The rain makes the street smell like urine. The first ten minutes of rain always does that, bringing the stench up from the sidewalk.

As I pass Curry Row on First Avenue I get an idea and duck into the spice shop underneath Milon. I ask the disinterested clerk for anything that smells like lavender. He points me toward the back and I find an ornate wooden display of scented oils.

I take one, crack the top open, and pull it in. The smell of it floods me, makes it feel like Chell is standing next to me. I like it.

At a bodega, I snag a copy of the Post. On the front page there’s some jingoistic crap about a war somewhere. The saga of the Greenpoint Goth is relegated to a small banner at the bottom of cover, and then the fourth page on the inside. Not much new to report. People must be losing interest.

What troubles me is the opinion piece running next to it.

After some nonsense about the heinous nature of Chell’s death, the columnist hits a point that makes me ball up the page in my hands.

 

What continues to haunt me about this attack, more than the brutality, is the photos of a once-beautiful young woman, her body scarred with ink like it’s a canvas meant to be on display. The question I have to ask, and the question all of us should be asking is: How does this help?

We have photos of her in a stiff bra and low-cut shirt that displayed her cleavage, leather pants that were so tight the killer had to cut her out of them, and heels worthy of the stage at The Hustler Club.

The “feminists” are going to crow about this and call it victim-blaming, but I prefer to think of it as preemptive-shaming.

How are our daughters supposed to respect themselves if they think this is appropriate? They’re the ones doing the real damage—by telling their daughters it’s okay to dress like this.

 

I pitch the paper over my shoulder. I want to punch the brick wall next to me. I take back everything I said. Fuck the Post.

Another few blocks and I find a rental truck sitting outside Good Kelly’s apartment. Tibo is sitting in the back, smoking a cigarette. He’s also wearing a pirate hat and an eye patch.

I pull myself on the truck bed alongside him and ask, “Why are you a pirate today?”

“Because I haven’t found the silver yet.”

“That’s… not the answer I was expecting. Though I guess I don’t know what I was expecting.”

Tibo takes the hat off and runs his hands through his dreads, trying to flatten them to his head. “I’m going to tell you a secret, Ash. You can’t tell anyone.” He pulls a map out of his pocket and smoothes it on his lap. I recognize the shorelines of Staten Island and Brooklyn, with the Verrazano Bridge connecting the two. It looks like the map he was studying in Apocalypse a few nights ago.

Tibo says, “In 1903 a barge capsized. It was carrying seven thousand silver bars. They only recovered about six thousand. There’s a bunch still left down there, and by today’s standards, they’re worth more than twenty-five million.”

“That’s not nothing.”

“The Army Corps of Engineers has had to dredge and detonate parts of the canal to make it deep enough for cargo ships.” He pulls out a smaller map. “These flow charts? There are some strong currents that lead in this direction.” He pulls out the first map and points to a spot a quarter of a mile to the east of where the barge sank. “There’s a little trench here, and I think this is where the bars ended up.”

Tibo believes the world is going to end in five years. Every two months he comes up with a new scheme designed to help him fund a sustainable commune, so he and a select group of people can ride out the end times. Get enough booze in me and his logic doesn’t sound too crazy. I tell him, “Best of luck then.”

“I need a boat.”

“I can’t help you with that.” I take out a cigarette and stop halfway to lighting it. “Actually I can. Talk to Kuffner. His dad has a boat.”

“Didn’t know that.”

“Well, there you go then. Happy to help. Cut me in when you find the silver.”

“Deal.” He shakes my hand and folds up the maps.

I ask, “Where’s Kelly?”

“Errand. She told me to stay here and watch the truck. Dave and Todd are upstairs getting shit together right now.”

“Good then. I’ll help you watch the truck.”

The rain picks up. We pull our legs inside. Tibo asks, “How are you holding up?”

“Could be better.”

“It’s a hard thing to parse out, you know.”

“How someone could hurt someone like that...”

Tibo pauses, confused. “Oh, you’re talking about Chell. I thought we were talking about Kelly. But yes, the Chell thing sucks, too. How’s the hunt?”

“Coming up empty.”

“Can I be nosy?”

“Sure.”

He arches an eyebrow at me. The eyebrow that isn’t covered by an eye patch. “Are you prepared to deal with the consequences?”

I pitch my spent cigarette into the street and place a fresh one between my lips, but I don’t light it. “I’m only doing what my dad taught me. He raised me to believe that you don’t hit women and you stick up for people.”

Tibo nods. “Maybe this guy just didn’t have that positive influence in his life.”

“Is that supposed to be an excuse? Bad is bad. Wrong is wrong. There’s no fucking gray area here.”

