rest of the patient, but that it didn’t always work out that way. Happy happy. Joy joy.
For now I needed to think and, more importantly, I needed a drink. I was depressed by the notion of having to go back to my list of hate-mailers. Christ, the thought of doing more grunt work, of spinning more tales out of lies, half-truths, and false threats was making me ill. I didn’t think I had the energy to go once more into the breach, not for this, maybe not for anything. And I couldn’t get Maya Watson’s parting words out of my head. That was a bad thing because it meant I wouldn’t get anywhere with it. I almost never made progress on a problem until I forgot about it. That was another good reason to have a drink. I backed out of my spot, away from the parking meter. I didn’t see that I was being followed, but just because I was looking for them now didn’t mean I’d spot the cops tailing me.
I didn’t figure on finding Flannery in McPhee’s, so I went to that other neighborhood place, the one with the name that I never knew. And there on a lonely barstool was the great man himself in all his guilt and glory. He didn’t turn, but saw me at the door in the mirror behind the bar. He tilted his head and slapped the barstool to his left.
“Dewar’s rocks,” I said to the barman as I nestled in beside Flannery.
He still did not turn my way, looking instead at my face in the mirror. “Rough day?”
“Rough month, but, yeah, today in particular.”
The bartender put up my drink and started a tab without asking.
“Any progress in the case?”
Shrugged my shoulders. “I thought so, but I’ve been warned off for the time being.”
He was confused. “Warned off?”
I explained about Delgado, but did it very quietly so that not even someone right next to Flannery would be able to hear. Flannery shook his head and laughed. It was the kind of laugh that had more to do with disgust than good humor.
“Great fireman,” Flannery said, “but a total prick, old Jorge. He tries to hire a leg-breaker to hurt a woman, then jumps before a speeding car to save a child. Go figure. Moe, I swear, I sometimes wonder if there is a God.”
“I don’t, not anymore. I was never much of a believer to begin with and with what I’ve seen…”
“The wife was a true believer. Madge went to mass every day and the rosary was like a sixth finger on her hand. I used to think she believed enough for all of us. Then, when she passed, I knew the lie of that. You can’t believe for somebody else. They bury your faith with you.”
“Then I guess my coffin will be light as a feather. No faith to bury with me.”
“There’s always the guilt to add the weight of absent faith. With the guilty cross I bear they’ll need a forklift to lower me down.”
“Maybe we can split the cost of the rental.”
He waved his hand at me. “Ah, listen to the two of us bellyaching about the weight of our guilt. Only two types of creatures without the weight of guilt on them: the newly born and the forgotten dead.”
Why did he have to use the word bellyaching? I hadn’t even finished two thirds of my drink and I was already feeling the fire burning in my gut. I asked for a glass of ice water.
“Are you okay, Moe?” Flannery asked, looking directly at me for the first time since I walked in.
“No, Flannery, I’m pretty far away from okay.” I gulped the water down and turned to the barman. “Get my friend here another.”
He nodded. I left enough on the bar to cover more than two more Jamesons and a nice tip.
“I need to rest,” I said, shaking Flannery’s hand.
“You know, Moe, there’s something I meant to talk to you about.”
“What’s that?”
“I hear there’s some guy fanning the flames over at McPhee’s,” he said. “You’ve pissed off a lot of folks poking around the way you have.”
“I have a talent for pissing people off.”
“Best to watch your back carefully for now.”
“For today, at least, I’ve got New York’s Finest doing that for me.”
“What?”
“Never mind and thanks for the heads up. Take good care.”
Out on the street, I nearly keeled over from the pain in my belly, but the pain didn’t last. It was only a tease, a calling card to say, “Welcome to the rest of your life.”
THIRTY
I fell asleep with the sun still hanging lazy in the late afternoon sky and my shoes on my feet. When I awoke the memory of the sun was gone, washed away by the raindrops drumming against my bedroom window. I’d lately fallen in love with naps, though I usually managed to get my shoes off before passing out. For some reason I slept better in the late afternoon these days than at night. At my age, you’re confident you’ll wake up from a nap, but the same couldn’t be said of a night’s sleep.
I stripped off my clothes and showered, making sure not to stand and stare at my sorry-assed self in the mirror when I was done. I threw on a robe and stood looking out my front window at the storm roiling the oily sheen atop the black waters of Sheepshead Bay. Tethered to their docks, dormant fishing boats bobbed and listed. Spring storms in Brooklyn, even at their most fierce, were just so much bluster. The howling wind that carried bits of paper and plastic along the sidewalks and bent the few trees along Emmons Avenue blew warm and with little bite. I found my hand on my abdomen again and my mind filled with all the wrong kind of thoughts.
I did not fear death so much as the dying and I didn’t suppose I was alone in that. When I was a cop, I never gave much thought to getting killed on the job. It wasn’t healthy to think about such things, especially back in those bad old days when people called us pigs with impunity and we were targets for every radical group with a pistol or a pipe bomb. I don’t think kids could even conceive of how dangerous it was for us then. No, I never really worried about it, but I did have my private dread. I didn’t want to die in the cold in the rain. Just imagining the feel of an icy cold sidewalk against my cheek as a freezing rain soaked through my clothing made me nauseous. Even a hospital bed-and I detested the idea of dying in a hospital bed-would be preferable. Like Israel Roth before me, I did not want to be cold. I did not fear being alone so much. We are all alone in death. I accepted that, but I did not want to be cold and wet.
I turned away from the window and suddenly Flannery’s voice rang in my ears. Something he had said earlier in the day came back to me. Not the stuff about pissing people off. That came with the territory. It was something else. Only two types of creatures without the weight of guilt on them: the newly born and the forgotten dead. I’m not sure why it hadn’t registered at the bar-probably because my gut was already starting to hurt-and I wasn’t sure I understood why it popped into my head just then or why it should matter. Sure, I was thinking about death and dying, but I was pretty certain that wasn’t why Flannery’s words had suddenly come back to me. Then, with my next breath, I swore I could smell Maya Watson’s perfume in the air. Christ, I really detested sweet perfume. I’d driven to Bay Ridge with my windows down trying to get the smell of it out of my car. And now it was like I was summoning it up. I was at a loss. As undeniably attractive as Maya was, I wasn’t particularly attracted to her. Besides, in spite of the sympathy I felt for her situation, I don’t think I’d ever get past what had happened at the High Line Bistro.
That’s when I knew. Maya Watson’s parting words came rushing into my head. There’s somebody in this whole mess who nobody wants to see for who he was, not really. She hadn’t been talking about Jorge Delgado at all. No, Maya Watson had to be talking about Robert Tillman, the victim at the High Line Bistro, one of Flannery’s forgotten dead. It seemed so obvious to me now, I wanted to kick myself. Of course he was the one person in this whole ugly mess that hadn’t received much scrutiny at all. Even if it was his being stricken that started the chain of events that led to Alta Conseco’s murder, why would anyone focus on some poor schmuck who happened to drop dead of an aneurism in a restaurant kitchen?
Let’s say a stray dog runs out into traffic, gets killed by a bus, and starts a chain reaction that leads to a fatal car crash. In some sense, although the dog was the catalyst for everything that followed, he’s the least
