When I was lost in thought, staring over the railing and feeling sorry for myself, I noticed traffic was moving pretty slow. About a hundred feet from where I was standing it opened up like a floodgate after passing a construction crew.

So I do the absolute dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, which is saying something.

First I feel air, and then the sharp crack of roadway as I tuck my legs underneath me and try to keep my head from rolling under the tire of a moving car. I land on my right leg and pain hits me like a tidal wave. My hat falls off and rolls in front of a truck. I grab it just before it’s crushed.

Cars slow down to avoid hitting me, drivers slamming on their horns. There’s a cab to my left so I open the door and crawl inside. The driver yells at me in a language I don’t know.

I tell him, “My car broke down. I’ll pay you whatever you want, just take me to the bottom of the bridge. Get me down to Chambers.”

He argues with me while keeping with the flow of traffic. “Sir, I cannot pick up a fare on the bridge. Please get out of my cab.”

“I bet it’s against the rules to discharge a fare on the bridge, so it’s sort of a catch-twenty-two then. Help me out, my car broke down and some guy bumped his car into me and knocked me down.”

“Where’s your car, sir?”

“It’s back there, it doesn’t matter, just keep up with the traffic and let’s get out of here.”

“Twenty dollars to Chambers.”

Actual cost on the meter, probably three bucks. I don’t say anything because twenty is much less than I planned on giving him.

When we get down to street level I hand him a hundred dollar bill. He looks at it and back at me. I tell him, “Forget what I look like.”

“Sir.”

“Forget me.”

And with that, I limp my way into the crowd to find another cab. I take it north, change cabs at Union Square. The third one I get into is the one that takes me back to the apartment in Chinatown.

 

My phone buzzes as I climb the stairs of the apartment building. The number is blocked.

A voice on the other end asks, “Johnny?”

I get confused for a second, forget that’s my assumed name, but then recognize that it’s Iva and she’s talking to me. I tell her, “Yes.”

“Just wanted to see how things were going. If everything was okay?” Her voice is confused, expectant. Like she wants to be able to see me right now. I wonder if she’s setting me up, trying to figure out where I am so the hipster thugs can come back after me. Or maybe I’m being paranoid.

I tell her, “Just got a little tied up taking care of something.”

“How’s the search?”

“Good. Going good.”

“Okay. I mean. Just wanted to let you know. Sometimes the easiest way to find someone is to retrace your steps.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” And I hang up the phone.

I must be running behind, which means I need to move faster. The lines here are crossing way too close.

The apartment is exactly how I left it. Doesn’t even look like there’s been anyone in here since me. I flop onto the bed and the cheap springs squeak underneath me. I lay there, just to catch my breath, until I realize the light on the answering machine is flashing. I press the ‘play’ button.

“Terry, you moron, it’s Frankie. Get up to the courts at Astoria Park.”

Click.

Queens. Goddamn Queens.

For the first time in a long time, I’ll have to consult a subway map.

 

I flash Lindsay’s picture to a dozen people around the Astoria Park basketball courts and they all look at me sideways. Just a bunch of young kids playing around, none of them looking like they’re expecting a mysterious stranger.

So I get a cup of coffee and a pack of smokes from the corner bodega and sit on a bench and use the two to keep me awake. I can’t remember the last time I was in Queens that I wasn’t trying to get somewhere else.

I keep waiting for something to happen and nothing does. Iva called when I was running late and now I’m sitting here and no hints, no nothing. Granted, I played express train roulette, hoping between the subways that skipped stations, and probably shaved a good twenty minutes off the trip. But still. Nothing.

Unless I’m wrong.

The guy on the message said to meet him at the courts. He didn’t specify which courts, he just said courts. And he sounded like a Goodfellas reject.

I’m an idiot. An old Italian guy isn’t going to be playing basketball.

It doesn’t take long to find the bocce courts, and a couple of goombas in polo shirts and slacks. One of the guys, with slicked-back hair and a heavy gold chain around his neck, looks up at me and stares. He looks away, hoists a lime-green ball, and tosses it at a bunch of yellow balls, scoring a couple of points. At least I think he does, because the guys on the opposing side don’t look happy.

I call out to him. “Frankie.”

He waves to his friends and walks over to me. Stares at me like he’s trying to exert his dominance, says, “I do not know you.” He talks like he’s bored with me. “What’s your name?”

“Johnny.”

He swings his arms so wide he nearly hits my face, as he talks to everyone in the world except me. “Nice hat. Did it come with a free bowl of soup?”

“I saw Caddyshack too. Let’s get serious for a moment. I’m here about your business with Terry Lennox.”

