7:06 A.M., GRAND STREET,
Lower East Side
McAvoy is feeling that peculiar pride enjoyed by all visitors to a foreign land when they have achieved some minor success, like buying a stamp in a shop where the owner speaks no English. In the hour since he woke up, he has managed to draw money from an ATM and secure directions to Thomas Street, off West Broadway, from the Latina maid who was depositing a dispiriting breakfast outside his room when he emerged. She told him it was complimentary, though it had looked quite the opposite. He now sits in a diner eating blueberry pancakes and syrup, with a separate plate of sausage and home fries. As a nod to Roisin’s efforts to improve his diet, he is drinking green tea and a glass of fresh orange juice, though there was a malted milkshake on the menu that caught his eye. He has secured a spot by the window and is watching the city come to life. A procession of schoolchildren, younger than Fin, pass by the glass two by two, led by a figure wearing so many layers they could survive a collision with a bus. The children’s smiles are hidden beneath colorful parkas but their pink cheeks and bright eyes seem oddly pleasing when contrasted with the gray and yellow sky hanging low over the city and obscuring the tops of the tall buildings across the street. There was no more snow during the night, but slush and dirt still form small mountain ranges on either side of the sidewalk and he has seen several people slip and fall while walking too quickly across the wide road. As he cleans his second plate, he finds himself admiring the sensible wardrobes of the New Yorkers. They are dressed for the conditions, buttoned up inside large coats, hats, and scarves. At home, in such weather, probably half of the commuters hurrying through Hull would be coatless and any man wearing a hat would find his masculinity sorely questioned.
“Can I ask you what that’s all about?” asks McAvoy as the Hispanic waiter takes his plates and gives him the nod of a professional who likes his food to be appreciated.
“I’m sorry, sir?”
McAvoy points in the direction of a man in Lycra and fleece jogging down the opposite side of the road beside a husky who appears to be wearing matching running shoes. “The slippers that the dogs wear. That’s the third one I’ve seen.”
The waiter smiles. “The city puts down salt to melt the ice. It’s not good for the paws. Some people love their animals too much, yes?”
McAvoy finds himself laughing. “My kids would love to see that. They’ll never believe me.”
“You have many children, sir?”
“Two. A boy and a girl.”
“Beautiful, my friend. I have six children. All under ten years old. My wife, she gets pregnant if we share bathwater.”
McAvoy coughs, feeling like a Victorian English gentleman, unsure of the etiquette of the conversation.
“You could try showers,” he says, hoping this is appropriate. The waiter roars a laugh, throwing back his head to display bright white teeth. The other patrons in the small, gaudily colored diner turn to look, and McAvoy catches the eye of a student-looking girl with purple hair and glasses and a ring through her nose. She smiles at him in a way that makes him feel instantly guilty, and he lowers his head. The waiter moves away, still laughing, and McAvoy busies himself with his phone. Last night he took photographs of the pages in the report that Alto had given him. As he considers them, his vision blurs. His chest feels tight and he has to fight to control his breathing. Below the table, his hands become fists. These moments have been coming more frequently, these sudden attacks of clarity. For an instant he is aware of himself. Sees the huge, blundering fool who sits in a tiny diner pretending to be something other than a coward and a fraud. He wants to bite down on something to stop his teeth from chattering. Just as quickly, the tremor in his soul subsides, and he is forcing out his breath through pursed lips, his hair damp at the temples.
“Concentrate,” he whispers to himself. “Do the job. Focus. Work.”
He is scrolling through the witness statements given by staff members at Dezzie’s Boxing Gym when his phone rings and startles him. The number on the display screen has unfamiliar digits at the start, and every sensation of unworthiness evaporates. She has come to his rescue in response to his unspoken prayer.
“Good afternoon, my love,” he says quietly into the phone.
“It’s morning for you, isn’t it, babe? Have I done the maths wrong?”
“Just before eight a.m.,” says McAvoy, smiling at the sound of Roisin’s voice. “And you have to say ‘math,’ not ‘maths,’ if we’re going to be all American.”
“So I suppose you’re drinking coffee?” asks Roisin, and her Irish accent transforms into a New York drawl as she says the word.
“Green tea and orange juice, I swear.”
“With donuts,” says Roisin. “You’re a cop in New York. There has to be donuts involved.”
“Do you think we’re running the risk of getting all of our information on America from the movies?”
“When you get home you can tell us the truth about the place,” says Roisin. “I’m sure it’s half the size it pretends to be and the skyscrapers are no taller than a bus. Have you seen anybody famous?”
