by David Gordon
“I’ll take it black,” Joe said.
“Wise choice,” Frank said. “I don’t even understand what’s in that stuff. It just changes the color. Have a seat.” He waved his cane over the Spartan choices. Joe picked the kitchen chair, holding his mug in both hands. Frank sprawled in the busted armchair, resting his mug on the arm and leaning his cane beside him. The coffee was very good.
“So thanks for having me over. On such short notice, I mean. I hope I didn’t interrupt your work.”
Frank shrugged. “You did but that’s all right. I am always working unless something interrupts me. Sleep, hunger, people. This one was welcome. I didn’t think you’d call.”
Joe nodded. “Well, thanks anyway.”
“Uh-huh,” Frank said and took a swallow of coffee.
“Nice place.”
Frank looked around, as if trying to decide if he agreed. “I’ve been here thirty years. I took it because no one else wanted it, so I could do what I felt like. Now they’d pay me a fortune for it. But where would I go? I’m land-poor, like some aristocrat. The Earl of Harlem. They got earls back in the old Harlem, over in Europe?”
Joe shrugged. “Maybe not anymore.”
They drank coffee. Traffic noise reached them from below.
“So what did you want to talk about?” Frank asked.
“How do you mean?”
Frank shrugged. “It’s a long-ass way to come for a free coffee.”
Joe smiled. “True. No milk even.”
“Right. This is a bullshit café. Not even a cute barista. So then?”
“I’m not sure how to put this.” Joe hesitated. Frank waited in silence. “But I feel like some of your pictures, they remind me of things.”
“Uh-huh.”
Joe laughed. “I guess I should be more specific. The war paintings. The ones of Nam, or I assume that’s what they are.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Joe looked down now and spoke into his mug. “They seem just like things I dream of sometimes. Like exactly. Like you painted my dream.” He glanced back up at him. “Is that crazy?”
Frank looked him in the eye. “You’re asking if it’s crazy that those paintings are of your dreams?”
Joe nodded.
Frank shook his head and sipped coffee. “Not crazy at all, brother. That’s exactly what those paintings are. Nightmares.”
*
They sat in silence for a minute. Now it was Joe who was waiting while Frank looked down, first at his fingers, as if examining the source of the paintings, then into the mug. “I was a tunnel rat. You know what that means?”
Joe nodded.
“VC had those damn tunnels dug in all over the place. Like a Charlie subway, complete with rats. They’d send me down with a flashlight and a forty-five. No use bringing anything else but a Ka-Bar knife, too tight down there. You couldn’t even stand up. Had to crouch. Sometimes you had to crawl. I’d creep along, in the dark, hearing the rats scurry around. Sometimes they’d run over my hands or my legs. It was fucking hard not to just open fire when that happened. I hate fucking rats. Even though I’m from here. I’d be down there for hours. I’d have to piss down there. Sometimes I could barely breath, the oxygen was thin or there’d be corpse gas. More than once I came across a body or parts of one. I was supposed to be like surveying. Really I was just a rat in a maze myself. Like, send the nigger down the hole and see if he gets shot. Then put a pin on the map. Anyway, this one day, or night, what the fuck’s the difference, I am creeping along in the dark, and I hear a rat. So I freeze, hoping it will just clear off. And nothing happens. But I can like feel it there, close. And I realize I am holding my breath, because, did I mention rats freak me the fuck out? But now, holding my breath I feel like I can hear something else breathing, something alive. So I lift my flashlight and my gun, slowly, slowly, and then, all at once, I hit the light. And right there, right up close to me, like close enough to breathe on, is another fucking face. Charlie. Must have been a kid about my age then. I was nineteen. Round little baby face. NVC uniform and cap. And in his hand, a gun. So I fired. I mean my piece was already pointing right at him, I just had to squeeze the trigger. I shot the face, that baby gook face, right in the center, boom, I pulled that trigger until that head burst all over me like a rotten pumpkin. Got in my eyes, my lips, nose, everything. Then I turned the light back off. And I crawled the fuck back out of there in the dark.”
