MAURICE BABBIT WAS DREAMING of fire when Stanley Moodrow pounded on his door. He was dreaming that he was a child again, setting trail fires in the backyard grass. Trail fires were great fun, but they required some kind of fuel. Gasoline, kerosene, alcohol, lighter fluid, cleaning fluid, turpentine—little Maurice was a master of deception, stealing flammable liquids and setting out complex trails like other kids stacked rows of dominoes on a kitchen table.
He wasn’t so little in this dream, though. He was older, at an age when he’d already abandoned trail fires. But he didn’t notice this oddity, because he was focusing his concentration on making the trail. It was a very ambitious trail. Somehow, he’d gotten hold of five gallons of gasoline and he was creating an enormous spiral that began at the very center of the yard and extended almost to the back porch. The arm of the spiral was narrow, the blades of grass only wet enough to keep the line of fire moving toward the drenched circle of grass where four mice, maddened by the sharp smell of gasoline, swarmed over the bars of their cage.
The mice had been a Christmas present from his parents; they had been given at the urging of Maurice’s therapist, who’d felt that Maurice needed to bond to something. If he couldn’t come close to another human being (not even his eternally perplexed mother who loved her only child more than she loved herself), perhaps he’d be able to love a creature as absolutely nonthreatening as the tiny mice his grinning father brought home to him.
But Maurice hadn’t loved the mice any more than he loved the grass or the gasoline. They were only the tools he needed to complete his given task. Of course, Maurice had no clear idea why his given task had been given to him, but, not being especially reflective, he contented himself with knowing what the task was. Method was Babbit’s strong point, anyway; he was always calm and careful when he made a fire, no matter how small and insignificant the blaze. Even in his dream, he was carefully pouring the gas—laying out a trail while imagining the quick rush of the flame as it tore along an ever-narrowing circle, as it finally exploded outward, as the cloud of oily black smoke (along with the souls of four white mice) rushed toward the heavens.
The emotions stirred up by his expectations were especially intense, which explained Babbit’s reaction to the pounding at his door. He was confused for a moment, trying to bring himself back to adulthood, to New York City, then he was angry.
“Fuck you, Boris,” Babbit screamed. “Come back later. The garbagemen ain’t never gonna show up on a fuckin’ Saturday.”
But the pounding actually increased, as if the super knew that he could beat the door forever without disturbing the other tenants, and Maurice finally surrendered to the inevitable. Stepping into his pants and shoes, he quickly substituted Boris Krakov, the superintendent, for the mice in his dream.
“What’re you, nuts?” Babbit screamed as he opened the door. He was fully prepared to add a long description of Krakov’s Russian ancestors, but Moodrow’s enormous body drew all his attention. Even while his mind screamed, COP! COP! COP!, his mouth grunted, “Wha? Wha? Wha?”
Then Pat Sheehan popped up alongside Moodrow’s left arm with a badge in his hand, shouting the word, “Police.” He pushed Maurice back into the room, he followed Maurice into the apartment. It was going to be very bad—the big cop was smiling and Maurice figured the smile was meant to frighten him, but then the big cop said, “See, it ain’t as hard as it looks,” and that made no sense at all.
“What’s your name?” the little cop shouted.
“How long you been living here?” the big cop roared.
“Do ya like ta set fires, ya little fuck?”
“Why’d you go to Queens?”
“Ya know how much time you can do for an arson-murder in New York State?”
Maurice continued to back away and the two cops continued to advance, not grabbing for him, but not giving him enough room to turn and run either. He backed through the rubble crowding his apartment, through stacks of yellow newspapers, twisted toy trucks and rusted cars, headless watersoaked dolls. He noted the drums of gasoline against the wall, the propane torch and the flamethrower he should have been given in Vietnam, but had had to make himself from a ten-pound can of pickles, a plumbing valve, and a cylinder of oxygen. Everything was out of reach; the men facing him were too big, too strong.
It was like prison had come out from behind the walls to get him. Like the niggers were facing him down, calling him “soft” and “sweet.” But he showed the niggers; they gave him a little time and he burned one until his body was a lump of boiling fat on the cell floor. That was great. That was a great day. He was so overcome that he hadn’t remembered to run away and he actually got to watch the prick dance the “fire dance.” Like he’d watched the mice dance their “fire dance.”
But the cops would never give him the time to get to his tools. They were going to beat him, because they were shouting at him and the prison guards always shouted at him before they beat him. They shouted questions and when he couldn’t answer (because he was terrified and the words they screamed were no closer to language than the pounding of a pneumatic drill) they always beat him.
Babbit began to whimper softly. There was no place to go; his legs were smack up against the bed. This was the way the guards had done it. They’d forced him back into his cell, forced him back until he could no longer retreat. The big cop was reaching out to him; his hands were enormous, like plates, like thick slabs of cold white meat.
“What the fuck is goin’ on here?” Moodrow asked. He was staring down at a shivering Maurice Babbit, knowing his original tactic, to alternate promises of a deal with physical bullying, was out the window. Like all cops, Moodrow had worked with crazies before, and he was afraid that if he pushed Babbit too far, the information he wanted would slip away altogether. “What the fuck is goin’ on here?” he repeated.