He snaps his fingers. Two burly guys, both in velour track suits, materialize at my side. Frankie steps forward and asks, “Where is Terry?”

I take a shot in the dark. “I have no idea. But I do know where your case is.”

He pauses. His eyes narrow. “Do you have it?”

“I do. Not here.”

“Bring it to me.”

“Not for free. But I’ll trade it.”

“What do you want?”

“Information.”

He crosses his arms. “What do you want to know?”

“I need to find Terry.”

“That’s too bad. Because I need to find him first.”

“Well, really, I just need to find the girl he’s with. So I’ll make you a deal. I won’t touch Terry. I won’t even tell him you’re coming. But I need to know how to track him down.”

Frankie looks at his men, then at me. He waves them off. They walk away but they keep staring at me like they want to murder me. Frankie says, “I don’t know where Terry is. But I know where you can find his girl. Little bar down in Tribeca called The Patriot. She’s a bartender.”

“Back to fucking Manhattan then.”

I turn to leave and Frankie calls out after me. “What about the case?”

“It won’t be of much use to you.”

“Why not?”

“It was full of phone books and a note from some guy named Owen Taylor. I could go get you the case but all you’ll have is a briefcase. It’s not even that nice.”

“Owen.” Frankie shakes his head. “Damn it. Damn Owen, damn Terry.” He takes out his cell phone. Without looking at me he says, “You can go now. But you should stop up the block at Ray’s.” He kisses the tips of his fingers and fans them out. “They make a beautiful slice of pizza.”

 

I figured it out. Or I figured something out, which is better than all the nothing I’ve been figuring out.

This is a game for tourists. It’s an interactive walking tour. That’s why everyone is pushing food on me. The restaurants and bar are probably helping sponsor the thing, for the increased foot traffic. Between not stopping to eat, and knowing how to get around quick, I’ve been able to keep pace.

This is the perfect sort of thing for a tourist with a little adventure in his heart, some time to kill, and a desire to see the far-flung neighborhoods that don’t make it into the movies.

I must be getting toward the end. The sun is starting its downward arc and I’m being sent back into the heart of the city.

A black gypsy cab is sitting at the curb, the driver leaning against it, eating a sandwich wrapped in white butcher paper. Gypsy cabs aren’t supposed to pick people up on the street, but when he sees the wad of cash he doesn’t ask questions, just points toward the back as he crams the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.

When he asks me where to go I tell him Tribeca and we pull into traffic. But then I figure, I’m in Queens, in a car, and I may have some time to spare. So I tell him to take me down Merrick Boulevard first.

 

 

Yellow planks with sloppy red lettering, just like I saw in the aerial shot on the television the morning Chell died. I tell the driver to stop and wait.

I wander into the lot, where there’s some ripped-up police tape caught on a pile of broken wooden planks, flapping in the wind. Other than that, no evidence of what happened here. The cops must have picked this place clean.

I walk around the property, a small patch of dirt covered with broken glass and old tires and scraps of metal, blocked from the street and the surrounding sidewalks. A little alcove the people who live around here probably don’t even know exists. I could scream my head off and the nearest apartment building is so far back no one would hear me.

I take a knee, run my fingers over the ground. It’s cold and unforgiving and doesn’t smell anything like lavender.

Is this where he did it? Or did he do it in his van?

Did he strip her naked before he did it, or after? Was she drugged, or fully aware of his body crushing her?

Why am I asking these questions?

I close my eyes and I see Chell’s face, contorted in pain. So clear, like she’s right in front of me.

You promised.

Who promised?

Behind me there’s a crunch and I hear, “Mister McKenna.”

Detective Medina walks toward me a smile so wide it looks painful. “You know, we’ve had a guy sitting outside here for the past few days. Some crazy idea about maybe the killer returning to the scene of the crime.” He points over his shoulder at Grabowski lurking by the car like a mountain in the mist. “As luck would have it, me and my partner here decided to do some thinking, talk the case over, and we figured maybe we should do it here. He was just saying, and I mean just saying, how it was a waste of time. That no one would be stupid enough to come back to the scene of a body drop. So, Mister McKenna, do you want to tell me exactly what the hell you’re doing here?”

I shake my head at him. “I’m sorry, are you still talking?”

He pulls a pair of handcuffs from his belt and lets them dangle in his hand.

“Mister McKenna, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions down at the station. Would you like to take a ride with us?”

“Not really, no.”

“It’s not a request.”

“Well, you fucking framed it like a question, asshole.”