He stopped. He sat in silence for a moment and Joe stayed perfectly still. Then Frank lifted his mug and took a sip. He frowned. “Damn. It’s cold.” He drank it anyway, then rose, setting the mug on the worktable. “So twenty years later”—he gestured at the paint-splattered walls with his cane—“I painted it. I painted it, and I kept on painting it, over and over, until finally I stopped seeing it in my fucking dreams.”
29
When Donna and Blaze Logan got to Club Rendezvous, Joe was not working. Donna wasn’t surprised; she’d told Blaze it was fifty-fifty at best but that she thought they might cough him up if she pressed. That’s why she invited Blaze. Added pressure.
Blaze had made Donna for a straight girl right off, but she liked her, liked the way she’d handled herself under fire, and there was nothing wrong with having a beer with a cool colleague who happened to be hot as well. So when Donna called her and said how about that beer tonight, she said sure but was not surprised when she added: “There’s a catch.”
“I figured.”
“I’m looking for a source who I think might be holding out on me. But it’s a long shot, so I’d rather not bring in someone from the bureau yet.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I need someone to watch my back,” Donna went on to explain, “but who can also keep their mouth shut. And who it might be nice to have a couple beers with, too.”
“You mean a friend.”
“That’s a good word for it.”
“Sure, Donna. I can pick you up.”
“Oh, and one other thing.” She hesitated. “It’s a strip club. Female strippers I mean.”
“So you figured invite the dyke along.”
“No, not like that. But I figured at least you wouldn’t freak out on me about it.”
“Take it easy. I’m kidding. I’d love to knock back a few and watch some booty bounce. Let’s go.”
So here they were, nursing their beers at the bar, the only two unaccompanied female customers in the place, but no one was really paying any mind. And Donna wasn’t sure what to do next. She’d been in a rage when she suspected—no, knew for sure, in her gut—that Joe was behind the diamond heist, that perhaps he had even come to see her as a way of feeling her out, fishing for any info she might have heard about his plans. After calling Blaze, she’d texted her mom to make sure she could pick Larissa up from aftercare—a disturbingly clinical name for an after-school session of crafts and snacks––and then on the ride out to Queens, she let Blaze do the talking—bitching about life as a marshal—because she didn’t want to tell her too much. As a result, now that she was here, her anger had cooled. She asked the bartender if Joe was around. He said, “Joe who?” She told him Joe Brody. He said nope and that was it. She didn’t have any next move planned.
But Blaze didn’t seem to mind. She sipped her beer and watched the dancers. Donna ignored hers and thought about the last time she had been here, speaking with Joe in the back booth, and about their other encounters: when she had arrested him as a stranger or when he, masked and unknown to her, had spared her life and apologized for hurting her. She thought about their talk on the steps the day before, the comfort and easy intimacy that seemed to flow naturally between them. Like on a great date she thought and then burned with shame at the thought, as though embarrassed in front of herself. She was a grown woman, a federal agent, a mom. He was a liar, a thief, and probably a killer, the worst possible choice of anyone she knew. Even “knew” was an exaggeration. Their relationship was business, not personal. He committed crimes and she solved
them. He lied and she found the truth. He ran and she chased. And when she caught him she would take him to prison, not to bed.
Now she realized the source of her anger: betrayal. She felt betrayed by Joe, and the stupidity of that—of thinking there was anything to even betray—just made her angrier. The anger was for herself, but she found it easy to redirect toward a more productive target.
“Keep an eye out,” she told Blaze. “I’m going to try something.”
“Oh they’re out,” Blaze drawled as a lanky blonde pranced onstage, languidly winking at Blaze. Donna took a long pull from her beer, then instinctively reached in her bag for her mints, so that just in case things got official there wouldn’t be alcohol on her breath. That was her, the good girl, even when rousting a strip joint. As she crossed the busy room, she took her badge out, too, in the leather fold with her ID, and then rested her other hand lightly on her holstered gun. She walked down the back hall, past the restrooms, and around a corner.
“Hey, miss, you can’t go there,” a passing busboy said.
