“Of course I do. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“What is it?”
Oh, they were playing guessing games again. “An airplane,” she said irritably.
“So is it landing or taking off?” he demanded.
“How do I know?” April said.
“You should know,” he said grimly. “Well, where’s your map?”
April looked startled. Sergeant Joyce didn’t mention any map.
He looked at her with disappointment. “We need to pinpoint all the bridges and airports.”
“I was just on my way to do that,” she said quickly, frowning because she thought that was just a little bit premature. The woman could just as easily be in New Jersey or Connecticut. They had airports there. But no bridges near enough to be able to see the bridge and hear the planes directly overhead. Scratch New Jersey and Connecticut.
“Did you get an audio person to tell by the sound of the engines if the planes are taking off or landing?”
April nodded vigorously. Oh, yeah, she’d had many hours of free time to think of all these things. Why did she listen to him? He just made her feel bad.
“Does that make a difference, if she’s looking out at a bridge?” she asked, without sounding as annoyed as she felt.
She wanted to do things her own way, but he was looking at her accusingly again. She hated having him mad at her.
“Okay,” she said, relenting. “I’m sorry I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t think of it.” There, she said it.
“But you don’t leave me notes.” She modified the apology. Who leaves notes? Nobody. Anyway, if she started leaving him notes, everybody would see them and think they were involved.
“I would have today,” he said.
April had to look down again, away from his eyes. He meant today after last night. She hated herself for looking down to hide her true thoughts. It was so Chinese, and she couldn’t seem to help it. Must be genetic.
“Did you get a list of all her friends?” he went on, ever so helpful now that she was confused and sorry.
“Yeah, why?”
“Maybe when he wasn’t home, she called somebody else.”
She also hated it when he thought of things before she did. And he thought of a lot of things before she did. Yeah, the lady could have called somebody else. She could even have called the police. Somebody would have responded to the call.
“You want a cup of coffee?” she asked. “I was just going to get one.” Stupid woman. That was the biggest concession she could make. He said he did, and even went with her to get it.
58
As the sun rose, Claudia counted the minutes until the big cop she was pretty sure was Irish by the color of his hair would drive by. Once on this side of the street, once on the other side of the street. She knew how long he’d cruise around before parking outside the diner down the block next to the corner store.
It was one of the many things about the neighborhood Claudia Bartello knew that nobody else bothered about. If she had a name for herself it would be “watcher in the night,” because that’s what she did. She kept an eye out, knew who was coming home drunk at what hour, knew things about the kids in the houses around her that their parents would never know. Even before Arturo died, she’d never been a really good sleeper, but now she was hardly taking the time to go to bed at all. She took a few hours here and there when she felt like it, slept on the sofa or in her chair by the window.
In fact she was “watcher in the daytime,” too. She had to keep an old enemy in sight all the time. The unresolved conflict between her and her husband about living on the approach to the Triboro Bridge kept Arturo alive for her.
She sat in her chair going over and over how she hadn’t wanted to live near that bridge, even though the house Arturo found was brand-new, in a nice neighborhood. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms. A little place to grow roses and tomatoes in the back. Everything a person could want. Except for the bridge. You could always tell what day it was and what hour it was by the amount of traffic heading on and off the ramp to the bridge. Even with two panes of glass in every window Claudia could still feel the vibration.
She was having her usual argument with Arturo about it, as she sat in front of her window half the night, waiting for that big Irish cop who stopped at the diner every day. He went in to get something to eat and then sat in his car for twenty minutes afterward pretending he was doing some kind of paperwork. But she knew he was not really doing anything. Now he could do something.
He was there at eight-thirty. What Claudia Bartello wanted to do was call out to him, have him come to her so she could point out to him the problem. How close it was to her and how offensive.
But there was no way the cop could hear her. And maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to attract attention and let everyone see a cop coming to her house. She didn’t think she had any choice in the matter. She had to struggle down those steps that always made her feel like her heart was going to give out on the way back, like Arturo’s did. And then after she got down the steps, she’d have to hobble down the block to the diner. She didn’t like it, but she did it.
When she got there, the way the big cop looked down at her from a great height made her feel like an old, old woman.
“I’m Mrs. Bartello.” She peered up at the name tag on his chest but couldn’t make out the letters.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bartello,” he replied pleasantly.
“It’s not a such a good morning,” she snapped. “I didn’t sleep at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” They were standing outside, by his car. He looked down at her with a big friendly smile, like she was his great grandmother with a hip complaint. Well, she had a complaint all right, but it wasn’t about joints.
“There’s a woman in my garage apartment, walking around naked for all the world to see,” she told him angrily. “I don’t like that kind of thing.”
“Hmm. What’s she doing there?” he asked.
“That’s a good question. He said he wouldn’t have no women or parties.” Claudia was indignant.
“Who’s that?”
“My tenant.”
“You have a tenant, and he has a girl in there. Is that the problem?” he said, smiling just a little bit.
“My name is Mrs. Arturo Bartello,” Claudia said. “That’s my house, right there. Fourteen twenty-five Hoyt Avenue. I don’t want no women there.”
“Have you talked about this with your tenant?” the cop asked.
“No, I have not. How can I with her still there?”
“How do you know that?”
“I watched the door. He was out. He came back. She didn’t leave. That young man was out half the night with the woman in there. She’s got some kind of thing on her forehead. I don’t like it at all.”
The cop frowned. “What kind of thing?”
“I don’t know. Like blood or something. Maybe he beat her, too.”
“And you could see all that?” he said, like maybe she was making something like that up.
“Course I could see it. She was standing right in front of me, no clothes, waving at me like some kind of crazy woman. Probably taking drugs. I won’t have that. I have my rights.” She paused for a breath. “You’re a cop. Take care of it for me.”
“What would you like me to do? Do you have any reason to believe he’s doing drugs? Or is it the woman in the house that’s bothering you?”
She hesitated. It was both and everything that was bothering her. His head was tilted like he was really waiting for her answer. But then he didn’t wait for one.
“Maybe you should just wait for the woman to go, and then have a talk with your tenant. Tell him how you
