himself to do it, no matter what instance of open defiance.
Looking on the water, Eddy takes out a small bottle of Scotch and takes a sip, offering it to me, his blue hands shaking. I glance around.
“What’re ya looking fer? We’re the law,” he says.
“You think we seem like cops if we smell like liquor?”
“Like a crooked cop, yeah. Fuck, they smellin’ yer breath fer anyway?”
I sip it.
“My pop,” I tell Eddy, the swallow stiff in my throat, ahh, “was a Scotch man. He worked on a dock. Longshoreman. Worked by the water every day.”
“Yeah? How’d he do?”
“Did okay. Had to hustle, though.”
I drink again from the gold liquor and it drops to my stomach like a warm dagger.
“Longshoreman makes good money now,” says Eddy.
“Yeah. Now.”
The Statue of Liberty stands at the end of the island like Manhattan’s toy. Tuesday is a bright, lazy day for some people; bachelors walking their dogs, mothers or nannies pushing strollers, and ghetto teens making out in big coats. It’s difficult to look at The City and see Eddy’s city. I can imagine some crimes more than others. I see professionals and I naturally imagine their drug habits, and the violence that brings them what they need. For every person, there is a logical shadow. For every BlackBerry-carrying, Bluetooth wireless talking professional, there is a messenger-bag middleman, bringing him goodies from some well connected, nickel-plate Ruger-carrying mover- shaker. What scares me about Eddy is how he sees the shadow side of sexuality. For every flower-buying, wife- fucking father, there’s a child-buying, prepubescent-molesting deviant. It bothers me. I try not to be naive about things, but it bothers me. Drugs and violence are tolerable, but touching children is just another animal.
“We’re gonna get a good thing goin’, Ron,” Eddy tells me. “Get this thing here down to a science.”
“Yeah.”
A science. This guy must have a wardrobe’s worth of skeletons in his closet.
I have to wonder how Eddy sees and uncovers this aspect of The City with such ease. He knows where to go. He can find and spot his mark. Eddy is no protector of children. Unlike The Kid, Eddy does not know his own power. What some men do to children is an unchangeable truth in Eddy’s life. He is a perpetual witness. His triumph is that he then hurts the aggressor by taking his money. Eddy is proud of this solution. Eddy then pays the children. He is their friend.
Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe it’s just a hustle like any other hustle, like any of Pop’s hustles. There’s money, and a game to get it.
I turn from the water and see the building we will go to from behind. It is one of two old buildings that shoot up into the sky like cylinders-one red, and the other beige. I’m not sure which color we will enter.
We walk back up to the residential avenue, The Kid with his blonde hair in tow. Eddy checks the license again, and looks up at the contrasting cylinders. There are two doorways, the red one a staircase above street level, the beige a staircase below. Red, I guess. Red makes sense. Eddy drops his cigarette, crushes it with his plain black shoe, and then begins down the steps toward the burrowed cavelike beige door. He rings the buzzer, takes out his badge, and folds it in his breast pocket so it shows clearly. He gestures for me to do the same.
“Yes?” says the filtered voice.
“Is this Mr. Edward Schalaci?”
“Who’s this?” says the voice, sounding like a woman.
“This is Detective May with the NYPD. Does a Mr. Schalaci live there?”
“Yes.”
“ To your knowledge, did he lose his wallet, ma’am?”
A pause. He should have said,
“I think so,” says the woman.
Eddy smiles at me.
“Mark can’t deny it’s his now. Love when the wife’s home.”
The buzzer rings and the three of us walk up the creaky stairs, the air hot and damp. I sweat. I hear Eddy wheezing ahead of me. His feet drop heavily on the steps.
“Cocksuckin’ walk-up,” mutters Eddy.
He reaches the top and lets out a huge exhale. He turns to The Kid.
“Wait here,” he says, and then turns to me. “Follow me. Let me do the talkin’.”
The door opens and a pretty older blonde opens the door, her face inquisitive but pleasant.
Rebecca Schalaci.
“Hello, detectives, I’m Rebecca Schalaci.”
Rebecca Schalaci is Margaret Gallo.
“Good morning, Ms. Schalaci. Sorry to disturb you. Is Mr. Schalaci at home?”
“Uh, yes,” she says, and glances at me. “I’ll get him.”
She walks off. Eddy holds the door open.
“Ms. Schalaci,” he says, “you mind if we come in?”
“No,” she says, hesitant. “Not at all. Can I get you anything?”
“ We’re fine, thank you Ms. Schalaci.”
She disappears into the back. The home is top notch, with natural light, neutral walls, ornate molding, a display case with ancient plates, next to a plasma-screen TV. Eddy smiles.
“Wow. What you think we can get outta this guy? Quick, Ron.”
I think.
“Thirty.”
“We can beat thirty.”
He is right.
“We can do better than thirty for sure. Good-looking broad, huh?”
He turns to look at me, his eyes finding mine for a moment, then looking off again.
“Shame. Good-looking broad like that, got no idea what she’s into.” Eddy nods to himself, repeating “shame.”
The mark shows. The man is half gray, half bald, half concerned, and half dressed. He inserts a cuff link into the sleeve of his open shirt as he walks in.
Edward Schalaci is Woodrow Collins.
“Can I help you, officers?”
“Mr. Schalaci,” begins Eddy, “we found a wallet with your ID inside.” Eddy holds up the wallet. “Mr. Schalaci, does this wallet belong to you?”
Schalaci examines the wallet suspiciously.
“Uh, yeah, thank you. That’s my wallet.”
Eddy turns to me and nods.
“Better go get The Kid,” he says.
I nod officially, like a detective.
“Sir, can we go to a more private part of the apartment?” asks Eddy.
I go back out into the hallway. I see The Kid.
“Time,” I tell him. He seems younger still, skim-coated skin-a child’s sharp teeth. He looks back at me like, fuck you.
I lead The Kid inside and find Eddy and Schalaci in what looks like a study. Schalaci sees The Kid and his jaw drops.
“Mr. Schalaci, do you recognize this child?”
Schalaci is speechless.
“Mr. Schalaci, answer the goddamn question. Do you recognize this child?”
Schalaci nods, slowly.
“I thought you did, Mr. Schalaci.”
The Kid looks bored.