Tibo looks around and takes out a small psychedelic stained-glass pipe with a nugget of weed packed into the bowl. He holds it in my direction, and I shake my head. My body doesn’t handle pot well. Last time I got high, I threw a chair at someone, which I’m to understand is the opposite of the intended effect.

He takes a long hit and holds it in his lungs, taps his knee four times, lets the smoke explode from his mouth. In a gravelly voice he says, “We were animals before we developed social contracts. We’re still animals, just smarter now. Evolution can only do so much. The animal part of us never leaves.” Cough, cough.

“How high are you, exactly?”

“Look, I’m not saying you’re a bad person. A thought is a seed of something that doesn’t have to take root if you don’t let it. The point is, we have these base instincts and urges inside us, and this is where nurture comes in. That’s what we need to learn, to suppress our urges. But more than that, to be better than them. What sets us apart from animals? We can dream of a better world.”

“I guess the answer is ‘very high.’ You are very high.”

“Don’t blow me off. I’m not trying to drop some deep fucking sage wisdom on you. I’m just saying you’re going to kill yourself before you get the answers you’re looking for. Some people just can’t get past those animal urges.”

“So you’re saying this guy didn’t have a choice? He just wanted to get laid and couldn’t control himself?”

“You’re oversimplifying it,” he says. “First, rape is not about sex. It’s about power and anger. It’s about rage. And I said nothing about choice. Choice is a whole other conversation.”

“So if it weren’t for my dad teaching me to do the right thing, I’d be the same as him?”

Tibo shakes his head. “Oversimplification. Don’t look for openings to argue. Not the point. Just think.” He reaches his hand up to my head and taps it with his finger. “Think. You’re like a wrecking ball. Smashing into shit, not thinking.”

He picks up his pipe and takes another hit. We sit and watch the rain, at the rivers pushing trash into the gutter, scrubbing the grime from the streets and leaving them fresh and clean. I reach my hand out and the drops fall between my fingers.

Good Kelly shows up and we work for a few hours, hauling boxes down four flights of stairs. Me and Todd do the heavy lifting while Dave helps Tibo maneuver items into place on the truck. It’s slow work and by the fourth time I’m climbing the stairs to Kelly’s apartment, my chest constricted and my lungs filled with cotton, I question why I smoke as much as I do.

When the truck is ready to roll out Kelly asks if anyone wants to grab a pizza. One last pie before she leaves. No one can stay so I raise my hand. She disappears, and I climb onto the small space in the back of the truck that’s empty. She reappears ten minutes later with a full pie.

“Are we going to kill this whole thing?” I ask.

“Yup. It’ll be a while before I have this again.”

We dig in. It’s a plain pie from one of those anonymous corner joints you don’t even know the name of. Halfway through my second slice I look up at Kelly and ask, “So, Texas? I mean, c’mon.”

“Don’t knock Austin until you’ve been there. You would not even believe it’s Texas.”

“When’s last call?”

“I think one-thirty in the morning.”

“Madness.”

Kelly picks up her third slice. “Being able to drink until four in the morning isn’t a good reason to stay here. This place is too expensive and too loud and it’s turning into a playground for yuppie rich kids. Eleven bucks for a pack of smokes. I paid twelve bucks for a Jack on the rocks last week. Someday there’s going to be a fun tax, and if you’re out having a good time some guy in a uniform is going to run up to you and demand five dollars. And then we may as well live in Iran.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It will be.”

“How are you going to adapt?”

“Just fine. The cost of living is lower. I can pay a rent that makes sense. And I love the idea of living in a town where the natural thing to do on a lazy afternoon is get margaritas.”

“We can get margaritas here. You can get pizza and bagels here. What are you going to do the first time you want pizza or a good bagel?”

“I’ll have something to look forward to when I come home.” She picks up her fourth slice. “This city isn’t going anywhere.”

“Not until someone tries to blow it up again.”

“More reason to go.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“You make it sound like I’m moving to Siberia. I’m going down to try something different. If I don’t like it, I’ll be back.”

“Then I wish you luck.”

“Will you come visit me?”

“Will you pay for me?”

She pauses. “Do you need money?”

“I’m kidding. I’ll come visit. I’ve never been against country music.”

Kelly offers me the last slice, but I let her have it because where she’s going, pizza as we know it does not exist. When she’s finished, I help her make sure the back door is down and locked and then I hug her goodbye. She climbs in the cab of the truck, starts it, and pulls away from the curb. I watch as the truck turns at the end of the street and disappears out of sight.

 

Before I head back to Bombay’s I take a walk by Washington Square Park and find Craig sitting by himself at a chess table. We play two games and he butchers me on both but I’m not paying attention. When I knock over my king for the second time I ask, “Anything?”

