God Hates Us All

and I had a running debate over whose grass was greener, the guy with the kind of dad who steals money from his kid to take his mistress out to lunch, or the girl without a father.

“Wow,” I say. “Are you sure now’s a good time for that?”

“His name is Peter.”

“Peter?”

“Peter Robichaux. You said if I needed anything….”

“I meant something that I could actually do. Finding a guy who dropped off the map ten years ago doesn’t exactly play to my strengths.”

“Forget it,” she says, forcing a smile. “I was just fucking with you. I’m crazy, you know.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Do you have any other information, an address or a phone number?”

“That’s all I got,” she whispers.

It’s a five-minute walk to the parking lot from the building where Daphne is housed. Tana is waiting for me in her car. She holds up her wristwatch when she sees me.

“Really?” she asks.

I climb quietly into her passenger seat. I feel disoriented—spend an hour in a mental institution, and the outside world starts to seem a little weird. Tana, God bless her, parses my mood. We drive back to Levittown in silence.

9

CHRISTMAS IS HERE, IF THE CROWDS DESCENDING on the Macy’s in Herald Square are any indication. Which for me means that walking—the bedrock principle of my workday—is getting tougher. Bitter winds off the river pounce like Clouseau’s man Kato, knocking about the unprepared. Mini-tsunamis form by whatever angle of intersection causes rubber tires to launch numbingly-cold waves of ash-colored snow and gravel onto already icy sidewalks. Getting from point A to point B requires determination, concentration, and fortitude.

None of which is enough to bring me down. Then again, I’m high.

“The whole visit to Daphne, I think it transformed me. It just felt like I was doing the right thing. Like I had a place in the universe as a force for good.”

Or so I explain to Tana as 21 Jump Street goes to commercial break. She smiles brightly, unsure how seriously to take my epiphany. “You going to bogart that spliff all night?” I pass her the joint. “You’re not going to join the Peace Corps,” she asks, taking a puff. “Are you?”

“No,” I reply, taking the weed back from her. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought this all the way through. But it’s almost like my whole life has been leading to this point.”

“You have spent a lot of time in the food service industry. And delivering pot, you’re helping a lot of people.”

I nod gravely, examining the burning stick in my hand. “Food for the soul.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, reaching toward me. “Now share. Me hungry.”

Earlier that evening, I’d spoken to Larry Kirschenbaum about Daphne’s father. He gave me the name of a private investigator he thought might be able to help—an excop named Henry Head—but he’d probably charge me five hundred a week.

“Not a problem,” I responded a little too quickly, causing Larry to study me in a new light. Not respect, exactly—more like the instinct, earned from decades of defending criminals, that I might sometime soon require his professional services.

The truth was I could afford Henry Head, thanks to my ongoing business relationship with Danny Carr. I’d planned to reinvest the extra salary into my ongoing efforts to woo K. away from Nate. But so far it hadn’t mattered: I hadn’t seen her in the nearly two weeks since we’d mashed in the bar. In the rush to leave I’d forgotten to ask for her number. Ray thought he had it, but couldn’t find it, and suggested I “just drop by her place.” Which I did, once again feeling like a stalker, again with zero success.

That Friday night, I debark the elevator on Danny Carr’s floor. His assistant Rick is outside the office door, hovering over a fax machine.

“So if it isn’t the man of mystery,” he greets me.

“Howdy, Rick. The boss around?”

“Just finishing up a call. You guys gonna…” Rick places his thumb and forefinger in front of his mouth and sucks in, mimicking a toke.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

Rick smiles, or at least bares his canines trying. “So it’s like that, huh?” He turns his attention to the inbox on his desk. A minute later, Danny pokes his head out from his office.

“My new best friend,” he says, gesturing me in. “You can go, Rick.”

“What about the fax?”

“I’ll get the fax,” Danny replies. “Now get out of here.”

Rick gathers his things slowly, a man with something on his mind. “You decide about those tickets?” he finally blurts out.

“Yeah,” Danny says in a flat voice. “I don’t think that’s going to happen this time.”

“Ain’t no thang,” replies Rick. “See you on Monday, Boss. Don’t party too hard this weekend. Later days and better lays.”

Danny’s already on his way back into his office. I follow, closing the door behind me per his request.

“What a prick,” he says, already removing the vaporizer from his sin cabinet. “Wants my fucking Knicks tickets to impress some piece of tail from Staten Island. What a fucking waste of a human penis.”

Danny hands me the money, five hundred dollars already promised to Henry Head, who during our five-minute telephone conversation would guarantee no immediate results but assured me that “when you need a private dick, you can count on the Head.” I’d kept reminding myself that Larry Kirschenbaum had vouched for him.

“You want ’em?” he asks. “The tickets. I’m supposed to be on a plane to Saint Bart’s in…” He looks at his watch. “Right now. Come on, take ’em. They’re behind the Sonics bench. You can play bongos on the X-Man’s bald head. Don’t… You can’t do that, I’ll lose my tickets, but you know what I mean.”

It’s amazing, I tell myself as I exit the office with the tickets in my pocket, what you can accomplish by just not being a dickhead. And it only gets better: The elevator is waiting for me when I push the button. The uptown 2 arrives the moment I reach the platform. There is an open seat near the door. And when I finally reach the hotel with time enough to change—out of slavish loyalty to what I now consider to be my brand, the well-dressed drug dealer, I’m still wearing business-casual—I hear a familiar voice call my name. I spin around to see K.

“I thought I recognized that ass,” she says.

“Hey,” I protest. “I’m not just a sex object you can ogle.”

“Mmm. Too bad. I had fun the other night.”

“Me too. I tried to call you until I realized I didn’t have your number.”

“I’ve been superbusy,” she says.

“Life in the big city.”

We wait together for the light at Seventh Avenue. “Also…,” she starts, then trails off.

“Don’t tell me. You’ve got herpes.”

“Gross me out. No, I’ve got a boyfriend. And I probably shouldn’t be kissing strange men in bars.”

“I think if you get to know me,” I say, starting across the street, “you’ll find I’m really not that strange. And besides, there’s the whole thousand-mile rule.”

“That’s riiiight,” she says, catching up to me. “I forgot about the thousand-mile rule. I’m sure Nate would understand.”

“He seems like an understanding guy.”

“Only I can’t ask him tonight,” she adds, “on account of the band being in Cleveland. How far away is Cleveland?”

“Cleveland, Spain?”