“Maurice’s looney-tunes,” Sheehan pronounced calmly. “I told ya he was crazy before we even came here. What were you expectin’ from a man who makes fires for fun?”
“I know he’s crazy. You think I can’t see he’s crazy?” Moodrow was becoming thoroughly annoyed with his string of lost opportunities. “What I’m trying to ask is how we’re gonna talk to him? How we’re gonna communicate if the asshole don’t even hear what we’re saying?”
The questions had been purely rhetorical and Moodrow was surprised when Sheehan responded with a command. “Handcuff Babbit to the steam pipe and let’s go in the other room,” he said. “I got an idea you’re gonna love.”
Five minutes later, as they were walking away from a thoroughly secured Maurice Babbit, Pat Sheehan explained his idea. “What I think is that you’re gonna have to use shock therapy if you wanna reach Maurice. He’s livin’ somewhere in the past and you gotta bring him back to the present. You gotta zap him hard enough so he pays attention.”
“Look, Pat, I seen a lotta nut cases before. Mostly, when you put pressure on them, they get crazier. They get so you can’t talk to ’em at all. I could always throw Babbit to the cops, but I want more and I don’t have no other leads. Understand what I’m saying? If I lose Babbit, I gotta close up shop.”
“All the more reason you gotta act now,” Sheehan said. “How long could you keep Babbit tied up here? How do you know someone won’t come lookin’ for him? Remember how he was yellin’ about the garbage? That means he was expectin’ someone. Maybe you could flip a badge and keep people away for a few hours, but not forever. Sooner or later, someone’s gonna call the real cops and then you gotta give him up. Face it, Moodrow, right now is the only chance you’re gonna get.”
Maurice wanted to collapse in a heap—collapsing was what he always did when the guards came after him—but the cuffs wouldn’t slide past the steel rod anchoring the pipe into the wall. On top of that, the rod was high up on the wall, so he couldn’t even cover his head, which is what he always did. He tried to think of something to do, but his mind was clouded with the waiting, which he hated as much as the beating. They did that every once in a while—threw him in his cell and left him until he thought he was safe. Then they came back, like the two cops were coming back, and beat him all the harder.
“Take it easy, Maurice, I’m not gonna hurt ya.” The little cop was standing right next to him. He was smiling and speaking very softly. “It’s my partner that you should worry about. And ya know why that is?”
He didn’t answer, because he knew from his own experience, that any answer was the wrong answer when they came to beat you. Besides, he was too busy watching the big cop tearing up his newspapers. He didn’t like people going through his things; people always put his things down. That was another trick the guards had—ripping your cell to pieces, destroying your things. Once they had found turpentine in his cell and the beating, on that awful day, had put him in the prison hospital.
“See, Maurice, my partner’s got a bug up his ass about a fire you made in Queens. On 37th Avenue.”
The big cop was bunching sheets of newspapers, crushing them into balls and throwing them at him, but even when they hit him in the face, they didn’t hurt him. What was the point of it? That’s what he wanted to ask, but he knew better than to open his mouth.
“The fire in Queens, Maurice. You made a fire there about a month ago. We have your fingerprint on one of the little crack vials you left. Remember?”
Even though there was no way he could retreat, he kept trying to swivel behind the pipe, trying to stuff his entire body into a two-inch space. The big cop was going to do something terrible to him. He knew the big cop was really going to hurt him.
“Jeez, Maurice.” The little cop was putting an arm around him, whispering in his ear. “My partner’s a mother-fucker. Even I don’t like some of the shit he pulls. But what can I do? He’s too strong for me. And he outranks me, too. In fact—and I wanna be honest, Maurice—I can only think of one thing to make the cocksucker go away. Tell him who paid you to make the fire in Queens. Or if you’re too scared of him, tell me, and I’ll tell him. Then he’ll go away.”
What was he doing? What was the big cop doing? He had a lighter in his hand, a little brown BIC that looked as tiny as a thumb and he was flicking it on and off. How many times had he passed the time with a lighter, watching the little sparks coming off the flint and the small explosion of flame that followed. Or lighting pieces of paper and watching them burn down in his hand. The big cop was doing the same thing. He was lighting a ball of newspaper and throwing it onto the pile.
“Holy shit.” The small cop stomped on the paper, putting the fire out before it could spread. He put his face real close, until his lips were brushing Maurice’s ear. “Can ya hear me?” He put his arm around Maurice’s waist and pulled him in tight. Maurice could feel the small cop’s groin pressing against his hip. “I hope you can hear me,” the little cop said. “I need your help and I hope I’m gonna get it soon, because I got a problem and that’s that I gotta go to the toilet. What’s gonna happen when I’m gone? Just thinkin’ about it scares the shit outta me.”
The big cop grinned—this time, Maurice knew the grin was meant for him alone—and flicked the lighter on and off. Maurice desperately tried to concentrate on what the little cop was saying, but his hip was hot where it pressed into the cop’s crotch and he loved the fire so much…He felt himself getting an erection, despite the fear. Or maybe the fear made it better.
