by Mark Dawson
“On patrol. Van Siclen and Belmont.”
“You gotta haul ass over here. We can’t let him hand that tape over.”
Carter balled his fist. “I’m with the rookie.”
“So get rid of him. Be creative. We gotta fix this.”
“All right,” Carter said. “I’ll think of something. Stay on him. I’ll call back.”
He ended the call and put the phone back into his pocket. He went over to the car, opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat.
“All okay?”
“It’s my wife,” Carter said. “The contractions have started. I need to get out of here.”
“Shit,” the rookie said. “What do we do?”
Carter started the engine and rolled the patrol car into the street. “I’ll take us back to the precinct. I’ll get my car and go home.”
“What about me?”
“You go back out on patrol.”
“Do I gotta tell anyone?”
“I’ll speak to Ramirez and take care of it. They won’t have anyone ready to ride with you. Just take it easy for the rest of the shift. Drive around, get a feel for the precinct. We can pick it up again when I get back.”
It was half a mile to the station house and then another mile to González’s stereo shop on Pitkin. The diversion was unwelcome, but there was nothing that Carter could do about it. He had to dump the rookie and get changed out of his uniform before he went out again. Shep was good, but the longer they left González alone, the better the chances that he would get away from him. González knew Shep; if he made him and bolted, it would be game over. And that couldn’t happen.
20
Milton and Charlie made their way out of the stadium and into the slow-moving crowd of people that was gradually moving along to the station.
“So?” Charlie said as they shuffled along.
“It was great,” Milton said.
“What you think of the atmosphere? Compared to what you got back home?”
“It was different,” Milton said. “A football game—”
“Soccer.”
“Fine,” Milton conceded. “It’s a little more…” He searched for the right word. “Tribal.”
“A better chance of getting kicked in the head?”
“Not so much these days,” Milton said. “But yes.”
It was true. It was a very different experience. Milton had been a season ticket holder at West Ham years earlier, and he remembered the throb of energy in the crowds before and after the matches, and the threat of violence whenever they played Chelsea or Spurs or—most of all—Millwall. Milton’s urge for violence had always been smothered and suppressed because of his job, the requirement that he play his part and only unveil his true nature in those cataclysmic moments of release when he fulfilled his mission. He had been too professional to surrender to the base desires of the crowds as they raced down terraced streets, chasing rumours of dust-ups with rival crews, but there had been an unbridled hum of energy to it that he had found exhilarating. That had been missing tonight. By comparison, it was antiseptic. The toilets were spotless. The food was decent, if bland. The crowd was, save a few exceptions, polite. They cheered when they were asked to cheer and booed when a replay on the vast HD screens suggested the referees had erred. It was, he decided, all a little sterile.
They were approaching a line of fast-food vendors that had pushed carts up to the station in an attempt to snag trade from those who were not already full from the more professional outlets that were licensed by the stadium.
Charlie saw that Milton was looking at them. “Hungry?” he said. “Wanna get a dog?”
“Let me,” Milton said.
Milton had loved getting hot dogs from the East End wide boys who arrived in catering trucks and set up on Green Street. He could still remember the sizzle of the pork sausages on the hot plate, the spit and hiss of the grease and the smell of the onions. He started toward one of the vendors.
“Nah,” Charlie said. “Not here. Over there.”
He pointed to a vendor who was advertising foot-long Hebrew National all-beef hot dogs.
“The food here was better before the new stadium,” he said as they made their way over to the stand. “You had the old dudes who pushed their carts up here, kept their wieners in boxes of hot water and fished them out when you wanted one. Pretty sure there wasn’t much meat in the dogs, least not the cuts you’d want to eat, but they’d drop it in a fresh bun and it sure tasted better than what they got now. The foot-longs they got here, though, they’re still pretty good.”
Milton got into line and, when he reached the front, he ordered two dogs. The vendor picked out two and put them into fluffy buns that were already half-wrapped in foil.
“Now you add mustard and a dollop of sauerkraut,” Charlie instructed when Milton handed one of the dogs over. “No ketchup. Makes you look like a rube.”
They joined the crowd again, the pulse and eddy as it flowed toward the tunnel that led beneath the tracks.
“Where you going now?” Charlie asked him.
Milton took a bite and swallowed. “The late night meeting.”
“Which one?”
“There’s a meeting at the Community Center on Glenmore.”
Charlie looked over at him askance. “But you went this morning.”
“Yeah,” Milton said. “I go twice sometimes.”
“Shit,” Charlie said with a rueful smile. “Now I feel inadequate.”
“It’s all that drinking in the box,” Milton said.
“Really? I—”
“I’m kidding,” Milton said with a smile.
His reassuring denial wasn’t strictly true. He didn’t want to say anything to Charlie, but there had been something about the box and the booze that had been passed around that had wormed inside his defences. The others were young and they all seemed so relaxed and happy, without the awkwardness that he had struggled with in a room full of people he didn’t know. A drink would have made it all so much easier. But he had resisted. Having Charlie there—with the promise of the crushing shame that Milton would have felt if he had taken a drink in front of him—had been enough of a reason for him to say no. But he had been tempted, and, whenever that happened, he got himself to a meeting as quickly as he could so that he could shore up his defences once more.