He doesn’t look up at me, just goes back to resetting the pieces on the board. “Still looking.”

I slide a twenty across the table and pat him on the shoulder, walk cross-town to Alphabet City, to follow up at the bar across the street from where Chell was snatched. It’s closed so I knock on the door to see if maybe someone is setting up, but no one answers.

Then to Apocalypse. Nothing on the groper. There are a few familiar faces floating around so I collect some phone numbers to fill out my contacts.

I should be looking for Fanny Fatale but Cinnamon West isn’t going to back my play. I could pop into the bars where the burlesque performers hang out and ask around, but that raises issues of the creeper variety.

Outside KGB I look up and turn in a circle. Directionless.

I get hungry again and I need more cigarettes so I head to the ATM. This time I check my balance. I stare at the number for a little while and hope I’m not reading it right. But no, in yellow numbers on a blue screen it says $60.24. I take out forty and resolve to look for some work to fill things out a little.

 

Bombay is playing video games when I get back to his place. I sit on the couch next to him and watch as he stalks a pixilated battlefield and slaughters aliens that look like a cross between lizards and gorillas. He sticks a grenade to the chest of one of them and I tell him, “I guess I’m not the only one who gravitates toward violence.”

He doesn’t take his eyes from the screen, just switches to a rocket launcher and blows up a platoon advancing on his flank. “False equivalence. I’m not hurting anything.”

“Nothing except your sex life.”

“You are not as funny as you think you are.”

“Sure I am.”

Bombay’s space marine is suddenly smashed to the ground by an enormous beam of green light. He turns and finds an alien encased in tank-like armor. The fight doesn’t last long. He puts the controller in his lap and wipes his eyes. “I have something for you. And you’re not going to like it.”

“Par for the course.”

“I found the guy. Cairo. His real name is Rick Paulsen.”

“What is there to not like about that?”

“The fact that I also found out he got accused of sexual assault two years ago in Boston.”

The room freezes. Pieces snap in place.

Rick Paulsen runs Noir York, which has some sort of tenuous connection to The Hipster King and the crew at Slaughterhouse Six. Chell was working in the game and that’s how she was spying on them. Maybe they found out and killed her to cover what was going on with the coup.

Maybe that’s why the thumb drive is such a hot item. It could belong to Paulsen, or to the king. And those hipster assholes tracking me want it back.

Though it raises the question of how they know I have it.

But maybe Paulsen was sweet on Chell and that’s who was harassing her. He made himself scarce when I asked about him at the bar in Brooklyn. Sexual assault isn’t a momentary slip in judgment. That kind of thing is a black mark on your soul that doesn’t wash off, no matter the penance.

I ask Bombay, “No other details on the assault rap?”

“Charges weren’t formally filed. Could be nothing.”

“Could be something.”

“Look.” Bombay says. “I almost didn’t want to tell you. I don’t want you to go off and just kill this guy over something that could be a coincidence.”

“I wouldn’t kill him without asking first.”

Bombay slams the controller down on the table. “Will you stop being so flip about this? What do I need to say to get it through your thick fucking head, man?”

“Chell was your friend, too. Are you saying you’re okay with all this?”

“Yes, she was my friend. And now she’s dead and gone. And then you’re going to be gone, because you’re going to be dead or in jail.”

“When did you become such a fucking pacifist?”

“When have you ever known me to approve of violence? When have you ever known me to support this kind of thing? I spent my whole fucking life getting shit on because I was raised Muslim. I can’t walk outside without some fucking asshole looking at me like I’m a terrorist. Life is fucking hard. I get over it.”

I walk across the room, completely spent. I don’t want to have this conversation. Bombay follows and pushes me against the wall, holding me in place. We’re both so shocked by the physicality of it that for a moment neither of us say anything.

Finally he says, “You are not going to find peace from this.”

“Don’t tell me what I will or won’t find. You don’t know that.”

“What would your father want?”

I pull out of Bombay’s grip. “I don’t know. Let me ask him. Oh wait, he’s fucking dead now, because he put his life on the line to do the right thing and protect people.”

“What he did and what you’re doing are two very different things.”

“I know that.” I reach down and pick up my umbrella, tie it into my belt. “Thank you for your input, but I’m going for a walk.”

Bombay says, “Ash.” But he doesn’t say anything after that, just stands at the center of the room, his shoulder slumped. I turn to the door and he whispers something. Over my shoulder I ask, “What?”

He doesn’t answer so I head to the roof.

 

The rain has stopped and the clouds have parted. The city and it’s broken skyline sparkle on the horizon. I take out my phone and call my mother.

She answers the phone with a tone like she’s expecting bad news. “Ashley?”

“Hey Ma.”

“Honey? I’ve been trying to call you.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Been busy.”