“Not yet,” says McAvoy, disappointed not to be able to impress her. “But the dogs wear little slippers over here. It’s to keep their paws safe.”
“That’s sweet,” says Roisin, and McAvoy hears the soft crackle of her cigarette as she sucks on the filter with lips that he knows will be covered in pink lip gloss that tastes of strawberries.
“I thought we were going to try and keep the calls to a minimum,” says McAvoy, trying not to sound reproachful. In truth, he would sell his shoes and walk barefoot through the snow in order to speak to his wife.
“I know,” she says. “But I was missing you. We all are.”
“Are they there?”
“Fin’s playing. He says to tell you that in New York, a sandwich is called a submarine.”
“I didn’t know that,” says McAvoy, grinning.
“He might have meant ‘subway.’ I prefer it his way.”
“Anything from Lilah?”
“She threw a ball at a picture of you last night,” says Roisin. “I think she wanted to play catch. That, or she’s pissed off at you for leaving.”
“Did you tell her I’m only here for her mammy?”
“Time and again. I think she forgives you. I do, too.”
“Forgive me for what?”
“For not being clever enough to build a machine that will split you in two. That way you could leave yourself with me and still go and find Valentine.”
“I’m sorry, my love. I’ll get working on that once I get home.”
“I’ll pimp it for you once it’s finished. Diamanté crystals and a leopard-print seat.”
“You’re a visionary,” says McAvoy, glancing up. The girl with the purple hair is smiling at him again as she stirs her coffee. He looks away.
“You caught anybody’s eye yet?” asks Roisin playfully. “Made anybody fall desperately in love with you? Got some little New York tart hanging off your arm?”
“The cleaning lady was nice,” says McAvoy, coloring. “I think she was in her sixties but you could tell she was game.”
“I hate her,” says Roisin, with an audible pout.
“And there’s a girl looking at me now,” he whispers. “She keeps smiling.”
Roisin says nothing for a moment. “Hand her the phone,” she finally says, in a voice he knows to be only mockingly cross.
“You’re maple syrup and she’s a glass of water, my love,” says McAvoy, and hopes it sounds romantic rather than lame.
“Thank you. You realize she’s only looking at you because you’re a big sexy galoot, don’t you? She just wants your body.”
“She can’t have it. It’s broken.”
“Flight was a killer, was it?”
“I needed a massage when I got here. I don’t think Detective Alto was quite ready for that kind of hello.”
“You said in your text he was Scandinavian. They’re into that over there.”
“I think we run the risk of cultural stereotyping.”
Roisin gives a little laugh and then her voice grows more serious. “You’ll be careful, yes? I know you’re only there for me and I know you’ll be okay, but just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I’ve promised before. I’ll promise again.”
“Mammy and Daddy have put a lot of faith in us, babe. I swore you’d find Valentine. I don’t want to think about what will happen if you can’t.”
“It will be okay,” says McAvoy, and he suddenly feels as cold inside himself as the air beyond the glass. “I’m going to speak to the owner of the gym where they spent some time. I’ve got calls in. There are irons in the fire. I’ll do all I can.”
“I love you, Aector,” she says, and there is a mixture of pride and sadness in her voice. “You can have sex with the girl who’s looking at you, if you like. I won’t make a fuss.”
McAvoy laughs, wanting to reach into the phone and wrap his arms around his wife. “If she makes the offer I’ll politely decline. I’ll tell her I’m married to the woman of my dreams.”
“Lorraine Kelly?”
“You make me laugh, my love.”
“You make me whole. Stay safe.”
“And you.”
McAvoy ends the call and looks at the photo that serves as the wallpaper on his cell phone. He strokes Roisin’s face with his thumb. He wishes he could have told her how unlikely it is that he will have anything resembling success. Wishes she had told him that, deep down, she knows that his best will not be good enough this time. When he raises his head from the phone, the girl with the purple hair is gone.
