as wide as he was tall, with a thick, smashed-down brow and a low forehead, and could only have been what he was — a piece of grease for hire. It would have been the same for him no matter what era he ’ d lived in. If he had been around in 1800s New York, he would ’ ve been a perfect Plug Ugly. When Riggi asked himself if he had the right men for the job, he could only conclude that he did.
Paul sat in his car down the street from the fine house, aware that he was in exactly the wrong place. A few lights shone in various parts of the home, but he had been there for forty-five minutes and hadn ’ t seen any movement or other signs of life. He was beginning to think the lights were on to create an impression but that no one was there. He felt his heart thudding; he thought he could even hear it. He and Behr had left the abandoned rental house after deciding that there was nothing else, besides that newspaper, to be gleaned from the place. They ’ d done their best to smooth out the broken jamb and pull the door shut behind them. Behr drove Paul back to his car, and as he had something else to do that night, they ’ d agreed to go and look at Riggi ’ s residence the next day. Less than an hour later Paul found himself sitting at Riggi ’ s, wondering if he had the stomach to do what he intended.
He had seen the list of addresses several times over the course of the last few days and Riggi ’ s street and number were burned into his brain. He ’ d pointed his car toward his own home in earnest after leaving Behr, had even reached the outskirts of his neighborhood, before succumbing to the raw urge that wouldn ’ t allow him to let it go for the night. Riggi was living well, that much was clear. The house was a whitewashed brick job, a modified Georgian with a great room squared in by large leaded windows. If the addition was a bit out of the style of the rest of the house, the place certainly looked rich and comfortable. Well-kept grass and some boxwoods surrounded it. Up and down the block lights were on in other expensive houses. There was the occasional figure passing by a window, a garage door opening and a car pulling in or out. Paul assumed there must be signs beyond that, a process or method by which a trained individual could tell if a house was occupied. But Behr wasn ’ t with him. He was alone. He decided on his own method: He ’ d wait two full hours and if there were no signs of movement, he would do it.
Rooster hung from the horizontal crossbar that stretched across the top of his cell door jacking out pull-ups. He was on his fifth set of fifteen, his forearms pressed against the vertical bars, but something was wrong. He hadn ’ t been able to conjure a song, not even a guitar riff, in his head all day. He thought back and realized it was before he ’ d been roughed up when he ’ d last heard music in his mind. Danzig ’ s “Ashes.” Then he ’ d been knocked around and he ’ d lost the music. He squeezed out his last rep, feeling the blood flow into his lats. He smacked his hands together after lowering himself to the floor, trying to summon energy, then hit the ground on his back and began his last set of one hundred sit-ups. In the past day he ’ d gotten to a thousand. There was no telling how long he ’ d be inside and he ’ d set his mind to staying hard. It was the only choice. If he let the mind go, the body would follow, and he ’ d be chum the second he was dropped into general population. He was meeting with his court-appointed attorney the next morning to prepare for his arraignment. In the meantime he was being kept in special holding. It wasn ’ t bad so far: no roommate; two hours optional in the television room, which he skipped to work out in his cell; fifteen-minute private shower at the end of the night before lights out. The food was rough — salty, fatty, carbed up. That was the biggest problem he ’ d faced in the short term. He didn ’ t hold much hope for Mr. Free Lawyer, either. Those guys tended to be pretty bottom of the barrel, and he found himself considering whether he should call Riggi for a hook or not. If the private investigator — fuck had shown up on Riggi ’ s doorstep, it ’ d be a suicide call. If not, it ’ d be what was referred to as a lifeline. He finished his set, his abdomen seizing and burning with the effort, and decided he ’ d wait and see what the public defender guy had to offer tomorrow before he ’ d make the call. He slid his feet into shower sandals, got his soap, razor, and towel, and shuffled down toward the shower room.
“I considered Pinnochino ’ s, but, you know, I thought maybe it was too romantic. Didn ’ t want it to look like I was pressing,” Behr found himself volunteering after Susan had complimented Donohue ’ s.
“Cool place,” she ’ d said. “Clubby.”
“Also, you go all out on the first date, how do you know what she ’ s coming back for, right?” he added, wondering why in the hell he was acting so gabby.
“C ’ mon, Frank. How ’ bout a little confidence in what you have to offer?” She smiled.
“Sorry, I haven ’ t been out much lately.”
“Yeah? That case you ’ re working on?”
“That. And my line of work. I never meet — ”
“Me neither.”
“You? No — ”
“Who ’ m I gonna date, the inkblots I work with? Nah.”
She drank Johnnie Black on the rocks and ordered a flank steak right along with him.
“I ’ m not a salad girl,” she offered without much apology, starting in on her food.
“Good,” he said.
“Ah, you ’ re probably right. Pinnochino ’ s, the candles in the wine bottles and all, might ’ ve reeked a little like desperation,” she allowed, then asked, “Ever been married?”
“Once. You?”
“Close one time. Kids?”
“Had a son.”
“Had?”
“What say maybe next time we talk about it?” Behr said, trying to keep any edge out of his voice.
She gave him the eye, trying to decide what she was dealing with. Then she nodded and went back to her food.
“Who ’ s that?” she asked of Pal Murphy, who was, at the moment, sitting and holding court with six young men in their early twenties standing in a circle before him.
“The owner.”
“Oh, he ’ s Donohue then,” she concluded.
“No, Murphy.”
“He bought the place from Donohue?”
“Uh-uh, Maguire, I think: Must ’ ve been a Donohue somewhere down the line, though.”
“Yeah.”
They smiled at each other.
Oscar Riggi ’ s left knee bounced in a rapid rhythm beneath his cocktail table. He was tired of the taste of scotch and salted nuts and had twice gotten up to leave, only to grab ahold of himself and ask where the men ’ s room was once and where the telephone was the second time. He ’ d had his credit card swiped through and had had a tab open for the last hour and a half. He ’ d made sure the waitress knew him, and the bartender would remember him, too, now that he ’ d asked the brace of questions. There had been a dozen random patrons in and out over the course of the last hour, in addition to a wave of conventioneers whose panel discussion had just broken, and more than a few would recall the well-dressed man with the shining dome who ’ d sat alone in the middle of the bar. “He seemed to be waiting for someone or something,” they ’ d think, not knowing that it was a call to his cell phone from Wenck and Gilley to tell him it was done. Time was crawling, though, and he couldn ’ t keep the doubts in his mind at bay. He ’ d told the boys to take their time, to pick the right moment and location, but they were eager and he ’ d expected them to call already. He couldn ’ t make himself wait anymore. He held up his hand for the check. He ’ d head home, make some calls, and sign on to the Internet from there. Not as good as waiting in the bar, but he was out of patience.
Paul drummed his fingers on the wheel and calmed his breathing as he came to his decision. His thoughts had been of Jamie during the past hour and a half. It was unusual. He had taken a disciplined approach when it came to musing about his son. When he let himself go for more than a moment or two, the memories flooded in and threatened to wash him away altogether, so he preferred to keep them at bay. But sitting in the car with nothing else to distract him besides the large white house filling his view, he ’ d been powerless to stop or even organize the images in his head. He pictured Jamie as a young boy, wearing his choo-choo train pajamas, sitting in his lap, the soft weight of him in his arms. He remembered him standing in right field, half bored, his mitt hanging low at his side. He recalled the smile on his boy ’ s face when Paul pretended he couldn ’ t find him and he had popped up from a cardboard-box fort in the basement after Paul had said, “I give up. I just don ’ t know where the heck he is.” The memories were like a jab to the stomach that left Paul half gasping and sickened. He rubbed his face and got
