His divorce had left him broke. Adie’s divorce from Henry La Farice, the designer, was much more successful, leaving her with this renovated condo and a partnership in a prosperous real estate business. Sadly, like everything else in New York, that was now in the tank.
Over the last several years they’d made it their pleasant habit to get together like this each time he’d been in New York on a job. And it was in Quinlan’s mind to see if they could turn this into something more permanent.
When he brought Adie the coffee and half a bialy, she was sitting up in bed reading e-mail on her laptop. “No apartment in Manhattan’s going to be sold today. Everybody who owns one remembers when it was worth two million dollars. Anyone who wants one will offer a quarter of that and then either can’t get financing or can’t explain where they got the cash.”
Quinlan took a jacket and slacks out of the corner of the closet that he’d been assigned, and got socks and underwear from the rolling suitcase in which he’d brought them.
In the bathroom he stared through the steam at the serviceable face he was shaving, the short hair with almost no gray. “The family face, anonymous and perfect for stakeout work,” his grandfather “Black Jack” Quinlan had said. Jack Quinlan had made detective lieutenant on the job. He’d died almost thirty years back, when Sean was barely thirteen. He thought about the old man almost every day.
Sean looked in the mirror and smiled just a bit. Lately he’d had occasion to notice that the Quinlan face was also perfect for a man on the run. He put on a jacket and shirt but no tie because suddenly there wasn’t time. On the way to the bedroom he picked up the brown snap-brim that he’d been wearing for practice and put it on his head with just enough tilt.
When he kissed her Adie said, “Brazil! I’ve got a Brazilian with money interested in a penthouse, and with that trade agreement he doesn’t even have to explain where he got the cash.”
Then she looked up and said, “You are beyond retro, mister. You disappear and I’ll start believing in Sliders.”
“People talk about Sliders. Have you ever known one?”
“It’s escapism, not reality. I think they took the name from some old TV show nobody watched. I know a woman who described her teenage son as a perfect 1969 hippie. He had the clothes and the hair; his room was papered with old posters, and he hardly ever left it. One morning he disappeared, and she thinks he slid back there, claims she found notes from him written on old yellow paper and telling her he was OK. Of course, she’s also delusional enough to think the Dow will hit sixteen thousand some fine day.”
Turning to go he said, “Remember the Peggy McHugh party tonight.”
Adie nodded and pointed to a set of handcuffs attached to one of the brass rods on the headboard. “Can you hide those before you go? The cleaning lady’s coming today.”
Outside on Rivington Street, it was still early enough that Quinlan got a cab with no problem. This Lower East Side drug pit of his youth had gotten gentrified and hip beyond measure. But times like this, on mornings with bright, merciless sun shining on empty shop windows, it had started to look a bit shabby again.
As the cab rolled across Houston Street into the East Village, he noticed people setting up folding tables on the widened sidewalks, opening for business in the big informal flea market that had grown up there.
Portable dressing rooms lined Avenue B. On Tenth Street police barricades blocked traffic onto that side street. Miss Rheingold posters and ads for Pall Malls covered over the Mexican restaurant and reflexology parlor signs. Extras were ready to stand on the corner in greaser haircuts or lean out of first-floor windows in housecoats and hairnets. Down the block, lights brighter than the sun illuminated a tenement.
Getting out of the cab Quinlan was spotted by a couple of the film crew. “Morning, officer,” one said, and they all laughed.
For their amusement and his own he did an imitation of the old cop he’d heard on TV. “This is my once and future city. My life consists of long periods of waiting and brief flashes of action and violence. My name’s Sean Quinlan. And when I can get the work, I’m an actor.”
Big parts of Quinlan’s life were in a condition he didn’t want to think about. But he had a good part in a medium-sized film. Nothing else would matter for the next few hours.
At 9:22 one day in the spring of 1960 New York Police Detective Pete McDevitt climbs out of an unmarked Buick, flicks his half-smoked cigarette away, and steps into East Tenth Street. His suit is gray and his shirt is blue to match his eyes. His tie is bloodred and his hat is tilted back a tad to give full value to his face. Detective Pat Roark exits from the driver’s side wearing brown with a white shirt and blue tie, as befits a steady backup man and faithful partner.
McDevitt was played by Zach Terry, star of
Pete McDevitt keeps his eyes fastened on an upper floor of the tenement opposite. But Pat Roark gives a quick scan over his shoulder, to see if anyone is watching them.
Quinlan planted that gesture in rehearsal and put it in each of the takes, wanting it there to emphasize that his character was the competent by-the-book cop. No one has commented one way or the other.
What he kept in his mind was a street full of guys and women setting out dressed for work, kids going to school on a spring day more than fifty years before. He blocked out what he actually saw—the trucks, the crew, the commissary table, the lights, and the crowd of gawkers.
Sean Quinlan felt a bit dizzy, like he was about to fall or maybe fly and wondered if this was how the start of a Slide felt. He had created a background for his character. Roark and McDevitt were supposed to pick up Jimmy Nails, a two-bit thug suspected of having ambitions above his station, for questioning. Roark was a ten-year veteran of the force, a guy with a wife and two kids who was talking about moving to the suburbs. He would not be bouncing on his toes on an ordinary morning on a routine assignment.
A sound crew moved with them just out of camera range as the two cops continued a conversation that the audience would just have heard them have in the car. That scene got filmed in California a couple of weeks back.
“Definitely it’s spring, Pat, my boy,” says McDevitt and comes to a halt. Roark’s expression is mildly amused, a bit bored until he follows the other’s gaze.
Without looking, Quinlan knew Terry was wearing the trademark same half-bemused, half-aroused little grin he had used at least once in every episode of
Then Roark sees what McDevitt sees, and his jaw drops just a bit. They hold the pose.
“Cut!” said Mitchell Graham, the director. “I think we may have it.” Crew members moved; traffic began to flow. Zach Terry looked Sean Quinlan up and down for a moment before the two of them stepped apart.
The actors had worked together once a couple of years before, when Quinlan appeared in an episode of
Quinlan had played a quirky hit man who didn’t happen to be guilty of the killing with which he’d been charged. Their two scenes together had gone well, and Quinlan hoped the look just then didn’t mean some kind of tension.
On the way back to his dressing room he passed a girl, maybe twenty, in pedal pushers, teased hair, and pumps. She smiled and he turned to watch her walk away.
A production assistant saw him look and said, “That kid has all the moves. This location is a magnet for Sliders. They think if they dress in period and hang around sites like this they’ll wake up in 1960. One told me that the trick was
The kid had a nice ass but not enough to make his head spin like it did. In his dressing room Quinlan did relaxation exercises, sipped iced tea, sat silently for a few minutes, and finally listened to his calls. Arroyo, the lawyer, was first.
“Sean. I assume everything you wanted to keep is already out of the condo. As of today it’s repossessed. Second, my colleague who’s handling your case up in San Bernardino says there’s no word from the DA’s office. We don’t know if an indictment is coming down. But as we discussed, an indictment is just their way of getting you to testify. I’m wondering if you got my bill.”
Quinlan had gotten the bill. The condo was one more casualty of his divorce and bankruptcy. When he could