Medina sticks his finger in the air and twirls it around. I turn and as he slaps the cuffs on me, the cab driver shrugs his shoulders, salutes me, and drives off.

 

Small wonders. Instead of some station in Queens they bring me back to the 9th Precinct, a few blocks from Bombay’s. At least I got a free ride back into the borough, even though it was an awkward trip. No one said a thing the entire way. Grabowski shot Medina a couple of long, judgmental looks from the passenger seat.

The interrogation room walls are mental-institution green, polka-dotted with hard water stains. There’s a big, scratched window that I think I can see flashes of movement behind. Other than that there’s a scratched metal table and scratched metal chair across from me. Everything is scratched. It smells like mildew and sweat.

It also looks so much like the set of Law & Order: SVU that this feels like someone is playing a joke. I expect Benson and Stabler to come in to question me.

The cuffs are digging into my skin and I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes already. This doesn’t bode well. I need to be at The Patriot. I need to be out of here now. I need for rational things to happen. I’ve stopped holding my breath.

The door slams open and Medina marches in, dragging a chair across the floor. The harsh squeal echoes in the small room. He undoes the cuffs and I stretch my arms, get the blood flowing into my hands.

He places a tan folder on the table in front of me. Next to that he puts down my umbrella, then pokes it with his finger. “That’s an interesting thing to carry around.”

“Those five dollar bodega umbrellas can’t stand up to a gust of wind. I wanted something a little more sturdy.”

“This is a weapon. I can throw you in a cell just for this.”

Fine. If this is the way it’s going to be, then I’m going to play to my strengths by making it worse. I tell him, “Guns are for pussies. What model firearm do you carry?”

“Funny. We’ll see how long you’re laughing.”

“Look, I don’t know what kind of power trip you’re on today, Detective Keystone, but I’m exhausted and my tolerance meter is completely run out. Am I under arrest?”

“Being a wise guy isn’t helping your case.”

“Now I’m on trial? What’s your name again?”

“Medina.”

“Great, thanks. You’re so insignificant to me I forgot. What were you saying about being a wise guy?”

He nods and smiles, lifts up the folder and lets it drop open in front of me. It’s an old file, the pages inside yellowed with age. I don’t even need to read it to know what it’s about. I nod toward it. “Funny that you have files. There were never any formal charges filed.”

“Well, the police department likes to keep files on individuals such as yourself.”

“Such as myself.”

I knew this would never be behind me. It’s the reason I don’t like cops. Very long story told short: Back in high school I knew this girl, and she got raped at a party, and I found the kid who did it. The way I hear it, he still walks with a cane.

It was the first time I felt skin split under my fists.

Problem was, the kid’s dad was a cop.

The memory of what came after stings. The cops harassing me on my way to school, confiscating my books as evidence in some crime they could never describe. The nighttime phone calls to my mom telling her I was dead. The broken window on her car. My dad was gone at this point, but my mom got in touch with his friends in the fire union. They got things settled.

It goes away and you think it’s gone, but it’s not.

Medina says, “You beat up a cop’s kid. Hurt him real bad. Violent individuals, such as yourself, tend to get an early start on that kind of thing. And you got started all the way back in high school. I guess this is a long time coming.”

“And I guess that paperwork doesn’t say that cop’s kid was a rapist. Look him up now. He’s doing a stretch his daddy couldn’t get him out of.”

“I don’t see that report here. In fact, there’s no indication of any kind of rape claim from when you were in school with him. So you know what I think?”

“That you’re ignoring the rape that put him in jail so you can fuck me? This is a stats thing, isn’t it? It’s easier to arrest me so at the end of the month the brass doesn’t wonder why stuff’s not getting done. This is why no one trusts cops. Even the ones who claim to be good will protect the bad ones without question.”

He smiles, not listening. Hungry. “I see a history of violent behavior. I see someone who doesn’t have a good alibi. I think you see what I see.”

“I see a detective who needs to close a case and is willing to smack it on an innocent person to keep his numbers up. That’s what I see.”

He closes the file, asks, “Want to tell my why you were in her apartment after she died?”

Dammit. The couple who found me after I cleaned up the gunshot wound. They must have called it in, Medina matched the description. I take it back. He’s a passable cop. I tell him, “She borrowed my blender. I loved that blender.”

“Let me tell you what I think. You were looking for something.”

“Wow. You’ll make captain in no time.”

He’s getting angry but he doesn’t want to show it. Not sure if that plays in my favor or against. He asks, “You left quite a mess back there. Why don’t you tell me the truth, huh, about why you went back?”

“Why don’t you believe me about the blender?”

He puts aside the report and folds his hands in front of him on the table, asks, “Did you kill her?”