—
Dezzie’s Boxing Gym is in the basement of a five-story building on a quiet tree-lined street running between the bustle of West Broadway and Church Street. The building is an ornate affair, with an elaborate frontage, all big, church-size windows and intricately carved, ornamented sills. While the majority of the building is given over to offices, the basement is a place of pain and triumph, and McAvoy feels very much at home as he leans against the counter by the door and waits for Dezzie Estrada to come and give him five minutes of his time. For all that McAvoy is uncomfortable in the macho world of banter and boasting, he has always felt at home in a boxing gym. He learned the art of pugilism at boarding school while in his teens and would have received a scholarship to university on his boxing prowess alone had he not also achieved straight A’s in his exams. He boxed throughout his two years at university and briefly considered a career in the fight game, before his coach pointed out that to be a true champion, McAvoy would have to hurt his opponents so badly that they risked never getting up again. McAvoy, who had never thrown a punch without worrying about the consequences, did not have the killer instinct necessary. He turned his attentions to rugby instead, and when he quit university, a year shy of his degree, it was rugby that offered him the best chance of a career. He spent two years coaching fitness at a succession of small clubs and academies before he gave in to the inner voice telling him to become a policeman. Though he has not worn boxing gloves for almost fifteen years, McAvoy still feels at ease here. He likes the smell. It’s a place of perspiration and liniment, leather and metal. Were Trish Pharaoh beside him, she would doubtless say that it reminded her of her bedroom. The walls are lined with old boxing posters and photographs of Dezzie with his arms around a succession of champions, some household names and others only recognizable to true fans. A boxing ring with a blue floor and white ropes takes up a large space on the pitted wooden floor and patched-up heavy bags hang from metal chains. Gunmetal-gray lockers run along one wall, some bearing dents and creases that show Dezzie’s charges possess no shortage of killer instinct.
“Here he is,” says Marcel, who mans the front desk of the gym and is so enormous that McAvoy presumed he was standing on a raised platform. His shoulders are broad enough to impair the view of the merchandise cabinet to his rear, with its collection of hoodies, T-shirts, and sweatbands bearing the legend FIGHTING BEATS CRYING.
McAvoy turns and follows Marcel’s gaze. Dezzie Estrada is making his way across his gym, nimbly sidestepping a large, red-faced man who is pounding a heavy bag with powerful, if avoidable, shots. The other two men availing themselves of the gym’s facilities at this hour are lithe, olive-skinned, and dark-haired lightweights shadowboxing near the free weights, beneath a large cutout poster of Sugar Ray Leonard. McAvoy has not had a chance to examine all of the posters but he has already identified an image of Dezzie with his arm around the shoulders of a Hollywood star who was getting in training for a film role and looks mildly intimidated by his mentor.
Dezzie Estrada is in his late forties and McAvoy knows from the magazine articles he read online that he is of Cuban heritage. He grew up in Brooklyn and had a decent enough amateur boxing record but lacked the punching power to get far in the professional game. Despite his lack of an explosive right hand, Dezzie was a student of the sport and showed himself to have a coach’s eye for detail when he began offering heartfelt tips to friends and opponents alike. Spotting an opportunity to do something vaguely useful with his life, he went to night school and trained in sports physical therapy while studying for various coaching certificates. After a spell in Brooklyn, he opened this Thomas Street Boxing Gym in 1994. His star rose when he coached a young Costa Rican to the WBO lightweight title, and by the turn of the millennium, he had a stable of quality fighters. His star has shone brightly ever since.
McAvoy considers him. He’s probably about 180 pounds and his hair is shaved down to a gray stubble. His nose and left ear show signs of having taken too many blows, but he is still a good-looking if battle-scarred individual, and he walks with the catlike gait of a fighter who knows how to slip and jab. He’s dressed in a T-shirt that shows off well-defined arms, and sweatpants that taper into white socks and battered sneakers.
“I’m Dezzie,” he says, in an accent that is all attitude and street. “You’re the English cop?”
McAvoy extends a hand and squeezes Estrada’s palm in his. He is unable to resist putting a little power into the shake and he senses Estrada doing the same. If each man were holding a walnut, there would be pieces of shell all over the floor.
“Scottish, actually,” says McAvoy, releasing his grip. “But I help solve crimes in England.”
“You sound like a movie star,” says Estrada, smiling widely to show Hollywood teeth. “Maybe Sean Connery. Maybe Shrek.”
“I can live with that,” says McAvoy, busy thanking his lucky stars that Pharaoh is not here to tell Estrada he sounds like Scarface. “Fabulous place. I’ve read a lot about it. About you, too. Incredible to be standing here.”
“Thanks,” says Estrada, and seems to mean it. “You fight?”
“Used to. Lacked the cutting edge.”
Estrada nods. “You don’t have to fight angry, but you have to know how to access your hate.”
“That was my problem,” says McAvoy with a smile. “Not enough hate.”
“We could train that out of you,” says Estrada, bringing Marcel into the conversation. “I’ve got fighters who only beat their opponent because they’re imagining they’re beating the crap out of me. I can make people hate.”
“Is that another T-shirt slogan?”
“I’ll keep that one for my autobiography,” Estrada says, giving another smile. “Now, you said you had some questions about Brishen and Shay? Shit, it shook me up to hear what happened. Can’t help feeling guilty, y’know?”
McAvoy angles his head, indicating that Estrada could probably elaborate.
