I WAKE UP to the whirring sound of my exercise bike.
It is not a sound that I hear frequently, since I have long treated the bike as a piece of furniture. Of course, it has more than just aesthetic value; I use the handlebars as a place to hang shirts.
Once I am able to pry my eyes open, I look over and see Laurie pedaling furiously. Her energy level is now inversely proportional to my self-esteem. We made love last night, and it left me so exhausted that it feels as if it will take someone with a shovel to get me out of bed. Yet either I have been unable to remotely tire Laurie out, or she is in a desperate rush to get somewhere but isn’t aware that the bike is stationary.
“What time is it?” I ask.
Laurie looks over at me, then at her watch, while continuing to pedal. “Four thirty.”
I look toward the window. “And it’s dark already?”
“In the morning, Andy. It’s four thirty in the morning.”
Tara and Reggie are paying no attention to this repartee; they are sound asleep on their beds. “Are you delivering newspapers or just out for a scenic ride?”
“I’m sorry, Andy. I exercise when I’m feeling stress.”
“You exercise every day of your life.”
“But I usually wait until six.”
“Why so stressed?” I ask.
She stops pedaling, comes over and sits on the side of the bed. “Today is my last day here. I leave tomorrow morning.”
I knew that, but it still hits me like a two-by-four in the head. I say this despite having no idea what a two- by-four actually is.
“How about if we spend it together?” I ask.
She smiles. “I’d like that. What did you have in mind?”
“Well, how about if we get dressed and go into the city?” I don’t have to specify which city; any time someone in North Jersey mentions “the city,” they’re talking about New York.
Laurie reacts, surprised that I would say that, since she knows I’m not a big fan of driving into the city. “What for?”
“I thought maybe we could spend some time in the Bronx talking to people who knew one of the guys that tried to kill me.”
She smiles again. “You really know how to show a girl a good time.”
I shrug. “I’m just an incurable romantic.”
Antwan Cooper, the driver for Archie Durelle the night they shot at Sam Willis and me, lived on Andrews Avenue in the Bronx. It is just across the street from the campus of Bronx Community College, which took it over from NYU in the seventies.
The campus seems like an idyllic oasis in the midst of what is a very depressed, run-down area. The people who live in houses like Antwan’s have a hell of a lot more to worry about in their daily lives than chemistry homework.
Laurie and I pull up in front of the house, which seems to defy the laws of physical construction just by the fact that it is standing. There are holes in the structure where there should not be holes, and boards over where there should be holes, such as the windows. Above the front door there is the outline of Greek lettering, indicating that this was once a fraternity or sorority house.
Sitting on the stairs is a very large young man who looks frozen in time, like a statue. His 250 or so pounds are sort of folded over, his chin resting almost on his knees. His clothing is nondescript except for a Mets hat and outlandish new sneakers that probably set him back two hundred and fifty dollars. He gives absolutely no indication that he has even seen us pull up, or that he is alive.
We get out of the car, and I immediately realize that Laurie and I are about to reverse the traditional male- female roles, as we always do in situations like this. I am by nature a physical coward, and what I perceive to be dangerous surroundings intimidate me. She is a trained police officer, used to threatening situations, and if she is worried, she certainly does not show it. Laurie and I both know that I’m glad she’s here.
I am still somewhat nervous about this. We are going to try to talk to people who were friends or family of a man who tried to murder me, who was killed in the process, and we are doing so in a place that does not exactly look open and inviting.
“We don’t need to be doing this,” I say.
“It’ll be fine, Andy.”
“We haven’t even gotten the new trial.”
Before she can answer, a car pulls up behind ours, and Marcus gets out. He most likely has judged this to be a time when staying in the background is not enough, and he wants to be present and accounted for if unpleasantness should break out. Suffice it to say that his presence changes my outlook somewhat.
I dare somebody to mess with Marcus and me.
Laurie and I approach the house, and Statue Man finally moves, albeit slightly. He tilts his head to follow our progress, and the look on his face is not particularly welcoming.
“Can you tell us what apartment Antwan Cooper lived in?”
“Get lost.”
“We’re looking for someone who knew him, maybe a family member that we can talk to.”
“Get fucking lost,” he says, slowly standing up. This is not going well.
“Tell him the number.” It’s Marcus’s voice; he has approached and is standing just behind us.
Statue Man looks over and sees Marcus. He sizes him up for a moment, then looks back at me. “Two B,” says Statue Man.
We reach the front door and I attempt to ring the bell, though no sound can be heard. Laurie doesn’t do or say anything, so I knock on the door a few times, but it doesn’t seem to attract any attention. “We appear to be thwarted,” I say.
Laurie frowns and turns the doorknob. The door swings wide open. I graciously let her enter first. The interior is predictably depressing, with a narrow, dark corridor with six apartment doors, and a staircase leading upstairs. Since Statue Man said we should go to 2-B, we head up the stairs. As we climb, I look back and see that Marcus has taken a position at the bottom of the stairs, thereby positioning himself as an impenetrable barrier between Statue Man and us. If the Alamo walls were that reliable, Davy Crockett would have spent his declining years in a condo in Boca Raton.
The second floor is identical to the first, and the B apartment is the second door on the right. Since I am apparently the designated knocker, I try my luck.
“Yeah?” a voice calls out from within the apartment.
“We want to talk to you about Antwan Cooper,” I say through the door.
“You cops?”
That’s a tough question to answer, and not just because Laurie is a cop and I’m not. It’s tough because I’m not sure which answer will get whoever’s inside to open the door and talk to us.
I decide to avoid the question. “Can we come in?”
“Nobody’s stopping you.”
I take that as an invitation to open the door, but Laurie motions for me to wait a moment. She has apparently decided that caution is called for, and she takes out her handgun, concealing it at her side. She gives me the okay, and I open the door.
The apartment is sparsely furnished but looks neat and cared for. Sitting at a small table is a teenager, maybe fifteen years old. He is obviously whom we were speaking with, but his voice sounds older. His eyes look even older than that.
“So, you cops?”
“I’m a lawyer,” I say. “Did you know Antwan Cooper?”
“They want to talk about Pops,” he says, and I realize he’s talking to someone else. I look over, and there’s a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway between this room and the kitchen. She is holding a kitchen towel in her hand.
She looks at us. “What about?”
