ID on the victim.”
“Who is it?”
“Please, Joe. I don’t want to tell you over the phone.” Mauser felt a flash of pain shoot through his stomach. It wasn’t the scotch. Something in Louis’s voice.
“Lou, you’re scaring me, buddy. What’s going on?”
“Just come down here.” Mauser swore he heard the man choke back a sob. “A lot of the guys haven’t seen you in a while. They’ll be glad to know you’re coming.” Then he hung up.
Three minutes later Joe Mauser had on his leather jacket, a pair of beaten khakis, house keys snuggled in his pocket. Gun strapped to his ankle holster.
Stepping into the warm May night, Federal Agent Joseph Mauser cinched up his coat and walked to his car. He turned on the radio. Listened to two talking heads argue over whose fault it was that the Yankees lost. He drove uptown, a gnawing feeling in his gut that the body he was about to see would mean many more sleepless nights lay ahead.
8
You wake up in a sun-dappled alley. Your ribs hurt. There’s a knot on the back of your head that throbs nonstop. You feel dizzy. A man wearing a cardboard box for a blanket blinks at you, his eyes adjusting to the sight of this stranger sharing his alley. His beard is frazzled and dirty. His hands look like he’s worked in a coal mine for twenty years. You think it has to be a dream. There’s no rational explanation. You have a bed. You live in an apartment paid for with your money. You have direct deposit. You have a MetroCard. You may or may not be in a relationship. You have a college degree. You have parents you fled three thousand miles to get away from.
You stand up. There’ll be milk in the fridge, day-old coffee in the pot. It must be a dream. Where will the day take you?
Then you remember the corpse lying at your feet. The pool of blood you avoided stepping in. The kickback as the gun fired into the man who came this close to killing you and two other people.
And then you know it wasn’t a dream.
The homeless man stared at me as I wiped the dirt from my hands on a discarded newspaper. He held a crinkled coffee cup that held a nickel and three pennies.
“You new here?” he asked. Four rotted teeth jutted out from his black gums. “If you’re new here, you gotta pay a toll. I’m the tollbooth collector. Have been for two years. Last guy died. Tragedy. You can’t live on this block unless you pay the toll.”
I absently went for my wallet, then thought better and headed toward the street. A voice behind me yelled, “Hey, you didn’t pay the toll!”
Morning had broken. The sun was hot and bright. A beautiful early summer day. I checked my watch. It was eight fifty-three. I was due at work in seven minutes.
Every breath brought pain. I stopped in front of a building with a waist-high brick outcropping. Lifting up my shirt, I saw a mild discoloration under my armpit. Nothing too bad, nothing broken. Just black and blue where I’d been savagely kicked.
As I stood there, regaining my composure, winking away the dizziness, visions of last night came to me like a swarm of locusts. A man was dead because of me. Whether I’d pulled the trigger or not-it was all so fast, but I remember his finger in the trigger guard-I was responsible for another man’s death. It hadn’t sunk in yet, merely hovering around the fringes of my subconscious.
I tried to help Luis and Christine. And now a man was dead. In my heart, I knew I wasn’t to blame. He could have killed them both. He would have killed me.
My first stop had to be the police. They’d understand the situation, know the Guzmans were in mortal danger and I acted in their defense. He had the gun. He attacked two people. If I hadn’t been there, he might have killed them. I was a hero. My picture would be in the papers, bold-faced copy that could never be erased.
Pride swelled in my chest as I stumbled down the street. I checked my backpack, took out my cell phone. It wouldn’t turn on. It must have broken during the fight. I looked for a pay phone to call 911. Then I began to notice something odd.
Pedestrians were staring at me, vague recognition on their faces, mouths pursed like they were trying to pick someone out of a lineup. An unsettling feeling crept over me, but I dismissed it, assuming last night had shocked my senses into overdrive.
But still…
The body kept popping up in my head like a jack-in-the box with a busted spring.
A man was dead because of me, and nothing else mattered. Two people were hurt, severely perhaps, hopefully being tended to. But there was still an 800-pound elephant in the room. What was that man looking for last night?
He was at their apartment with a purpose. Christine seemed to know what he was talking about, but denied having anything in their possession. Luis was incoherent. But still, she knew…
Perhaps there was a story in all of this. Maybe I could talk to the Guzmans, find the answers to the questions I’d gone back for last night. Approach Wallace with the story of a lifetime. A story few reporters my age would have the guts to go after. It could make my name. Maybe there really was a silver lining in all of this.
But first I needed to call the cops. The truth had to be told.
I found a pay phone on the corner of 89th and Broadway next to an aromatic delicatessen, and stepped into the booth. A couple walking a tiny dachshund eyed me suspiciously. The man, wearing a visor and Black Dog shirt, put his arm around the girl and hurriedly ushered her away, dragging the yelping dog behind him.
Something was wrong. New Yorkers weren’t shocked that easily. It’s not like I was covered in blood, or tarred and feathered. If anything I was a bit disheveled, but nothing to elicit that kind of reaction. Something spooked them, but I couldn’t figure out what. My heart began to beat faster.
The deli on the corner reminded me of how hungry I was. Maybe I’d get a bagel after setting the record straight. Food would feel good. Something to fill the empty feeling in my gut.
Looking through the deli’s window, I saw an Arab man with a thick mustache and thinning hair talking on the phone. The hole in my stomach seemed to spill out burning acid when I noticed that he was staring at me as he spoke, his mouth moving in exaggerated, cartoonish gestures. Flamboyant nods. He mouthed the word “yes” several times. His eyes were deadlocked with mine.
I was going crazy. That was the only explanation. After last night, paranoia was a normal response. My senses were overloaded, jumping at the slightest buzz. There was nothing to be worried about.
Deep breaths, Henry. Everything would be fine.
I picked up the phone and dialed 911. One ring and a woman’s voice picked up.
“9-1-1 emergency response. How can I help you?”
“I…”
Then I saw it.
My mouth fell open. My saliva dried up. I forgot to breathe.
This wasn’t possible.
Oh, my God. Please, no.
No.
Slowly I sank to my knees, tendons and muscles melting. My breath came in short bursts. My head felt light, as though a helium tank had been emptied into my skull.
I heard a tinny voice from the receiver.
“Hello? Sir? Hello?”
The phone fell from my hand and swung aimlessly.
The man in the deli had hung up the phone, but his eyes were still fixed on me.
Run.
A woman walked by, chirping on her cell phone. Her eyes found mine, a flicker of recognition in them, then she picked up her pace and rounded the corner. Fear. There was fear in her eyes.