She showed her badge and kept walking as he backed away. She banged on a door marked MANAGER and, when no answer came, kicked it with her boot.
“What?” a gruff voice asked. She went in. A white guy with a white beard and a big round gut under his shirt and tie looked up from behind a desk heaped with papers, like a fallen Santa, holding a bottle of Tums in his hand. He grimaced at her. “Auditions are Wednesday afternoons,” he said.
“I already got a job,” she said, holding up her badge. “FBI agent.”
“You pinching me?” he asked, more annoyed than afraid, then gestured at his desk as if she were adding more chores to his pile. “For what?”
“I just want to talk to Joe.”
He shook his head. “Don’t know him.”
“You don’t know one single person named Joe?”
He shrugged noncommittally.
“Joe Brody. The bouncer,” she said.
“Oh, him,” Santa said, leaning back in his creaking desk chair and popping a couple of Tums. He chewed thoughtfully. “He ain’t been around for a while.”
“Get ahold of him. I’ll wait. I’ll be checking your customers’ and employees’ IDs in the meantime.”
“What?” Now he came to life, standing and focusing on her. “Why?”
“I’ve got a federal marshal with me. We got a tip there might be someone here with a warrant out.”
She turned and went.
“Wait. Wait … ah, fuck me,” he said as she left. Then he ate a couple more Tums and reached for the phone.
*
When Yolanda got the text from Donna about being home to meet Larissa, she was already on her way back into the city. However, she was in a van full of ladies who had all just been gambling, she was a little buzzed from those drinks, and she had her new pal, Gladys, with her. They had decided to go out for dinner as a group. Now she elbowed Gladys, who was in the seat beside her, trying to decide if she could sneak a smoke by blowing it out the window, which was the kind that only opened a few inches outward from the bottom.
“My daughter just asked me to be home for when Larissa gets back. She’s out on an important case. You mind if we just order in? There’s a good Spanish-Chinese place down the block.”
“Sure. I want to meet that sweet little grandkid of yours.”
So Yolanda texted Donna back. She didn’t want her to know about the gambling or the drinks, so she just wrote: OK. Be careful. Love, Mom.
*
When Donna came back from the manager’s office, she picked up her beer, finished it off, then told Blaze, “Follow my lead,” before striding over to the DJ and badging him. “Cut the music,” she told him. “And give me that mic.”
He obeyed. The music stopped abruptly and the dancers onstage, all more or less naked, stopped and blinked into the audience, trying to see what was happening, looking suddenly lost in their pools of light. The audience grumbled and a few voices called out. Donna walked up the steps to the stage.
“All right!” one voice shouted. “Take it off!”
“Sit down and shut up,” Donna said into the mic, a bit shocked at how loud her voice was. “I’m Special Agent—” A terrible screech of feedback screamed from the speakers and the audience groaned and booed. One of the dancers, the tall blonde, stepped over.
“Stand over here and don’t wave the mic so much,” she said helpfully.
“Thanks,” Donna told her, then into the mic: “This is the FBI.” She held up her badge. Out beyond the lights, there was a sudden movement toward the door. “Turn on the house lights! I am here with the US marshals. We will be checking IDs, looking for outstanding warrants.”
The movement became an exodus. There was a general rush for the exit, but as the lights flashed on, Donna saw Blaze quickly stepping into position, badge out, and blocking the way, so that only the first handful got out.
“Let’s make this as orderly as possible, folks,” Donna continued. “Please everybody, move toward the bar or take your seats. After we check you, you can leave and when we’re done the show can resume.” Santa, the manager, was standing in the doorway to the hall, watching with an expression of pure misery. Donna looked right at him. “But who knows how long that will take?” she wondered aloud.
The customers grumbled but more or less complied, returning to their seats or drinks and pulling out wallets as Blaze approached. Donna handed back the mic. “Excuse me, ma’am. You want to see ours too?” the naked blonde asked her.
“No. You just stand by.”