21
Carter made his way down to the locker room and changed out of his uniform and into his street clothes. He left his service pistol in the locker and replaced it with his personal Glock. He started to close the door, paused, and, on a whim, reached up and took the flick knife that he had confiscated from a corner boy on Pitkin whom they had rolled last week. He put the knife in his boot, shut and locked the locker door, and hurried up the stairs.
Sergeant Ramirez was loitering at the desk. He was about to say something when he saw Carter’s face and changed his mind. “Shit,” he said. “Becky?”
“Yes,” Carter said. “She just called. It started an hour ago.”
“So get the fuck out of here.”
“Thanks, Sarge.”
“What about Rhodes?”
“I sent him back out in the car again. He’ll be okay. It’s quiet. And he’s got his head on straight.”
“I’ll call him,” the older man said. “Don’t want him shitting his pants his first day.”
Carter’s phone buzzed in his pocket as he hurried out the door. He took it out, expecting a text from Shep, but it was the reminder that he had set for himself: GET CRIB. He would have to postpone that particular trip. There wouldn’t be time for that tonight.
The station house was separated from Sutter Avenue by a row of parking spaces. There were patrol cars parked alongside the personal rides of the officers based there, and Carter jogged along the line until he got to his Ford F-150. He got inside the truck, started the engine and drove onto the street. There were white clapboard houses on the other side of the road and the Golden China restaurant, where he often gra
bbed takeout when he was working late shifts. He turned the wheel and ran the stop sign at the corner of Shepard Avenue, following the residential street to the north. He turned right onto Pitkin, racing up to fifty and drawing doleful glances from the locals gathered on the sidewalk outside of Crown Fried Chicken.
His phone rang. He put it on speaker.
It was Shepard. “He’s on the move.”
“Where?”
“Just crossed Milford.”
Carter thought fast. It was a standing joke between them that González, despite owning a car stereo shop, didn’t drive. “If he’s going to New Brunswick, he’ll get the PATH from the World Trade Centre.”
“Might be headed for Euclid.”
“Stay with him. I’ll come around on Pine Street and park.”
He approached Atkins. González Auto Sound was on the other side of the road, inside an old bus depot that González had converted with the proceeds of his early dealings with Acosta. Carter thought of being inside the shop last week; the fact that González had recorded the delivery of Acosta’s payment filled him with anger. He accelerated, flashing across the intersections of Montauk, Milford and Logan until he saw Shep and, two hundred feet ahead of him, the distinctive figure of González. He was big, with broad shoulders and a heavy roll to his walk. His skin was a light chocolate brown. His long black hair was tied up in braids, spilling out from beneath a bandana to run down his back.
Carter slowed right down to the speed limit.
“I see you,” he said into the phone. “I see him, too.”
Shepard turned to look out into the street just as Carter went by him. “I got you.”
González crossed Fountain Avenue.
“He’s definitely going to Euclid,” Carter said. “I’ll go around so he doesn’t see me and park. Just stay on him.”
“And then what do we do, Bobby?”
“You know what we do.”
“I know that. I mean do we tell Acosta?”
Carter gave that a moment’s thought. In an ideal world, he would have preferred to talk it out with their patron, but this wasn’t an ideal world and they didn’t have the luxury of time. “We can’t,” he said. “If González hands himself in, we’re finished. We do this right and Acosta ought to thank us. Because you know they won’t stop with us. They’ll want to round the whole gang up, including him. Fuck, we’ll ask him for a bonus.”
22
Freddy waited on the platform at Penn Station with all the other spectators from the game. He needed the A Train headed to Far Rockaway. The quickest way to get home would have been to change at Broadway Junction so that he could take the J Train to Crescent Street. But, as he waited, he heard an announcement that the J Train was suspended thanks to an incident on the line. He went over to the map and worked out an alternative route: he would take the A down to Euclid and walk the rest of the way.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the game. There was something magical about a game under the lights: the grass seemed a little greener, the atmosphere felt more alive, and there was a simple pleasure in sitting down and watching the game in frigid winter cold. He had taken off his gloves so that he could grip the pigskin a little tighter, and he brushed his fingers across the stippled exterior and thought, for the hundredth time, what his friends at school would say when he showed the ball to them. OBJ, after making that catch, had launched the ball into the stands and he had grabbed it. What were the odds of that?
He thought of his father. What would he say when he showed him?
Thinking about Manny brought him down. His dad should have been with him. He should have seen him catch the ball. He should have been there to slap him on the back and celebrate with him. But he wasn’t. Freddy felt his mood beginning to sour and, to ward off the moment when he would have to figure out what he was going to do next, he lifted the ball to his nose and let its pungent smell fill his nostrils.
