'So it's Saturday evening and there's really no one else around, and then I see this guy.'
'What he look like?' Eddie asked.
'Little guy-runty, you know? Like if he was a pup in a litter they woulda drowned him. Only they didn't, 'cause there he was.'
Lee had the uncomfortable thought that it might have been better for everyone if someone had drowned the man they were pursuing.
'Runty like how?' said Eddie. 'You mean deformed or something?'
'Naw, nothin' like that. Just small-short, you know-and skinny. Not as thin as me, maybe, but pretty damn skinny, I'll tell you.'
'Did you get a look at his face at all?' said Lee.
Willow shook his head, loosening the sock holding his gray ponytail. Lee didn't want to think about what might be living inside that greasy nest of hair.
'Not real well-too dark. No moon that night, and one a' the street lamps was burned out-has been for a while. But I did see the light across the street shine on his forehead. He had a big forehead. High, y'know, like his hair is receding.'
'This trash can he was carrying,' Eddie said, 'did it seem like it was full?'
'Yeah, that's the other weird thing,' Willow said, scratching his head. 'Who brings a full trash can into a building, you know? Weird.'
'Did you see him bring anything back out?' Lee asked.
'Nope. I saw a guy light up on the corner, bummed a smoke from him. Didn't see anything after that.'
'Do you remember how he was dressed?'
'Mmm…dark clothes. Raincoat sort of like the ones the Feds wear, except this guy was no Fed-not well enough fed for that. Hey, that's not bad,' he said, smiling broadly, displaying a mouth badly in need of dentistry. Several teeth were chipped; others were missing altogether. 'Not well enough fed for a Fed-hey, not bad.' He gave a chuckle, a low rumbling sound of phlegm rattling in his lungs.
'Anything else?'
'Oh, yeah-there was one thing.'
'What?'
'His breathing. It was wheezy, you know? Like a guy who's been smokin' too long-except he didn't light up or nothin'.'
'Do you think you could identify him from a police sketch?'
Willow picked at a scab on his chin. 'I don't know. Maybe. What's in it for me?'
'Okay, look,' Lee said, 'you've been really helpful. Is there anything we can get you-some food, a place to sleep?'
Willow held up the carton of cigarettes. 'More of these?'
'Hey, look,' Lee said, pulling five twenty-dollar bills from his wallet. 'If I give you this, will you promise to spend some of it on food and shelter?'
Willow took the money and counted it. 'You made a mistake, man-these are twenties.'
'It's not a mistake. I want you to have them. But please buy some decent food for yourself, will you? And maybe a room at the Y?'
'Y-M-J-A,' Willow sang softly as he stuffed the money into his shoe. 'I can stay at the Y-M-J-A. Da da da da da da, I can get anything I want, at the Y-M-J-A.' He looked at Lee. 'I'm Jewish-get it?'
'Yes,' Lee said. 'I get it. You will? Promise?'
'Sure!' Willow sang out, but his attention was drawn by a passing jogger, a well-built young black man in red spandex.
'Now he's a Fed,' Willow whispered. 'You see? They've found me already-they move fast, lemme tell you.' He began singing again. 'Who needs a bunker in Iraq-aq-aq-aq-aq-aq?' He sang to the tune of the Billy Joel song, 'Movin' Out.' 'If that's what's movin' in, I'm gettin' out.'
Without saying good-bye, Willow stood up and wandered off in the direction of the boathouse.
Eddie looked at Lee. 'Well, I guess that's all she wrote.'
'Yeah,' Lee said. 'Listen, how can I reach you?
'You can't,' Eddie replied. 'I'll call you.'
Lee wanted to protest, but he knew there was nothing like pressure to drive Eddie even further away. And, as they walked out of the park, he was busy thinking about why someone would drag a trash can into a church in the middle of the night.
Chapter Thirty-one
Surely his mother wouldn't object to his spending time with this girl. She was so slight, so frail, more like a little bird, really, than a girl. A little sparrow-yes, that was it. She was exactly like a tiny, underfed sparrow, and he longed to take her in his arms and feed her until she fell asleep, contented and safe in his gentle embrace. It was nothing lustful; it was more like the feeling you might have toward a beloved pet, a desire to take care of them, to nurture them the way you might a puppy, or any helpless creature. What could be the harm in that?
He screwed his face up and put his hands over his ears, as if that would drown out the voice in his head, but the voice burrowed all the way through to his eardrums, making him dizzy. The memory of that first awful humiliation played like a tape in his head, from beginning to end.
Sam-u-el! How could you do that? How could you touch that nasty, nasty creature, that filthy little harlot? How could you do that to me-to Him? Do you want to make Jesus cry? Do you?
The wooden figurine of Jesus on the cross above her bed looked down on him, disappointment carved into the wooden face. The tortured eyes implored him-him, Samuel-for help as if he could ease Jesus's suffering.
Sam-u-el! Look at me when I'm talking to you! Did you think Jesus wouldn't see you, wouldn't know what filthy thoughts you were thinking?
He didn't think his thoughts were filthy, but maybe he was wrong. His mother had said that the Devil disguises thoughts sometimes, to fool the sinner-maybe his heart was full of lust after all. He thought about the girl, so thin, so pale, her bones fragile as a bird's. Even her delicate little pointed chin had a beaklike quality. It didn't feel like lust, or what he thought of as lust, but how could he argue with God? Even worse, how could he argue with his mother?
He had to make the voice stop before his head burst. He had to make God happy, and he knew of one way to do that-thanks to his Master. He looked at his watch. It would be dark soon, and then his work could begin.
Chapter Thirty-two
'Oh, yeah, he'd be just a dream in court,' Butts said, rolling his eyes.
He was sprawled in one of the chairs facing Chuck's desk. Lee sat across from him in the matching one. They were in Morton's office the next day, comparing notes. Chuck was perched on the windowsill, arms folded. Nelson sat in the captain's chair behind the desk, his fingertips drumming the arm of the chair. Detective Florette sat in a straight-backed chair in the corner, his posture as disciplined and rigid as the starched cuffs of his immaculate white shirt.
'A lot of credible sources make lousy witnesses in court,' Chuck pointed out. 'You know that as well as I do, Detective Butts. We both cover the Bronx, for Christ's sake.'
'Excuse me, Mr.-uh, Willow, is it?' Butts continued. 'Can you tell me who, if anyone, in this courtroom is an informant working for the FBI? Oh, I see-that man in the long black robe? And how do you know that? Oh, because of the microchips they planted in your brain?'
'All right, Detective, knock it off,' Chuck said wearily. 'Obviously this guy isn't usable in court. The question is, is it a lead we can work with?'