“Don’t be ashamed, Maurice. I understand. I know how much you love the fire. Maybe you’d even like to get burned up. Is that it? Would you like to get burned up?”
The big cop began to light ball after ball, casually throwing them into the pile at Maurice’s feet. The little cop kicked a few out of the way, but then stepped back, forcing Maurice to kick at the newspapers until he could feel the heat burning into his calves. What would happen if his pants caught on fire? Would they let him burn? The big cop was so angry, but the little cop said there was a way to get out of it. That was what the words about the fire in Queens meant. That was the way to get out of it.
He tried to remember. Remember quick before it was too late. He was getting very tired, but if he stopped, he’d burn up. Where was the fire? It must have been a very small one, or else he’d remember it. Maybe a shitty one? Maybe a small shitty fire with hardly no flame at all? There had been one like that, but he didn’t know that anyone died. He didn’t think anyone died, because the fire wasn’t supposed to kill anyone. It was just a message fire if that was the one they were talking about.
Maurice’s thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sizzle of liquid on fire and the sharp stink of ammonia. He twisted against the cuffs, trying to make sense of it, and found the little cop, penis in hand, groaning with relief.
“How ’bout that?” the little cop said, grinning madly. “Talk about killin’ two birds with one stone, right? I’m really happy I figured out a way to take care of my physical need without havin’ ta leave you alone with my crazy partner.”
While he spoke, the little cop tucked his penis into his pants, then stepped in close again. His partner was balling up sheets of paper and throwing them, unlit, into a pile around Maurice’s feet.
“Can you hear what I’m sayin?” the little cop asked gently.
“Yes,” Maurice whispered. If he could only remember.
“Don’t be afraid. I’ll help you.” He put his arms around Maurice and drew him in close, pressing a thigh into Maurice’s crotch. “It’s not gonna be so hard. It’s not gonna be hard at all. Do you remember a fire in Queens? You set it a few weeks ago.”
“I don’t remember it.” He felt himself becoming erect again; this time the swelling was stronger, more insistent. He liked the little cop’s words now, because he was sure the little cop would help him.
“I’m gonna try to save ya,” the little cop whispered, “but I gotta warn ya that we don’t have a lotta time. Believe me, Maurice, I know my partner and I can see that he’s gettin’ ready to act crazy, so try ta stay with me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“You made the fire in a mattress in a basement. Do you remember the mattress? All the way in the back? The mattress had papers stuffed into the middle and you made the fire in the papers.”
“And I put dope stuff all around it,” Maurice cried triumphantly.
“That’s right. So nobody would know you made the fire on purpose.”
“So they would think the junkies did it by accident.”
“The fire was very smoky, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” Maurice began to feel sad. He didn’t like to think about this part of it. “I couldn’t stay and watch. I made it way in the back and I hada get out right away.”
The little cop pressed Maurice even closer. “You didn’t go from here ta Queens just ta make a practice fire, did ya? Ya musta got paid for it, right?”
“That’s right. I got paid.”
“And who paid ya, Maurice. Who gave you the money?”
“Marty Blanks. Marty Blanks asked me to set that fire. It wasn’t much of a fire. It wasn’t supposed…”
Maurice stopped abruptly. The big cop had stopped balling up newspapers. He was grinning happily now—grinning a wolf grin that could eat Maurice in a second. The little cop seemed stunned, though. He was stepping away, letting his hands drop to his side.
“Bad luck fa you, Moodrow,” the little cop muttered. “Marty Blanks is dead.”
“All I could tell you is what I said before,” Sheehan explained for the fifth time. They were inching toward a toll booth on the Triboro Bridge, heading back to Jackson Heights. “Blanks came out of his apartment on 49th Street a couple of nights ago and someone shot him. I heard about it in a social club near 42nd Street, but I didn’t think much of it.”
“Did you know Blanks? Do you know about him?”
“We were all up in Clinton together. Me, Blanks, Babbit, and Blanks’ partner, Latif. Of the three, I knew Blanks the best. He controlled all the dope in North Block, which was not an easy thing to do, because the blacks made it a question of racial pride. That’s why Blanks took Muhammad Latif as a partner. Latif is black.”
Moodrow snorted. “Muhammad Latif, eh? I knew the fucker when he was living in the projects on Pitt Street. Tell me something, Pat, do Muhammad Latif and Marty Blanks sound like two guys who’d go into real estate together?”
Pat Sheehan thought for a moment before answering. “Not by himself. He came up through the streets, not through the system. He wouldn’t know shit about real estate.”
Moodrow continued to push the Honda through the heavy traffic while they both thought it over. The implications were more than obvious.
“Blanks had to’ve had a partner,” Sheehan said evenly. “Had to.”
“That’s just what I figure, Pat. Now if you could just tell me where I could find Mr. Latif, I’d be most grateful.”
“No problem, Moodrow. Blanks and Latif lived together. Latif was in the apartment with his sister when Blanks went down.”