There, finally, was a uniformed cop standing on a corner, giving some tourist types directions.
Bobby waited. The cop talked, pointed, talked some more. Then the tourist types, the cop, everybody smiled at each other, and the tourists-if that’s what they were-hurried away.
Bobby approached the cop, a tall man with a long nose and a dark mustache. He reminded Bobby of that old- time actor who used to play Sherlock Holmes, Basil Rathbone.
The cop glanced at him and made a kind of face Bobby didn’t like.
“I got some information,” Bobby said.
The cop kept looking at him, dark eyes hard.
“This shooting thing. .” Bobby yanked the newspaper from his jacket pocket. “I seen a guy-”
“Guy with a gun?” the cop interrupted.
“No, listen, I seen this guy. . he wasn’t right.”
The cop nodded. “Lots of those kinds around, buddy.”
“He was hurrying.”
“Look around. Ain’t everybody hurrying? Don’t ask me why.”
“I’m not. No. This guy wasn’t right. I been reading about this Night Sniper, you know the one.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Yeah, but-”
“I need to get to Riverside Park, Officer.”
A pretty girl about sixteen had approached for directions. Two other girls were with her, standing off to the side as if too shy to talk to the cop. They were all about the same size and build, and Bobby thought except for their hair they might have been triplets.
“You keep walking just the way you’re going,” the cop was saying.
“Hey, listen, this guy-”
The three girls looked at Bobby, registered distaste, then looked away. He no longer existed.
“Straight down this street.” The cop pointed.
Bobby no longer existed to the cop, either.
Bobby shambled off. No one tried to stop him.
It made him angry, what had happened. But it didn’t surprise him. He wandered around for the next hour and had just about forgotten what he was angry about, when he saw a precinct house down the street.
Bobby took a deep breath, continued down the block, then entered the building.
It had been a long time since he’d been in a police station or precinct house. This one was like a lot of them. Waiting benches off to the side, a low wood rail with a gate in it, so not too many people could approach the desk at one time and make things confusing or even dangerous. There were rows of desks beyond where the desk sergeant sat, and doors leading to offices and interrogation rooms. On the wall between two doors was a framed photograph of Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter holding a bat and wearing an NYPD cap. From somewhere and everywhere came the muted chatter of radio traffic as cars were directed by a dispatcher. It was a sound that made Bobby miss being a cop.
A woman sat at the end of one of the benches. She had a bruised face and her legs were drawn up so she was hugging her knees. She looked ashamed and embarrassed. A couple of uniformed cops walked past, swerving to avoid Bobby, who knew he didn’t smell so good indoors, then went outside.
The cop behind the tall desk noticed Bobby and frowned at him. He was a big guy with gray hair and a smooth, flushed complexion. Irish-looking guy. A nameplate toward the front of the desk identified him as Sergeant Dan O’Day.
“Lookin’ for a shelter?” he asked Bobby.
“No. Looking to pass on some information. I used to be a cop.”
No change of expression on the Irish face. “Don’t say. Where at?”
“Philly.”
“So what happened?”
Bobby shrugged. “I’m not a cop anymore.”
“Yeah, well … Then maybe you oughta go on outside and move along.”
Sergeant O’Day had begun to write something, thinking Bobby was on his way out. “That’s right, you did.”
“These shootings. .” Bobby paused, searching for words. Damn it, his mind, his throat, always locked up at times like this.
“Night Sniper shootings?” the desk sergeant asked.
“Yeah. Those. Anyway, I been seeing this so-called homeless man. And once I saw him in the neighborhood right after I heard a shot.”
“Why so-called?”
“Huh? Oh. He was walking with too much haste and purpose.”
O’Day looked at Bobby.
“You mean he was running like hell?” the sergeant asked. “Jogging along, walking fast, what?”
“Too much haste and purpose.”
“Yeah, you said.”
“Walking like he had some place to go.”
“Maybe he did.”
“Not if he’s really … like me. That’s the thing, I know he’s not like me. Not homeless. Not really. Clothes not right, too clean. Shoes not right. I couldn’t tell you why. Too much not right. I know this guy doesn’t fit. I can tell. I still got the eye. I know.”
O’Day looked at him, not smiling, not frowning, nothing. Cop’s blue eyes made more blue by the blue shirt. Blue, blue, in the blood. Bobby’s blood, still. Always. While his heart still beat.
“I don’t hear nothing yet we can use,” the sergeant said. “But I’ll pass it on.”
Bobby knew he was lying. The man behind the desk hadn’t believed his story, or hadn’t thought it important if he had believed it.
“What’s your name?” Sergeant O’Day asked.
Bobby backed away. “Never mind.” There was nothing in it now for him or for anybody else. He’d made a mistake coming here, imagining he’d be believed. “Too much haste and purpose. I still got the eye. I know. That’s all. I just wanted to help.” Bobby was moving toward the door. Nobody-not O’Day, not another uniformed cop who’d just walked in from one of the offices, nobody-tried to stop him. Nobody gave a fuck. “I still got the eye,” Bobby repeated.
“Maybe you do,” said the sergeant in a patient, kind voice. But not the kind of voice he’d have used if he believed. “Maybe you do, son.”
“Not son,” Bobby said. “Don’t give me that shit.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
Bobby was out the door, down the steps, back in the night air and smells and sounds of the city. Back on the street.
Where he knew he belonged.
“That one’s not ripe,” the man said.
Zoe was in the produce department of the neighborhood grocery store, actually shopping for food this time. She put down the casaba melon she was considering and looked at the man who’d spoken to her.