She nodded and huddled with the others as Donna hopped down from the stage. She began at the other end of the room from Blaze, checking IDs, making a show of running them on her phone, idly wondering if at least one or two people in here would pop. She got a lot of dirty looks but no back talk. Then she approached a ringside table, VIPs or wannabe VIPs, with bottles of Moët and Hennessy on the table and two guys, one black, one white, sitting back, dressed in expensive sports gear and gold, neither holding out ID.
“Okay, let’s go,” Donna said. “Let’s see some ID.”
The black guy, who was tall and elaborately muscled, scowled at her. “Don’t you know who that is? He’s Li’l Whitey, the rapper.” She glanced from him to the slender young white boy beside him. He looked like a sniveling dirtbag to her.
“Never heard of him,” Donna told the muscle, while her right hand moved toward the extendable baton she had in her hip pocket. “But little and white does describe one of our wanted fugitives. So cough it up.”
“And what do you say if I don’t feel like it?” Li’l Whitey asked, still leaning back with a sneaker on the table.
“I say stand up and turn around with your hands behind your head. You first,” she told the black guy. He put his hands up and slowly stood, then made a sudden break for it, trying to ram his way past her like a running back. She stepped aside and tripped him, letting his own momentum bring him down, which it did, with a grunt. She grabbed his arm with her left hand as he fell, to take control as he landed, and put her knee in his back. Then she saw him pulling a gun, a snub-nosed revolver, from his pants. With her right hand, she brought the baton up and let it extend, then flicked it hard across his wrist. He howled and dropped the gun.
Li’l Whitey, meanwhile, jumped up and ran for the door, but Blaze caught him across the face with an elbow as he passed. He dropped to his knees, clutching his nose in both hands. “Aw, fuck, my nose,” he cried.
Panic erupted as some of the crowd tried to run or at least take cover while others seemed to be closing in. Donna and Blaze both drew their weapons and stood back to back. “Next time I pick the bar,” Blaze whispered.
“Deal,” Donna replied, bracing herself.
Then Gio Caprisi walked in.
Donna didn’t see him at first; she heard him. “What the fuck is going on here?” a voice called out. “Everybody sit down and shut up!”
The effect was immediate. The
crowd fell silent. People sat down or stepped back. Only Li’l Whitey and his pal remained on the floor, moaning softly.
Gio was in a suit as usual, but his tie was loosened and he needed a shave. He had two thugs standing beside him. The manager rushed over and whispered to him, while pointing at Donna. Gio nodded at her. “Good evening, Agent Zamora,” he said, then crouched over Li’l Whitey, lifting his face by the chin.
“Jesus, it’s you again? Don’t you ever learn?”
“I want a doctor,” he whined. “And my lawyer. And my manager.”
“Yeah. Hold your water a minute.” He stood up and called to Donna. “You holding this one for anything?”
“Nah, he can go,” Donna said, reholstering her gun. She nudged the other guy with her toe. “But this one has a weapon.”
Gio frowned down at him, as he cradled his arm. “You brought a weapon in here?” he asked. “That’s two people you’re in trouble with. And I’m much worse.”
“I think she broke my wrist,” he said.
“Good,” Gio told him.
Blaze stepped up, holding his wallet; she’d been running his ID. “He’s got a warrant. Assault. In Florida. And weapons. So he’s a federal fugitive now. My meat, unless you need him.”
Gio gestured for her to help herself, as though he were the one she was asking. Blaze rolled her eyes and turned to Donna.
“Take him,” Donna said. Then, as Blaze started to cuff him, she added in a lower tone, “Glad your night wasn’t a total waste.”
“Now then,” Gio said to Donna. “How can I help you?”
“I want to speak to your bouncer, Joe,” she said. “Urgently.”
“Joe? Joe’s on a leave of absence. Personal reasons. He hasn’t been here for what?” He turned to Santa. “Almost two weeks?”
“Yeah, that’s right, boss. I told her—”
Gio put a hand up to silence him, then took out his phone. “I’m calling, okay?” he said, showing her the name Joe on his phone. He listened. “Voice mail,” he told her. “At least he has that now.” He raised his hand again and spoke into the phone: “Joe. This is Gio. Agent Zamora from the FBI needs to speak with you. Urgently.”