“They were here at my request,” says Estrada, and rubs his palms together as if trying to start a fire. The gleam in his bright brown eyes seems to fade along with his smile. “I’ve spoken with Brish a hundred times on the phone and Skype, man. He’s a good guy. The best. We had a mutual-respect thing going, if you follow me. There ain’t many coaches who I’d give a dime for, but Brish knows the game.”
McAvoy makes a show of consulting the notes in his phone. “Their flight arrived on the Tuesday night. Can you tell me when you met them in the flesh for the first time?”
“Sure,” says Estrada, his eyes unwavering. “They were here at seven, Wednesday morning. Brish wanted to keep Shay to his routine, despite the flight and the beers they sunk the night before. They wanted to train.”
“Am I right in thinking that if things went well, there was a chance you would take over from Brishen as Shay’s trainer?”
Estrada balls up one cheek, pulling a face that indicates the situation was not so clear-cut.
“You gotta understand, a lot of people want me training them,” he says, and the words do not sound like bragging. “I got a dozen kids a week coming in for tryouts, wanting to show me what they can do. Most times I tell them they’re not ready. Sometimes I tell them to join the gym and I find them a coach from my staff and tell them I’ll oversee but it won’t be a day-to-day thing. I ain’t got a lot of room on my team. I train four different world champions and another four who have title fights coming up inside twelve months. Brish had never asked me to take a look at anybody before. I took him at his word that he wasn’t going to waste my time. I made no promises, but yeah, if Shay’d been good enough, I would have sponsored any application to spend a few months in the States and I’d have trained him, no question.”
“If he’d been good enough?” asks McAvoy. “You weren’t impressed?”
Estrada pulls a face. “The kid could punch, no doubt about that. And man, he had stamina. He trained like he was trying to generate enough power to keep the city lit up. It was his footwork. He was a year off ready, I think. Needed a rope tied to his legs, to watch the ballet, or keep a thumbtack in the heel of his shoes. He was too flat-footed. I think Brishen knew it, but he wanted a second opinion.”
“Could you tell me the exact sequence of events?” asks McAvoy, trying to make it sound like Estrada would be doing him the biggest favor imaginable.
“No problem,” says Estrada. “The cops came by when they found the bodies. Asked pretty much the same questions you’re asking. You sure they’re cool with me talking to you?”
“I’m here as their guest,” says McAvoy as blithely as he can. “I was having a drink or two with Detective Alto last night.”
“Alto, yeah, he was the guy. If he’s cool, I’m cool. So, yeah, what you wanna know?”
“The chain of events,” says McAvoy, and subtly starts recording the conversation with his phone.
“Well, they were here for a few hours on Wednesday morning. Worked the bag, some light cardio, sparred with a couple of my boys. Around noon, they said they were going to see the sights. I had another fighter in Shay’s weight division I wanted to see him in the ring with, so I said they should come back around six-thirty. It didn’t go the way Shay wanted it to. Brishen neither. That was that, y’know. No hard feelings. We shook hands and they went off to drink and see more sights. Next thing I heard was they’d been found upstate. Shay dead, Brish dying. Fuck, man, I don’t know who they pissed off but I had to sit down when I heard.”
McAvoy puts a hand out and finds himself giving Estrada a manly rub on the shoulder. Estrada gives a little smile of thanks at the gesture.
“Brishen’s phone records indicate he called you late on Wednesday evening. You spoke for one minute and fifty-four seconds. Can I ask you what that was in connection with?”
Estrada looks confused. He pauses, and for a moment all McAvoy can hear is the squeak of rubber-soled sneakers on the hard floor. “My cell phone or the gym phone?” he asks. “The detective didn’t ask me nothing about that.”
“I’d already told him, boss,” says Marcel, listening in. “The detective, I mean. It was the gym phone. The Irishman was asking about his friend.”
“Shay?” asks McAvoy, puzzled.
“No, the little fucking weasel,” says Marcel, scowling. “Valentine.”
McAvoy swallows. Tries not to let his emotions show on his face. “Valentine?”
“Oh, the other one,” says Estrada, nodding. “Sorry, man. He didn’t seem to matter. Showed up here late Wednesday night. Maybe ten? Brishen and Shay were done by then. Said he was Brish’s brightest prospect and wanted a tryout, like he’d been promised. I didn’t like the kid’s attitude.”
“You weren’t expecting him?”
“Hell, no,” says Estrada. “Brish hadn’t mentioned him. There was no way I was giving him the time of day, man. I told him to come back when he’d sobered up.”
“He’d been drinking?”
“I’d hate to think he was sober.”
“He left?”
