The refrigerator hummed impatiently. Ted had been staring at the near-empty shelves for long minutes, imagining a carton of eggs, some cheese, butter, a red pepper or maybe a few mushrooms. He slowly closed the door on the remains of a six-pack of Stella, a near-empty container of steamed brown rice, and a carrot. If he wanted breakfast, he would have to put on pants and shoes and go find it.
It was raining lightly but enough to sway his decision. The Honduran bodega was closest. He pulled his sweatshirt up to cover his head and dashed down the street.
There was a line at the counter, and the three tables along the wall were already full. It took an agonizing fifteen minutes to get his to-go order of two foil-wrapped chorizo baleadas and a medium black coffee.
As he fumbled with his key at the street-level door to his building, a familiar voice called, “Molloy, my friend. He’s gone.”
Israel Ortiz was peeking out the door of his storefront office. Ted was wet, hungry, and in no mood for cryptic conversations. “Who? What the hell are you talking about?”
“The policeman.” Israel waved him in.
Mr. Ortiz, Ted’s landlord, accountant, mail drop, and sometime lawyer—he filed documents that the no-longer-licensed Ted could not—ran his law, real estate, and accountancy office out of the storefront of a two-story taxpayer. He also used the space to sell Bibles; incense; framed images of white, black, and Hispanic Jesuses and Madonnas (separate and together); and Santeria candles. His secretary and bookkeeper—a woman named Phateena whom Ted had never seen wear anything but brightly colored caftans and flip-flops—also did palm and tarot card readings.
Ted shook the rain off his shoulders and rested one hip against Israel’s desk. “A cop was looking for me? What for?”
Israel stood uncomfortably in the middle of the room, thrusting his hands into his pockets and then jerking them out again. “A detective. Big man. Are you in trouble, Mr. Molloy?”
“Did he say why he was looking for me?”
“I can’t have no trouble here. You are good tenant. You pay, no noise, no complaints. But I don’t want no police. I got clients.”
“I understand, Israel. I have no idea why a cop—a detective—would want to talk to me. Did he leave a card? A name?”
“No. He’s got your card. He said he’d call you.”
Ted thought of his breakfast getting cold. “Then we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“But no trouble? Okay?”
The head office of Molloy Partners—Gallagher’s Pub being merely a satellite—was the IKEA kitchen table in Ted’s second-floor apartment. Though the apartment had been advertised as a one bedroom, the kitchen, living room, and bedroom all flowed into a single space. It was all Ted could afford after his stumbling descent from Park Avenue and a brief plateau in a Lexington Avenue sky pad—which should have been a bachelor’s dream but had felt more like a lonely monk’s cell for the recently divorced. But now that he had enough money in the bank to get something better, he realized that he didn’t need to.
He had returned to his roots, though this was a neighborhood he had spent his first twenty years trying to escape. But both he and Queens were much changed. He rarely saw a face he knew from his youth, but he at least recognized himself on these streets.
His living space consisted of a queen-size bed with night table and matching dresser; an amateurishly constructed closet protruding from one wall that predated Ted’s tenancy by a generation or two; an ancient metal two-drawer filing cabinet that served as repository for dormant deals and the few nearing resolution; an IKEA table and two chairs of which he was ridiculously proud, having put them together himself; and a television, precariously hanging on to the far wall, on which Ted watched old movies on TCM and Law & Order reruns on four different channels. His cave, his castle.
The phone was ringing as he came up the stairs. The landline. A minor event. Ted did most of his business on a cell phone but kept a landline because it came with the cable/Internet package. Sometimes he even used it. The number had found its way onto his business card along with the cell phone number, but as he hardly ever handed cards out, incoming calls were few.
He took a breath before answering. “Molloy Partners. Edward Molloy speaking.” There were no partners, but maintaining the fiction reassured some of the customers.
“Good morning, Mr. Molloy. This is Detective Duran. NYPD. Do you have a moment for a couple of questions?”
Like all mostly honest people, Ted had a great reluctance to speak with the police on any subject. “Questions” sounded ominous.
“I was trained as a lawyer, Detective. I’m happy to assist in any way I can, but I have to ask: Am I the target of an investigation?”
“Not at this time, but if you feel a sudden urge to confess to anything, I would be glad to caution you.” The cop chuckled as if they were old friends joking and sharing pleasantries.
Ted wasn’t buying. “That’s reassuring, but as I check my schedule, I find that I’m in meetings all week.”
“My mother says I can be overly persistent.”
Ted was curious. In a fit of escapist desperation, he had once gone on a shark-feeding excursion in Cancún; answering a few questions from the police couldn’t be any more dangerous than that. “You were just by here. My landlord was a bit spooked.”
“Five minutes,” the detective said. It was both a pledge and a request.
“Five minutes,” Ted agreed. “How can I help?”
“Do you know a man named Richard Rubiano?”
That was an easy one. “I do. I helped Richie out of a jam a few years back. I don’t represent him, though. I’m no longer licensed. Is he in trouble?”
“How would you characterize your relationship?”
Another floater over the plate. “He does odd jobs for me from time to time.” This was met with an expectant silence. Wary of swinging at a slider, Ted added, “And when he needed a lawyer, I helped him find one. Does he need one now?”
“No, sir. Mr. Rubiano will not need a lawyer.”
“So are you ready to tell me what this is about?”
“Mr. Rubiano was the victim of a homicide, Mr. Molloy. He had a few business cards in his wallet. Yours was one.”
A flicker of grief surprised Ted. A shooting pain that was gone even as he put a name to it. Richie was not a friend and never had been. But since his divorce, Ted’s world had continued to shrink to the point that now any regularly repeated human contact had significance. He would miss the weasel.
The shock of how Richie had died took a moment longer to register.
“He was murdered?” Incredulity beat all. People in his life died by disease, rarely by accident, and never before by murder. Ted sought words to define or explain it. “He was a not very successful con man years ago, but I can’t imagine any of his marks showing up to take revenge.”
“Would you be willing to come down and give a statement?” Detective Duran managed to make the request sound casual.
Sirens and flashing lights went off in Ted’s head. The shark was inviting him home for dinner. “Only with my lawyer present. And that would cost me money, and you would learn nothing that might be of use to you.”
“I would think you’d be more cooperative. We’re looking for the person who killed your friend.”
Ted noted the feeble attempt at inducing guilt and ignored it. Bitterness had long replaced guilt as a motivating factor in his life. But people he knew were not murdered. He felt himself being pulled in despite misgivings.
If there was any chance that Richie had stirred up some hornet’s nest by looking into the old lady’s surplus money, there was also a chance of that trouble leading back to Molloy Partners. A chance only, but Ted did not want to take that risk. He needed to know more, and if that meant trading information, he was willing.
“I have a proposal, Detective. If you’re willing to answer a few of my questions, I will try a little harder to be more open. But only if the conversation is one-on-one and on my turf.”
The cop sighed, signaling that Ted was making his difficult job more so. “Counselor, I am an overworked civil servant just trying to make a living. Cut me a break.”
“I’m trying. Listen, I’ll go you one better. Let me buy you a burger. Lunch. Tomorrow. Do you know Gallagher’s? On Grand?”