I laid Debbie down on the blanket. I put the fur coat back on her and then I put her pocketbook over her shoulder. I looked around to make sure she hadn’t brought anything else into the apartment with her. All I noticed was the shopping bag from the Chinese restaurant, but I figured I’d get rid of that later. I rolled Debbie up in the blanket.
Normally, I could’ve carried her down to the street, no problem, but I was so tired it felt like she was twice her actual weight. On the second floor, I thought I heard somebody coming out of their apartment. I froze, but the noise stopped.
When I got down to the vestibule there was a man passing by outside, but he was looking straight ahead and didn’t see me. I waited until he was down the block and there were no cars passing by and then I carried Debbie outside. Thanks to the cold, there weren’t any other people on the street. Moving fast, I opened the trunk. I had a lot of shit in there—a spare tire, tools, old clothes—but I couldn’t start cleaning now. I stuffed her inside. Part of her body wouldn’t fit so I had to bend it. But part of her must’ve still been blocking something because I still couldn’t close the fucking thing. I tried a few more times and then, finally, using all my might, I slammed the trunk down and it locked.
I got on the FDR Drive, heading downtown. I took the Manhattan Bridge and stayed on Flatbush. The Brooklyn streets were empty and if I could’ve gotten my car going over twenty-five miles an hour I might’ve made every light. As it was, it was stop-and-go like I was in rush-hour traffic. A couple of times I caught myself dozing at the wheel and I fought to stay awake. I figured that some loud music would help keep me up so I turned on the radio to a rap station and cranked the volume.
I was driving past Church Avenue when I spotted the police car behind me. Then the siren came on and the cop came on the bullhorn and told me to pull over.
I figured there was probably just something wrong with my car—maybe one of my taillights was out or something. No matter what, I had to stay cool. The police car stopped behind me with the brights shining in my rear-view mirror.
A cop came up to my window. He was a white guy, about my size and age. He had a mustache.
“Hey, how’s it goin’?” I said.
“Can you turn that music down please?”
I lowered the volume, realizing that with the way that rap music was blasting they must’ve thought they were pulling over a drug dealer.
“Can I see your license and registration please?”
I took my license out of my wallet and the registration out of the glove compartment and handed them to him. “What’s the problem?” I said. “I know I couldn’t’ve been speeding—not in this piece of shit.”
I laughed, hoping he’d laugh too but he didn’t. He took out a flashlight and shined it at my face.
“Your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been drinking tonight?”
“You kiddin’ me? I’m exhausted. I’m just trying to get to my brother’s house so I can get some rest.”
He shined a flashlight into the car—looking on the floor in front of the front seat—then he checked out the back seat.
“Do you have any alcohol or drugs in the car?”
“No,” I said.
“We were following you for a few blocks. Your car was swerving pretty badly.”
“Sorry about that,” I said. “It’s just because I’m so tired. I just worked a twenty-hour shift at my job at the factory.”
“Factory?”
“Yeah, I work at a watch factory down by the Navy Yards.”
“You shouldn’t be driving if you’re exhausted.”
“I wouldn’t’ve, but it didn’t hit me until a few minutes ago. But I got my second wind back now.”
“Where does your brother live?”
“Avenue J.”
He stared at me like he knew I was lying. I thought he was going to say “Get out of the car” and ask me to open the trunk. I had no idea what I’d do then, but instead he gave me back my license and registration and said, “Just be careful, pal.”
I drove away, making sure I didn’t swerve. The cop car followed me for a few more blocks and then it pulled over in front of a grocery store. I let out a long deep breath. The way my heart was pounding there was no way I was going to fall asleep at the wheel now.
I stayed on Flatbush for a couple more miles, then I made a right on Avenue U. When I got to Marine Park I made a U-turn and stopped by the curb under a busted lamppost. There were a few cars passing by and I made sure the coast was totally clear before I got out. I opened the trunk and took out the stiff body. Then, walking as fast as I could, I headed toward the marsh.
When I was a kid I used to go fishing in the Marine Park inlet. The water was so polluted I spent most of my time taking garbage off my hook and the only fish I brought home were the ones I found dead on the shore. The land before the shoreline wasn’t as overrun by weeds as I remembered, but maybe this was because I was never there in the winter.
I walked in the darkness over the snow and mud. My feet were wet and cold, but I wanted to make sure I was far enough away from the street before I put the body down. After walking for a little while longer, I was up to my ankles in freezing slush and I couldn’t go any further. I dropped the body instead of putting it down, which turned out to be a big mistake. Slush splashed up all over me, including on my face. I was going to just walk away, but then I decided that it’d probably be a good idea to take the blanket with me. So I unrolled Debbie into the slush. She wound up on her back and at the same moment some clouds must’ve moved away from in front of the moon because, suddenly, there was pale blue light shining down on her white body.
If it was summer, the body would probably be discovered right away. But in the winter, in that mud and slush, they might not find her until March or April.
I got back into my car—first making sure nobody was around—then I drove away. On the off chance that the same cop car was still cruising Flatbush Avenue, I decided to take a different route home. I must’ve gotten my second wind, because I wasn’t tired at all. I pulled into the parking lot of a supermarket on Coney Island Avenue and drove to the back where there was a dumpster. The supermarket was closed and the lot was empty. I got out of the car, tossed the muddy blanket into the dumpster, and drove away. Then I got on the Belt Parkway and headed back toward the city, chugging along in the right lane.
I still had mud all over me and I’d gotten the car dirty too.
Tomorrow I’d clean off my jeans and sneakers and I’d clean the mud out of the car, although I probably didn’t have to. Even if somebody did discover Debbie’s body before the spring, nobody would ever suspect me.
Driving back to Manhattan my second wind was gone. I had to concentrate to stay awake, slapping myself in the face and wiggling my toes. Luckily, there was a spot right in front of my building that would be good until Friday morning at eleven o’clock.
I wobbled up the stairs to my apartment. I yanked the phone cord out of the wall and killed the lights. Then I collapsed onto my open bed and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
When I woke up, it was almost noon. I plugged the phone into the wall, figuring I’d give Alan Schwartz a call. Just when I was about to dial, the phone rang.
“Can I speak to Tommy Russo please?”
“This is Tommy.”
“Tommy—Alan Schwartz.”
“This must be a sign of something,” I said. “I was just picking up the phone to call you.”
“I tried you earlier, but there was no answer,” Alan said. “I have some very good news, great news really. Bill Tucker’s going to try to claim a horse on Saturday. It’s the one I mentioned the other day at the restaurant— Sunshine Brandy. We hope you can make it to the track.”
“You kidding?” I said. “I’d have to be dead not to be there.”