“He didn’t want to but Marcel here can be persuasive.”
“You threw him out?” asks McAvoy, turning to the huge man.
“Didn’t need to. He called us a few names in a language that sounded like it was from Lord of the Rings and then he punched a couple of the lockers and left. I tried to call Brish to tell him some kid had been using his name but his phone was off.”
“You left a message?”
“Nah, man, I don’t leave messages.”
McAvoy turns to Marcel. “But Brishen called you back asking about Valentine?”
“He sounded a bit liquored up himself,” says Marcel in a conspiratorial whisper that puts McAvoy in mind of old ladies gossiping at a bus stop. “He wanted to know if one of his other prospects had come by. Told him he must have a sixth sense. I said he’d been in and made a bit of an ass of himself. Brish swore a bit, but more to himself than to me. He said thanks and told me to call if the kid came in again. Said bye and hung up.”
“And you told this to Detective Alto?” asks McAvoy, wondering why it hadn’t appeared in his report.
“Shit, man, I didn’t put it together,” says Marcel apologetically. “Cop was asking me about Brishen and Shay, so that’s what I told him about.”
“Me too,” says Estrada, shrugging. “Cop asked about the two who got shot. Didn’t think nothing of some kid using Brish’s name. It matter?”
McAvoy gives a little nod. Estrada is looking at Marcel and McAvoy wonders if something unspoken is passing between them.
“Is this the person who came by?” asks McAvoy, and he pulls a photograph of Valentine from his pocket. Until three days ago, it had sat in a frame atop the fireplace of Papa Teague’s caravan. It shows a pale, freckly youth with a pointed face and hair that hangs long at the back and short at the front, with tram lines shaved above his left ear.
“That’s the little weasel,” says Estrada, nodding, and Marcel concurs. “Eyes looked like he had raw ginger up his ass. I swear, Brishen never vouched for anybody but Shay.”
“Was there anybody else in the gym when he showed up?”
“Just Marcel and me,” says Estrada. “Marcel left and I wasn’t far behind.”
“And you didn’t see him again?”
“No, didn’t pay him no mind until you brought it up.”
McAvoy nods. Pockets the photograph. “You should probably contact Detective Alto,” he says. “I’m here only as an observer. It’s his case.”
“Damn strange,” says Estrada, scratching his jaw. “Should be Homicide South or the County Mounties. The Seventh only get seventy-two hours, and that’s only if the body’s in their precinct.”
McAvoy frowns. “Yes?”
“Hell, they change the boundaries often enough, what do I know?” says Estrada, backpedaling a little. “Like you say, I’ll call him.”
McAvoy smiles in thanks and shakes Estrada’s hand. The grip is less crushing this time.
“You wanna hit the bag?” asks Estrada playfully. “Can teach you a little hate, you Shrek-looking limey motherfucker.”
“‘Limey?’” asks McAvoy, smiling.
“I don’t know the curse word for a Scot,” says Estrada. “But whatever it is, you’re it.”
He raises his hands and slips out a couple of jabs that fall well short of where McAvoy stands. Behind the counter, Marcel grins.
“I’ll just go home and cry,” says McAvoy. “Crying beats fighting, if you ask me.”
Estrada shakes his head and gives a little salute before turning his back and moving to where a man in a red tracksuit is twisting at the waist while holding a heavy ball. McAvoy feels pain in his arms just looking at him.
“I think I need to own a Dezzie Gym T-shirt,” says McAvoy companionably, leaning on the desk. “Am I an XL?”
“Not here, brother,” says Marcel, laughing, and he turns to the cabinet behind him. “Not much more than a medium.”
“Excellent,” says McAvoy. “My wife will be delighted I’ve gone down two sizes while I’ve been away.”
Marcel puts the shirt in a clear bag and then frowns as McAvoy offers him a fifty-dollar bill. “Nothing smaller? I ain’t got much change.”
McAvoy raises his hands in apology and Marcel pulls out his wallet. He hands McAvoy a twenty-dollar bill.
McAvoy gives his best smile as he moves back from the counter. “Thanks again,” he says and waves a hand vaguely in Estrada’s direction.
He is halfway up the stairs when he raises his phone to his mouth and records his own voice asking the question rubbing at his frontal lobes like sandpaper.
“Why is the witness statement from a Marcel Costa, when the big guy’s driving license says his surname is Aguilar?”
As he emerges back into the cold, gray air of Thomas Street, McAvoy ends the recording and starts making a call. He is so engrossed that he does not notice the girl with purple hair and glasses in the coffee shop opposite, her endearing smile replaced with a cold, dead-eyed scowl.