No. You’ve got to keep trying, a voice inside him said. It sounded like Jeremy.
How? I don’t even have enough money to take the train back to Manhattan.
Come on, Dad. All those years of running. Don’t tell me you don’t have what it takes to do a little more walking.
25
It took three hours. Even though Pittman had switched from his street shoes to the jogging shoes that he’d put in his gym bag, his feet ached and his leg muscles protested. Weak from exertion and hunger, he reached Grand Street on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, looking for the address that he’d gotten from Sean O’Reilly’s computer file.
He studied the busy street, wary of police surveillance. After all, Gladys Botulfson might have changed her mind. If Brian had said something to infuriate her further, she might have decided to call the police and teach her husband a lesson. Of course, the police wouldn’t know where Pittman had gone unless Brian confessed which file he had accessed. But would he? Or would Brian’s anger toward Gladys prompt him to defy her?
That wasn’t the only thing that bothered him. What if the address Sean O’Reilly had given the authorities was out of date or else a lie? Suppose he wasn’t there?
The latter worry intensified when Pittman finally reached the address and discovered that it wasn’t an apartment building but a restaurant instead, a sign in the front window announcing PADDY’S.
Shit.
Needing to get off the street, he did his best to hide his nervousness when, unable to think of an alternative, he entered the restaurant.
He barely noticed its Irish decor-green tablecloths, shamrocks on the menus, a large map of Ireland on one wall. What he did notice was the handful of late-afternoon customers, most of them at the bar.
A few looked in his direction, then returned their attention to their drinks.
Pittman approached the barman, who was muscular, wore a green apron, and stood behind the cash register.
“What’ll it be?”
“I’m looking for a friend of mine. Sean O’Reilly.”
The barman used a towel to wipe the counter.
“I heard he was staying at this address,” Pittman said, “but this is a restaurant. I don’t see…”
“How?”
“What?”
“How did you get this address?”
“My parole officer’s the same as his. Look, is Sean around?”
The man kept wiping the counter.
“Sean and I go back to when he was doing those public-service announcements for the police department,” Pittman said. “When he was telling people how to keep their homes safe from burglars.”
“So? What do you want him for?”
“Old times. I’ve got some stories to tell him.” Pittman drew his key chain from his pocket and held up the tool knife. “About this.”
The bartender watched Pittman remove the lock-pick tools from the end of the knife.
The bartender relaxed. “You’ve got one of those, too?” He smiled and pulled out a set of keys, showing his own knife. “Sean only gave these to guys he likes. Yeah, Sean stays here. In a room upstairs. At night, he subs for me.”
“But is he around?”
“Ought to be waking up around now. He sure was drunk last night.”
A half dozen people came into the restaurant.
“Looks like we’re getting busy.” The bartender poured tomato juice into a glass, added Tabasco sauce, and dropped in a raw egg. “Stairs through the door in back. Second floor. The room at the end of the hall. He’ll be needing this.”
26
In a musty upstairs hallway that smelled of cabbage, Pittman knocked on the door. When he didn’t get an answer, he knocked again. This time, he heard a groan. His third knock caused a louder groan. He tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Pushing it open, he found a sparse room with its shades closed, its lights off, and Sean O’Reilly sprawled on the floor.
“The light, the light,” Sean groaned.
Pittman thought that the dim light from the hallway must be hurting Sean’s eyes. He quickly shut the door. In darkness, he listened to Sean keep moaning, “The light, the light.”
“There isn’t any,” Pittman said.
“I’ve gone blind. Can’t see anything. The light, the light.”
“You mean you want me to turn the lights
“Blind. Gone blind.”
Pittman groped along the wall, found a light switch, and flicked it. The unshielded yellow light that dangled from the ceiling gleamed and made Sean start thrashing while he pawed at his face.
He wailed, “Blind. You’re trying to make me blind.”
Oh, for God’s sake, Pittman thought. He knelt and pulled one of Sean’s hands away from his face, exposing his left eye, which was very bloodshot. “Here. Drink this.”
“What?”
“Something the bartender sent up.”
Sean clutched the glass and took several swallows, then suddenly made a gagging sound. “What is it? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, there’s no vodka in this.”
“Sit up. Drink more of this.”
After a struggle, Pittman managed to make Sean empty the glass.
Sean squirmed so that his back was against the side of the bed and scowled. His short stature still reminded Pittman of a jockey. He was as thin as ever. But alcohol had aged him, putting gray in his hair and ravaging his face. “Who are you?”
“A friend.”
“Can’t remember.”
“That’s because you need something to eat.”
“Couldn’t keep it down.”
Pittman picked up the phone. “Order something, anyhow.”
27
The corned-beef sandwich and dill pickle that the bartender carried up were delicious. Pittman tried to savor them, but his hunger couldn’t be controlled. He hadn’t eaten anything since the orange juice and Danish this morning. Taking huge bites, he gulped the food down. His empty plate depressed him.
From the bed, Sean looked horrified at Pittman’s appetite. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
When Sean came back, Pittman had finished the sandwich that the bartender had carried up for Sean.
Sean sat on the bed, scowled at Pittman, and shook his head. “I still don’t remember.”