There was a blast of warm air as the train approached through the tunnel. It rumbled out of the dark mouth, the brakes squealing as it slowed down and stopped.
Freddy stepped into the car and found a spare seat. He sat down, watching the other passengers as they embarked from the busy platform. He could smell the alcohol from those in the highest spirits. There was one man who caught his eye more than the others: he was of average height and build and had dark hair. He wouldn’t normally have stood out save that Freddy noticed his eyes: they were a pale, almost icy blue, and, as the man glanced into the busy car, Freddy found that they were staring at each other. He looked down, at his sneakers, and, when he looked back up again, the man had started to talk with the man standing next to him.
The train rumbled into motion, heading off again.
23
Milton and Charlie had chatted amiably for the first fifteen minutes, but they only knew each other a little and, as they exhausted what they could say about football, they had run out of things to say. Charlie took out his phone. Milton glanced over his shoulder and saw that he was reading the report of the game that had been hastily posted to the website of the Post.
He was happy to sit back and enjoy the ride. It was warm despite the air-conditioned car, and he found his eyelids growing heavy. He allowed them to close and let his thoughts drift. He had enjoyed a pleasant couple of months since he had left Manila, and he allowed himself to replay the memories that he had stored up. He had started in Vietnam, visiting Hanoi and then the Mekong Delta before heading north to Halong Bay and the rice terraces of Sapa. He’d spent a week travelling to Cambodia to see Angkor Wat and then turned to the north, traversing Myanmar to visit the Buddhist shrine at Kyaiktiyo. He had ended up in Thailand, spending a week amid the raft houses and waterfalls of Kanchanaburi before finishing with another week on the island of Ko Lanta.
The trip had been exactly what he had needed after the beatings he had taken in New Bilibid prison. It had allowed his body to heal and, after just a few days in the sun, his skin had taken on a deep tan and the bruises had been hidden, soon to heal completely. More important than his physical well-being was the opportunity to disentangle himself from the raging torrent of his thoughts, stirred into confused life by Fitzroy de Lacey and the sleights of hand that he had arranged in order to trick Milton into visiting Manila. Milton’s dark side, normally suppressed by meditation and his regular AA meetings, had been prodded into wakefulness and there had been nothing that he had been able to do to pacify it. The killer in him had been roused and then unleashed; the ease with which he had slipped back into it, as if pulling on a comfortable pair of shoes, had frightened him. Milton had spent hours rereading the Big Book, concentrating on the Steps and renewing his faith in their power to bring him peace of mind.
“Hey,” Charlie said.
Milton opened his eyes.
“You asleep?”
“Just resting my eyes,” he said.
“What’s your stop?”
“Euclid.”
“It’s next.”
Milton looked up as they flashed out of the blackness of the tunnel and into the artificial brightness of the subway station.
“You had a good time?”
“Better than that. Loved it. I’m very grateful.”
Charlie waved his gratitude away. “It was nothing.”
Milton reached out for the metal rail and pulled himself upright. “This is me.”
The train slowed down and then stopped.
“I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow night?”
Charlie offered his hand and Milton shook it.
“I’ll be there.”
He stepped down onto the platform. The chill enveloped him at once, a reminder of how cold it was and how much colder it promised to get. He did up his coat. The train pulled away and soon it had disappeared into the maw of the tunnel, leaving Milton to stare across the empty track to the lines of dirty beige tiles and the single word—EUCLID—repeated over and over.
He made his way to the stairs and trotted up to the mez
zanine.
24
Freddy needed to use the restroom when he got off the train. He went to the mezzanine and followed the signs. The men’s room was inside a wooden door with a metal kick plate that had been dented and scratched by years of misuse. He pushed the door open and went inside.
The restroom had a line of five porcelain basins along the left-hand wall with a long horizontal mirror above them and then three urinals. On the opposite wall were five cubicles. The first cubicle was missing its door, the toilet in the second one was blocked—Freddy couldn’t get out of it quickly enough—and the floor in the third and fourth was covered in urine, and Freddy wasn’t about to walk in that in his new sneakers. The cubicle at the end was empty and reasonably clean. He went inside. The door was spring-loaded and it closed by itself. He put the football on the cistern, unzipped his pants and urinated.
His mind drifted back to his father. He was nervous about going home. His dad might be angry with him for going to the game alone, but Freddy knew he would be okay with anger; at least he would be able to talk to his father if he was angry. But his stomach lurched as he thought about the more likely scenario: that his father was drinking again. There had been many occasions over the course of the last year when Freddy had had to care for Manny after he had gotten drunk. He had done things that a child should not have had to do: undressed him and put him to bed; helped him go to the toilet; washed his soiled clothes; cleaned up the mess that always accompanied his worst excesses.
But lately his dad had been really trying, and things had gotten better—so much better. Freddy had been hoping that those bad days were over. He never wanted to go back to them, ever.
He zipped up, went to the basin, washed his hands and went to the door.
It opened suddenly, catching him on the shoulder.