“I spoke to Margo. She said you looked tired.”

“Is that all she said?”

“Is there more?”

“I don’t think so. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

A few seconds of silence. Then she says, “You’re thinking about him right now, aren’t you?”

“I’m not.”

“What do I tell you about sitting around and crying about him?”

“You don’t cry anymore?”

She pauses. “I didn’t say that.” Clears her throat. “How’s Margo adjusting?”

“Fine. She seems to be having a great time.”

“Good. Your Aunt Ruth was in hysterics, after that girl was in the news. You know, the girl who got killed.”

My turn to pause. “Margo has nothing to worry about.”

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Tired. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I’m a bad son.”

“You’re not a bad son.”

“I wish I was a better son.”

“Stop it. Come over for dinner. Bring Margo so I can see her. And bring Bombay. You can bring any of your friends. It’s so quiet here. It would be nice to have people over.”

“Sure Ma.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“And Ashley? Please answer your damn phone when I call.”

“Love you too, Ma.”

The line goes quiet. I close the phone and hold it in my hand.

 

Part of loving my dad, my mom would tell her friends, was learning to love the scanner. It lived on the nightstand next to their bed, and he never turned it off.

Behind the nightstand was a hundred feet of orange extension cord, wrapped up in a neat coil. Sometimes I would find him sitting in the kitchen, the lights off, the cord stretched through the house, the scanner in front of him. His ear cocked to the speaker, his brain translating the numbers and codes.

I would wake up for a glass of water and he’d smile and say, “Can’t sleep. Neither can you, I guess.”

Even if it was a school night, he would let me sit there with him and he would explain what the codes meant. If a call came in that was close by, he would leave to see if he could help.

He listened to that scanner all day. Sometimes it was like he was afraid of quiet.

That’s not why he listened though.

A lot of firefighters in this city have scanners, in bedrooms and kitchens and basements. They all listen, waiting for one single moment. The kind of moment you don’t even know you’re waiting for until it happens.

Half an hour after Tower 2 was hit, the FDNY issued a total recall. Every firefighter in New York City, no matter where they were, no matter what they were doing, had to drop everything and report for duty.

A total recall only happened once before, the day after Christmas in 1947, for a blizzard.

This wasn’t a blizzard.

It didn’t matter that the call went out. Most of them were on their way in as soon as the first plane hit. They didn’t need some guy in a white hat and gloves to tell them it was time to go to work.

I was asleep when it happened. Home sick from school. I don’t know if my dad came into my room before he left. He probably figured I needed my rest. And he had no idea where he was headed. I never asked my mom about what happened when he left that morning, but I’ve pieced some of it together.

She was making coffee. I know she was making coffee because after she shook me awake, dragged me to the television as the first tower collapsed, I remember dry grounds spread across the counter and floor, the coffee maker half full of water, the acrid smell of burnt bread that had been left too long in the toaster.

On the kitchen table was a copy of that day’s Post. It was opened to the sports section.

My dad’s last words to my mom were: “You are beautiful in the morning. I’ll see you for dinner.” I know this because sometimes my mother would whisper it to herself, standing at the kitchen counter in the dark, her voice shaking like glass about to shatter.

I know that twenty minutes later he was on a truck riding heavy with two shifts, aimed at downtown Manhattan.

They never found his body. His lieutenant said that means he probably fought his way to the upper floors to evacuate the people who were trapped there.

That was my father.

This is how I honor his memory.

 

The business card for Noir York is still in my pocket. So is the scrap of paper with the number Bombay found on the website. I wipe the tears from my eyes and click it into my phone.

A woman answers. “Is this line secure?”

I tell her, “Whatever.”

“How many in your party?”

“One.”

“Name?”

The hipsters probably know my name so I pull one out of the air, hope she’s not a fan of The Smiths. “Johnny. Johnny Marr.”

“Address?”

I begin to give her my old apartment but then think better and give her Bombay’s. On the other end of the phone is the sound of a pen scratching on paper.

The woman says, “Five hundred dollars, cash. You’ll receive your instructions shortly.”

“That’s not specific.”

Click.

This is it. I know this is it.

Joel Cairo or Rick Paulsen or whatever his name is. I’ll find him at the end of Noir York. The bogeyman who’s been looming over this neighborhood, over my life. He’s the guy. He has to be. It just makes sense.

I’m going to stop him. No umbrella. I’ll do it with my hands.

I just need to find five hundred bucks.

If I’m going to do this, I need to adopt a new investigative style. The worst thing I could do here is charge in and spook the guy at the end. He could ghost and I’m left with nothing. I’ll play the game. Maybe I can get through this without losing any more blood.

My phone buzzes.

Time to cash in on that favor. Come to the club.