A Drop of the Hard Stuff

I hadn’t felt the need to hit anybody since I got sober, nor was I worried that someone was tapping my phone. But I never left my room without my supply of quarters and tokens, and I spent a second quarter on a call to my client, and learned as little from him as he did from me. He seemed pleased that I was working the case and putting things in motion, but I got the sense that he wasn’t hugely concerned about how my investigation was going.

Walking home, I figured out why. He’d had a dilemma—what to do?—and he’d resolved it by passing the ball to me. What happened now didn’t matter all that much to him. He’d done what he needed to do, and now he could turn it over.

It was very much in the spirit of the Third Step: We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God, as we understood Him.

I’d heard the words no end of times—in specific discussions of the step, and in “How It Works,” the Big Book selection read at the beginning of most meetings. I liked the idea of it, but I didn’t have a clue how to do it. There was something in the literature about using the key of willingness, and sooner or later it would open the lock; that was nicely poetic, but I still didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.

The Third Step doesn’t mean God will do the laundry and walk the dog. That was another of the things I’d heard people say. In other words, what? Turn it over and do it all yourself? That didn’t sound right.

Don’t drink, Jim told me. Don’t drink, and go to meetings. That’s all you need to know for now.

There was a message from Jan at the desk. Call anytime before midnight, it said, but it was well past the hour. We hadn’t confirmed our standing date, and I’d have to remember to do that in the morning. Or I could invent a reason to skip it this week, but wasn’t it too late to do that? It seemed to me that Saturday morning was too late to break a Saturday night date, and I’m sure it’s all explained logically in the Big Book and the Twelve & Twelve, with the proverbial key of willingness playing a starring role.

I remembered, for a change, and hit my knees before I got into bed. “Thank you for another sober day,” I said, feeling righteous and stupid at the same time. It’s remarkable how often the two feelings coincide.

XI

I READ THE TIMES with my breakfast, then went back to my room and called Jan. We agreed we’d go to the SoHo meeting at St. Anthony’s, and I said I’d rather have dinner after than before, if that was all right with her. She said that was fine, she’d have a late lunch.

“I’d have called last night,” I said, “but it was too late by the time I got home. I had to see a fellow, a dedicated night-owl type.”

“It sounds like you’re working.”

“I am,” I said. “I’m not sure there’s much point to it, but I’m getting paid.”

“Isn’t that point enough?”

“It may have to be. There are some people I want to see, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to, but I’m going to spend the day trying. That’s why I’d like to wait and have dinner afterward.”

Why was I explaining? Why did I always feel I had to explain everything? We weren’t married, for Christ’s sake, and even if we were—

“So I’ll see you at SoHo,” she said, cheerfully oblivious to the silent argument we were having, “and afterward we can go to one of those Eyetie places on Thompson Street, and you can tell me all about your case.”

Besides Jack Ellery’s, I’d had five names to try on Danny Boy. He’d scanned the list, then tapped one name with his forefinger. “Alan MacLeish,” he said. “Or Piper MacLeish, as I’ve heard him called.”

“Because he’s Scottish?”

“That may have been a factor, but I think it had less to do with bagpipes than the kind you hit people over the head with.”

“That was his weapon of choice?”

“So far as I know,” Danny Boy said, “he only used it once, but he did time for it, and the name stuck. You know the story about poor Pierre the Bridge Builder.”

“Sure.”

“ ‘Ah, monsieur, I, Pierre, built zat bridge. I have built dozens of bridges. But do zey call me Pierre ze Bridge Builder? Zey do not.’ ”

“That’s the one.”

“ ‘But suck one cock.’ Jesus, the old jokes are the best jokes. That’s why they lasted.” He picked up the Rubik’s Cube, gave it a look, put it down again. “I’m pretty sure Piper’s back inside. He was middlemanning a heroin transaction and the Rockefeller drug laws got him a long sentence. That was a few years ago, but I’d be surprised if he got out yet.”

The next two names didn’t register at all. “Crosby Hart. I don’t recall ever hearing about anybody with Crosby for a first name. Seems to me I’d remember if I had. On the other hand, this next one goes to the other extreme. Robert Williams? How many folks do you suppose answer to that one?”

“I’m not even sure he was a crook,” I said. “He was a friend of Jack’s, and Jack screwed his wife, and thought he might have fathered a child.”

“In other words, start looking for a Robert Williams with a wife who fucks around. Narrows it down.”

There were two more names, and Danny Boy recognized them but didn’t know what they’d been up to or where to find them. “There was a Sattenstein, an uptown fellow. Cabrini Boulevard? Somewhere up there. A small- time fence, if I’ve got the right person, and then he fell off the radar. Frankie Dukes, now there’s a name I know, though I can’t think why. Is Dukes a surname or did they call him that because he was handy with his fists?”

Not too handy, I thought. Gave him a bad beating, Jack had noted on his list. Broke his nose and two ribs.

“Well, somebody will probably know something,” Danny Boy said, “or they’ll know somebody who does. You