at Ridge and walked two blocks and finally got to Houston Street, and I didn't have to stand there too long before a cab came along.
I held up a hand and he drew up and slowed down. I started toward him, and I guess he got a good look at me then and didn't like what he saw, because he stepped on the gas and peeled off.
I would have cursed him if I'd had the strength.
Instead it was all I could do to remain on my feet. There was a mailbox nearby and I walked over and let it take some of my weight. I looked down at myself and was glad I hadn't wasted breath cursing the cabbie. I was a mess, with both trouser legs laid open at the knee, my jacket and shirtfront filthy, my hands dark with dried blood and embedded dirt and grit. No cabdriver in his right mind would have wanted me in his hack.
But one did, and I can't say he came across as particularly demented. I stayed there at Ridge and Houston for ten or fifteen minutes, not because I really expected anyone to stop for me but because I couldn't figure out where the nearest subway entrance might be, or trust myself to cope with it once I did.
Three more cabs passed me up, and then one stopped. He may have thought I was a police officer. I was trying my best to give that impression, holding up my billfold as if to display a shield.
When he stopped for me I got the rear door open before he could change his mind. 'I'm sober and I'm not bleeding,' I assured him. 'I won't mess up your cab.'
'Fuck the cab,' he said. 'I don't own this heap of shit, and so what if I did? Wha'd they do, jump you and roll you? This is no place for you at this hour, man.'
'Why didn't you tell me that a couple of hours ago?'
'Hey, you're not too bad off if you got your sense of humor. I better get you to a hospital. Bellevue's closest, but maybe you'd rather go someplace else?'
'The Northwestern Hotel,' I said. 'That's on Fifty-seventh and—'
'I know where it's at, I got a regular pickup five days a week across the street at the Parc Vendome.
But are you sure you wouldn't be better off going to a hospital?'
'No,' I said. 'I just want to go home.'
Jacob was at the desk when I stopped to check for messages. If he noticed anything unusual about my appearance, nothing in his manner showed it. Either he was more diplomatic than I'd ever realized or he'd reached that point in the terpinhydrate bottle where relatively few things got his attention.
No calls, thank God. I went to my room, closed the door, and put the chain on. I'd done that once before, a few years back, only to discover that a man who wanted to kill me was waiting for me in the bathroom. I'd only managed to lock myself in with him.
This time, though, all that was waiting for me in the bathroom was the tub, and I couldn't wait to get into it. But first I braced myself and looked in the mirror.
It wasn't as bad as I'd feared. I was carrying some bruises and superficial scrapes and scratches, and some of the grit I'd rolled in, but I hadn't lost any teeth or broken anything or sustained any bad cuts.
I looked like hell all the same.
I got out of my clothes. My suit was beyond salvage; I emptied the pockets and stripped the belt from the slacks and stuffed them and the jacket into the wastebasket. My shirt was ripped and my tie was a mess.
I tossed them both.
I drew a hot tub and soaked in it for a long time, let the water drain out and filled it up again. I sat there and soaked while I picked bits of glass and gravel out of the palms of my hands.
I don't know what time it was when I finally got to bed. I never did look at the clock.
I had swallowed some aspirin before I went to bed, and I took some more as soon as I got up, and another hot bath to draw some of the ache out of muscle and bones. I needed a shave but knew better than to scrape a blade over my face. I found the electric shaver my kids gave me a few Christmases back and did what I could with it.
There was blood in my urine. It's always a shock to see that, but I'd taken kidney punches before and knew what they did to you. It was unlikely he'd done me any lasting damage. My kidney ached where he'd poked me, and it would probably pain me for a while, but I figured I'd get over it.
I went out and had coffee and a roll and read Newsday. Breslin's column was all about the criminal justice system, and he wasn't giving it any raves. Another columnist got slightly hysterical on the subject of a death penalty for major narcotics dealers, as if that would make them all weigh the consequences of their actions and turn their talents to investment banking instead.
If the previous day was up to the year's average to date, there had been seven homicides within the five boroughs in the course of its twenty-four hours. Newsday had four of them covered. None were in my neighborhood, and none of the victims had names I found familiar. I couldn't say for sure, but from what I read it didn't look as though any of my friends had been murdered yesterday.
I went over to Midtown North but Durkin wasn't around. I caught the noon meeting at the West Side Y
on Sixty-third. The speaker was an actor who'd sobered up on the Coast, and his energy gave a California rah- rah quality to the hour. I walked back to the station house, stopping on the way to get a slice of pizza and a Coke and eat on the street. When I got to Midtown North Durkin was back, holding the phone to his ear and juggling a cigarette and a cup of coffee. He motioned me to a chair and I sat down and waited while he did a lot of listening and not much talking.
He hung up, leaned forward to scribble something on a pad, then straightened up and looked at me.
'You look like you walked into a fan,' he said. 'What happened?'
'I got in with bad company,' I said. 'Joe, I want that bastard picked up. I want to swear out a complaint.'
'Against Motley?' I nodded. 'He did that to you?'
