’t that Chestnut had anything hide. It had been that way from the beginning, and we both chose to keep it that way. He had helped me out of many tight spots over the years and whenever I called the number he’d given me; he was there for me. I trusted him and could rely on his loyalty and friendship whenever I needed it.
Other Men's Sins Page 9