She took a break to make some tea. After sipping in silence, she turned to him with an inquiring smile.
'What are we all about?' she asked softly.
'I've been wondering myself. What do you think?'
'The Mirror-obsessed Outlaw Artist and the Cop with the Searching Eyes.
Obviously we like each other. But why? We don't have much in common.'
'Does that bother you?' She smiled. 'You're very special to me. You know that.'
'As you are to me.'
'Still, it's strange, isn't it?'
'Strange and wonderful, I think.'
'It is wonderful,' she agreed. 'Somehow we found each other. We didn't know we existed, but we were searching for each other anyway. Two lost souls, right?' She smiled to mock the cliche. 'I feel so lucky. It's as if you've freed me. Now I can change, become the person I was meant to be.' She paused. 'The only thing I worry about is what I can give you in return.' 'Don't ever worry about that,' he said. 'You've given me a great deal… more than you can possibly know.'
Driving back in the dark, he noticed a car following, one headlight slightly dimmer than the other. He realized he'd seen this same signature several times since he'd left Richmond Park.
Am I being followed? Is it Clury? Could he possibly move so fast?
After he emerged from the Holland Tunnel, he slowed, made sure the other car was still behind, then sped uptown, turned the corner, turned again onto empty Washington street, then quickly parked, cut his lights, pulled out his revolver and slid down in his seat.
A few seconds later the other car, a battered maroon Oldsmobile, drove by. As soon as it passed, he started up again and followed.
The other driver drove slowly. He's looking for me. Then Janek noticed him weaving. Maybe he's drunk. Maybe it isn't Clury after all.
Approaching a stoplight, Janek decided to make his move. When the other car halted, he pulled up right beside it and turned to look. Timmy Sheehan stared into his face.
Janek rolled down the window on his passenger side.
'Hi, partner! Lost?'
'Hey, partner! What're you doing out so late?'
'Pull over after the light. We'll talk about it,' Janek said.
Timmy pulled over. Janek parked behind. The street was silent. There were no pedestrians. It was an area of old brick warehouses, deserted at night.
When he got out he heard the faint thud of rock music issuing from one of the unlicensed late-night basement clubs in Tribeca. Walking to Timmy's car, he felt like a traffic cop approaching a speeder he'd signaled to the curb.
He opened Timmy's car door. The interior smelled of gin. There were crumpled potato-chip bags and empty beer cans on the floor. He would have a ratty old car like that. Janek sat down in the passenger seat, shut the door.
'Why're you following me, partner?'
'Who set me up, Frank?'
Janek met his eyes. 'Time's come to spill, Timmy. Why does Dakin think you're slime?'
Timmy stared at him, grinned secretively, feigned a yawn, then suddenly tried to hit him. The blow was awkward. Janek grasped hold of his fist, pushed him back behind the wheel.
'Want to punch out your old partner? What's the matter with you?'
'Fuck you, Frank!'
Timmy swung at him again, this time with more serious intent. Janek pulled back, but not far enough. Timmy's fist clipped his shoulder.
'Okay, that's enough… But Timmy didn't stop. He began to flail, his blows wild and ineffective. Janek caught them open-handed, but then his shoulder began to hurt and he grew annoyed.
He wants me to smack him. That's really what he wants.
Finally, Janek hit him back. The moment his fist flattened Timmy's lips, Timmy stopped swinging to wipe away the blood. Panting the aroma of cheap gin, he peered down at the stain on his handkerchief. Then he looked at Janek, hurt, surprised.
'You're bleeding now. That's what you wanted, isn't it? what'd you do, Timmy?' Janek spoke gently. 'Better tell me. You'll feel better.'
Timmy wiped his mouth again. 'Maybe I took a few bucks. Who the hell cares?'
'How much? How many times?'
'One time. Maybe ten, fifteen K.'
'Cut the '' crap. You know exactly how much you took.'
'Around fifty,' Timmy said. 'More or less.'
'Who from?'
'Drug dealer.'
'When'd you do this?'
'Seven, eight years ago.'
'The same dealer Dakin lined up. The one who swore you tried to hire him to kill Komfeld. What was his name?'
'Keniston.'
'Right. So Keniston had it in for you. All Dakin had to do was skew his hatred a few degrees. And you spent all the money on booze, too, didn't you? You don't have a pot to piss in now except your pension.'
Timmy nodded. Janek stared at him. 'God, you're pathetic!'
Timmy shrugged. 'Everyone can't be the Great Fucking Detective like you, Frank. Some of us are just slime, you know.'
'That how you see yourself?'
'Maybe. What're you going to do now, partner? Turn me in?'
Timmy's eyes were glowing. A thin line of blood, running down his chin and the side of his neck, had stained the collar of his shirt.
He wants me to turn him in. He'll revel in it.
'I wouldn't bother,' Janek said. 'You're punishing yourself more than any prison could. Do yourself a favor, Timmy@go to AA, get your head straight before you get too hungry for your gun. Because that's where you're headed, my friend. Maybe you'll eat it in a service-station washroom or early one holiday morning when even the dogs are asleep. But you'll eat it. Sooner or later you will. You know it, too.'
Janek opened the car door, was halfway out before Timmy answered.
'Would you care if I ate it, Frank?' He showed his secretive grin again.
'Would you mourn me?'
'Sure, I'd mourn you, Timmy. You were my partner. I haven't forgotten that.'
He fled the car, and, when he was back in his own, took off fast.
Following the river uptown, he thought about police work and some of the strange people who did it: Kit, Dakin, Clury, Timmy. He thought about cops, how they lived and the awful ways their lives often turned.
Our music is so maudlin, he thought, like an oldfashioned amusement park on a crappy off night in autumn. The hurdy-gurdy grinding, the fun-house robots cackling. Cheap, tawdry, rinky-dink. God help us all.
Sue called in early from Crystal River. Mr. Dan Dell had not been at his bait shop when she stopped by. Mr. Dell, it seemed, had left town for parts unknown. But there was a picture of him on the shop wall, posing, like Hemingway, with a huge blue marlin hanging from a block and tackle. :'Does he look like Clury?' Janek asked.
'Maybe,' Sue said. 'Hard to tell.'
'Describe him.'
'Stocky, smaller than the fish, thick neck, thick brush mustache.'
'What about his cheeks? Scarred?'
'I couldn't tell. The sun was full in his face.'
'Eyes?'
