Soul Patch

All of the above.

Answer: (D) All of the above.

Took me a lot of years to come to terms with not getting a gold shield. Even now, I’m not quite sure I have. For some people, for the people who’ve hired me over the years to find their missing relatives, my not getting that shield was a godsend. It’s what has driven me to prove myself for the twelve years since the NYPD put me out to pasture. And proving myself has helped me keep my sanity while I sold wealthy schmucks bottles of wine that cost more than my first two cars combined. Funny thing is, I’ve twice come closer to getting that gold shield since my retirement than I ever did for saving a little girl’s life. Life’s fucked up that way, I guess.

After breakfast, I listened to the tape once again to make sure I hadn’t missed anything obvious. The replay was no more enlightening than the first go-round. I called Larry McDonald at home. He picked up in the middle of the first ring, as if he’d been sitting at the edge of his bed by the nightstand, arm coiled. Alternately impatient and distant, he had the sound of a man who hadn’t slept much lately. I was well familiar with the symptoms.

“You told me to listen and call. I listened, now I’m calling.”

“You heard?” he asked.

“I listened. I’m not sure what I heard, but I listened.”

“What. . What’d you say? You listened to the whole thing, right?”

“Twice.”

“And. .”

“Some desperate skell is trying to play let’s make a deal with a weak hand. Wouldn’t be the first time. D Rex is old news. It’s like trying to cut yourself a deal by saying you know who killed King Tut. Who gives a shit?”

“Murder’s never old news, Moe.”

“It is when the victim’s a fucking drug dealer.”

“Not always. This is one of those ‘not always’ kind of situations. People can get hurt by this.”

We were close, Larry Mac and me-as close as you can get to an ambitious bastard like Larry. It’s sort of like being friends with a mercenary; you’re only as good a friend as your market value can sustain. So when Larry said something about people getting hurt, I knew it was code for himself.

“People, Larry, or you?”

“People.”

“You gonna explain this shit to me or what? This cryptic nonsense is pissing me off.”

“Not on the phone.”

“How then, by fax, or the Pony fucking Express?”

“Can you meet me in an hour?”

“Where?”

“The boardwalk, by the Parachute Jump.”

“See you in an hour.”

It took him a lot longer to ring off than it had to answer.

CHAPTER FOUR

My dad used to take Aaron and me to Coney Island on spring Sundays. I don’t remember him taking Miriam. My dad was a good man in an old-school sort of way. He loved Miriam, maybe more than he loved his sons, but I’m not certain he knew how to handle a girl. He suffered from China Doll syndrome. Dad was always frightened that Miriam was somehow more breakable than his boys, that she needed to stay home and have tea parties with her stuffed animals. Sports, roller coasters, and the like weren’t for delicate little girls. Miriam, a mother lion in a previous life, needed very little protecting.

Dad loved the Parachute Jump.

“La Tour Eiffel du Brooklyn,” he’d say, in an accent less French than Flatbush.

“What’s that mean, Dad?”

“The Eiffel Tower of Brooklyn, you idiot!” Aaron would snap. “You ask that every time.”

“Aaron!” my father would bark.

“Sorry, Dad.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to your little brother.”

“That’s okay.”

We did a variation of this exchange each time we came. Steeplechase Park was still open back then. They had this really cool ride with wooden horses on tracks, and you could fly around the park as if you were in a real steeplechase race like the kind they had in England. But by the time I took the oath and was assigned to the 60th Precinct, Steeplechase Park had been razed and the wooden horses sent to the scrap heap. They don’t make glue out of wooden horses, just splinters.

In 1968, as today, the only thing that remained of Steeplechase Park was the rusting hulk of the Parachute Jump. I wasn’t like my dad. I hated the damned thing. It was an unfortunate vestige like the human appendix, its decay calling attention to a purpose no longer served. Sometimes I think they should have just taken a bulldozer to the whole amusement park area and put up a fucking plaque like they did at Ebbets Field. In this way, the romantic vision of the place would be all that remained. There are reasons beyond stench why we don’t let the dead rot above the ground.

I watched Larry McDonald’s approach. He came up the Stillwell Avenue stairs onto the boardwalk. Where Surf and Stillwell avenues collided was where Nathan’s Famous had stood for about seventy-five years, but the wind was strong out of the west and blew the fragrant steam of Nathan’s griddles and fryers away from me, toward Brighton Beach and Manhattan Beach beyond. The sudden aging I’d noticed in Larry’s eyes and voice the previous day had begun to affect his gait. He took the measured steps of an old man who had always been sure on his feet, but had suddenly lost confidence not only in his stride but in the solidity of the ground beneath his shoes.

As usual, he was sharply dressed. Larry was the only person I’d ever met who could overdress for any occasion. He wore a finely tailored camel hair blazer over an ivory silk shirt and beige slacks with a crease so sharp it could cut diamonds. His brown alligator loafers probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

“Italian?” I wondered, pointing down.

“What? Huh?”

“The shoes, shithead.”

“Oh, yeah, they’re Italian. What else would they be? And that’s Chief of Detectives Shithead to you.”

“Sorry.” I made the sign of the cross and said, “Forgive me father for I have sinned.”

“You heathen fucking Jew. You’re gonna rot in hell for that.”

“Jews don’t believe in hell.”

“Believing’s got nothing to do with it. It exists.” He lit up and smoked away.

“So. .”

“You know they found him over there.”

“Who?”

“Mayweather.” Larry walked to the rail along the beach side of the boardwalk, and I followed. “He was half buried in the sand right under where we’re standing. Some alter kocker’s dog dug his hand up like a hidden bone. Did you know he was tortured before he was killed? They broke every single finger on both hands, snapped ’em one by one. And his knees! They were smashed to bits.”

“That must’ve been unpleasant. Trust me, I know from knee pain, but what the fuck, Larry? This is all very fascinating, but I don’t really give a shit,” I said, putting my foot up on the bottom rung of the rail, resting my arms across the top, my chin on my arms. I watched the little waves roll ashore, stared at the container ships slowly moving toward the mouth of New York Harbor. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“There were rumors. .”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Just rumors. Rumor rumors.”

“Hey, that clears it all up, I guess.”

“Ugly rumors.”