No Witnesses

magical realism, because lately he was reading Latin American writers. Boldt called it hedonism, enhanced by a generous consumption of marijuana-hence the magic.

Bear stood just under six feet. He was stocky, with dark Arabic features and intense brown eyes-often bloodshot. He owned the Big Joke, the bar, restaurant, and comedy club immediately below them where Boldt often performed during happy hour.

“I thought I’d find you downstairs.”

“The stand-up is awful. I booked the wrong act.”

“Place is pretty full.”

“No accounting for the taste of the public.”

Berenson punched the remote, killing the television. “Went channel surfing instead. You know what I think? All this information superhighway shit? Bunch of crap. Even with thirty channels, there’s nothing on. I mean I have a hard time believing that, but it’s true. Crap to the right of me. Crap to the left of me. Five hundred channels? Give me a fucking break. Five hundred times zero is still zero.”

They sat down. Bear rolled a joint. The policeman in Boldt felt tempted to ask him not to, but not tonight.

“I’m kind of at wit’s end,” Boldt said seriously.

Bear nodded.

They were the kind of friends where Boldt felt no need for apologies or approval. They had been-and continued to be-there for each other through, as Bear called it, “the good, the bad, and the ugly.”

“I’m right back into it: solid work. Leaving Liz and Miles and you and others in the lurch. In to the point I can’t get out. Buried in it, along with a few victims.”

“Do you want out?”

“I need out-there’s a difference.”

“For me? It’s this damn club.” The IRS had shut down the club and seized much of its property about a year earlier, and Bear had stood up and fought them and had won. Now he had the place back, though at times he complained about it. “Are we talking about freedom or escape?”

“Breathing room. To be away from death more than my three weeks a year. Three weeks I never take. I love this work-that’s the thing.”

He lit the joint. “So do you hate it, or do you love it?”

“I’m exhausted. I say stupid things when I’m exhausted.”

“You say stupid things all the time.” He grinned, pleased with himself, and smoked more of the joint. He stubbed it out gently in the ashtray, holding his breath for an interminable amount of time. When he exhaled, surprisingly little smoke escaped.

Boldt said, “I think I’ve got a bad apple.”

“One of your own squad?”

Boldt nodded.

“That hurts.”

Another nod. “A guy I like.”

“And what do you do about it?”

“I hide the truth from him. I sit back and watch.” Boldt informed him, “Someone broke into Daffy’s. Maybe following her.”

“This guy of yours?”

“He’s moved to the top of my list.”

“He’s got good taste if he’s after Daffy.” Then Berenson added, “Just kidding.”

“What do you do if you suspect a bartender is robbing your till?” Boldt asked.

“I watch him. I lay a trap for him.”

“And does it work?”

“Sometimes. Sure. It’s a funny thing with the people who cheat. They get numb to it, you know? They talk themselves into things. If it’s petty stuff, if I just want to stop it, I confront the person. If it’s the bigger shit, I lay a fucking minefield and blow a leg off. Like this,” he said. He turned the television back on and switched channels. The screen showed a black-and-white image of inside the club-an area immediately behind the bar, including a close look at the cash register and several of the stools. He said, “No one knows it’s there.”

“Are you so sure?”

“It’s funny you should say that. Some people obviously feel the thing, you know? Look right at it. They can’t see it-it’s behind a beer mirror-but they feel it. That third-eye thing. Yet after a while they stop looking. Numb, just like the thieving bartenders.” He said, “Maybe you’re just numb, Lou. Maybe you’re looking into the mirror a little too hard.”

“Maybe you’re stoned.”

“No maybe about it. I’m roasted.” He waited a minute and asked, “What’s your excuse?”

“I’m thinking.”

“So that’s what that is. I always wondered what that looked like.”

Shoswitz had ordered Boldt to take the weekend off. The city and department had rules about consecutive hours on the job-rules constantly broken, but easily enforced if someone like Shoswitz felt the necessity to do so. Nevertheless, Boldt spent the early morning at the kitchen table doing paperwork.

“There’s a Mercedes out front, and I think it’s for you,” Elizabeth Boldt announced from where she stood, parting the front curtains. “Who is coming by unannounced at eight-thirty on a Saturday morning? And me, looking like this!”

Boldt had been up for the last hour tending to Miles and working at the kitchen table with a baby spoon in one hand and a pencil in the other. He had had four hours’ sleep, and felt it.

Liz wore a white satin robe tied tightly around her waist, open in a long V of bare skin at the chest, stretching from her neck to her navel, and black Chinese flats for slippers that lent a further touch of elegance. Her dark hair was pulled tightly off her sleepy face, held back by a turquoise rubber band, and she had silver studs in her ears. “I think you look fantastic,” he told her, handing her her first cup of coffee and stealing a look for himself. “Oh shit.”

Boldt seldom cursed, and this caught his wife’s attention.

“Lou?”

“It’s Adler.” Hurrying toward the front door to open it, Boldt defensively apologized, “I did not schedule this.”

“I’m gone,” his wife said, beating a hasty retreat.

Miles caught a glimpse of his mother and complained for her attention as she dashed into the bedroom, all satin and skin. “Not now, sweetie,” she told the child, although this communication only added to the child’s longing.

Boldt yanked open the door, said, “Inside,” and closed it just as quickly so that Adler never broke his stride. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes bloodshot, his skin an unhealthy gray, Adler wore a wrinkled aquamarine polo shirt, stone-washed blue jeans, and leather deck shoes with leather ties. His arms were hairy. His watch was gold. He needed a shave. “I’m folding the company,” he declared. “I thought that you should be told before the press conference.”

Boldt felt like throttling the man on the spot, but maintained his composure.

Boldt offered him coffee and Adler accepted. Too nervous to sit down, Adler faked a smile at Miles and paced the small kitchen, toying with whatever he found on the counter. Mumbling, he said, “It’s all over the news-this family dying-although they’re claiming it’s believed to be E. coli. It’s not E. coli, right?”

“The first thing you have to do is settle down,” Boldt advised sternly. “I know that’s easier said than done.”

“I thought you wanted us to pull our product.”

“Have you eaten anything?”