“You know what? I don’t even think I’m under arrest. I think you’re just an asshole. I want a lawyer.”

“I know who you are. I know who your father was. Don’t think that gives you any kind of special treatment in here. In fact, I thought I would get a little professional courtesy.”

This suddenly stops being funny.

I tell him, “In one day my father made this world a better place and then he died for it. You’re a bully with a badge. And you will never, ever deserve to be spoken of in the same tone as him. He was a hero. You’re a joke.”

I’m spitting by the time I finish the sentence, choking on my words. Medina pauses, wide-eyed. Then he shakes it off, pushes out from the table and comes to my side, looms over me. “I like you for this. Which is why we’re going to swab you for DNA, match you to this murder, and put your ass in jail.”

I laugh at him. “You want my DNA? Here.”

And I spit on the table.

He nods his head, puts his hand on the back of my neck, and slams my forehead into the wet spot. Pain ricochets through my skull like a rubber ball. Over the course of my life I’ve taken many blows to the head, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen stars. I didn’t even know that was possible.

When my vision swims back into focus there’s a splotch of blood on the table where my forehead connected with it.

Medina says, “Are you all right? You seem to have slipped there.”

I get up and take a step, fall to the floor. He puts his hands under my arms and pulls me to my feet, or tries to because I don’t want to cooperate, when another cop comes into the room. The new guy looks very angry. “Detective. Outside. Now.”

Medina lets me fall to the floor and leaves the room. I stumble around like I’m dizzy. I figure if I pretend to have a concussion they’ll feel obligated to take me to the hospital instead of putting me in holding.

Also, I might have a concussion.

Another officer comes in, this guy clearly a desk cop, because he’s too heavy to be expected to chase people down a street. He’s also way too earnest. He asks, “Are you okay?”

I steady myself on the chair and stare off into space, shake my head like he asked me a question about nuclear physics. He takes my arm and leads me through the station and I see Medina through the glass window of an office where he’s getting screamed at by a guy in a fancy uniform. Grabowski is standing there too, off to the side, arms crossed. Good. I flip Medina off but he doesn’t see it.

We get outside and the cop brings me to a squad car. “Look, this is a tough case, kid. Everyone’s under a lot of pressure. Medina can be a little gung-ho… he’s just trying to do the right thing. Maybe we can just call this no harm, no foul?”

“You’re kidding, right? This asshole brought me in and tried to split my skull open and you want me to forget it? Like it was a happy accident?”

The cop shrugs. Smiles. He’s genial. Probably used to doing this. “We’re going to get you to a hospital. Get this taken care of. We’ll make it right. No need to turn it into a thing, you know what I mean?”

“I don’t need a hospital. I need to go.”

“Regulation. Sorry kid.”

There’s no one else around and he’s not spry enough to chase me so I fall to a knee and tell him, “I need orange juice.”

“What?”

“I’m diabetic. I need orange juice or a candy bar or something.”

“We’re getting you to a hospital right now.”

“No, orange juice first. If you don’t get me some sugar I’m going to have a seizure and I could crack my head open on the pavement.” I look up at him. “Please. I’ll wait right here.”

The cop pats me on the shoulder and nods. He looks genuinely concerned. Which makes me feel bad for the fact that by the time he comes back out, I’m gone.

Me disappearing isn’t going to look good, but now the pressure to get this thing solved is weighing on me a little heavier. If only because Medina clearly has some kind of misappropriated hard-on for me.

As I duck around the corner the world spins on an invisible axis. I grab the side of the building to steady myself. I probably should go to a hospital, but I’m passed the point of patience.

I just need something to set me straight first.

 

Snow White is sitting outside, just like she always is when I need her. I sit on the step of her building and tell her, “Sixty.”

“No small talk, huh?” She reaches into the coin pocket of my jeans for the money. Then she gets a good look at the welt on my forehead. “Babe, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

She shakes her head. “Your call.”

When she pulls her hand away the vial of coke has replaced the money. I duck into the bathroom of the bar next door.

The first rip wakes me up.

The second brings the world into focus.

I’ll save the rest for later. The mirror shows me things I don’t want to see so I try not to look, just get myself straightened out, wipe down my face with a wet paper towel. It comes back pink with blood.

At the bar I order three shots of whiskey. The bartender looks around to see who else I’m with as he pours them. I throw them back one after another. Outside I light a cigarette, let the tastes mingle at the back of my throat.

Fuck moderation.

My umbrella is back at the precinct. It would probably be bad form to go and ask for it back. Doesn’t matter. I don’t need it anymore.