41

WEDNESDAY, 1:40 AM

OCHO RIOS, A SMALL REGGAE SPOT in Northern Liberties, was winding down. The DJ was spinning music more as background at the moment. There were only a few couples on the dance floor.

Byrne crossed the room and talked to one of the bartenders, who disappeared through a door behind the bar. After a short while, a man emerged from behind the plastic beads. When the man saw Byrne, his face lit up.

Gauntlett Merriman was in his early forties. He had flown high with the Champagne Posse in the eighties, at one time owning a row house in Society Hill and a beach house on the Jersey shore. His long dreadlocks, streaked with white, even in his twenties, had been a staple on the club scene, as well as at the Roundhouse.

Byrne recalled that Gauntlett had once owned a peach Jaguar XJS, a peach Mercedes 380 SE, and a peach BMW 635 CSi, all at the same time. He would park them all in front of his place on Delancey, resplendent in their gaudy chrome wheel covers and custom gold hood ornaments in the shape of a marijuana leaf, just to drive the white people crazy. It appeared he had not lost the taste for the color. This night he wore a peach linen suit and peach leather sandals.

Byrne had heard the news, but he was not prepared for the specter that was Gauntlett Merriman.

Gauntlett Merriman was a ghost.

He had bought the whole package, it seemed. His face and hands were dotted with Kaposi’s, his wrists emerged like knotted twigs from the sleeves of his coat. His flashy Patek Phillipe watch looked as if it might fall off at any second.

But, despite it all, he was still Gauntlett. Macho, stoic, rude bwoi Gauntlett. Even at this late date, he wanted the world to know he had ridden the needle to the virus. The second thing Byrne noticed, after the skeletal visage of the man crossing the room toward him, arms outstretched, was that Gauntlett Merriman wore a black T-shirt with big white letters proclaiming:

I’M NOT FUCKING GAY!

The two men embraced. Gauntlett felt brittle beneath Byrne’s grasp. Like dry kindling, about to snap with the slightest pressure. They sat at a corner table. Gauntlett called over a waiter, who brought Byrne a bourbon and Gauntlett a Pellegrino.

“You quit drinking?” Byrne asked.

“Two years,” Gauntlett said. “The meds, mon.”

Byrne smiled. He knew Gauntlett well enough. “Man,” he said. “I remember when you could snort the fifty-yard line at the Vet.”

“Back in the day, I could fuck all night, too.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

Gauntlett smiled. “Maybe an hour.”

The two men adjusted their clothing, felt out each other’s company. It had been a while. The DJ spun into a song by Ghetto Priest.

“How about all dis, eh?” Gauntlett asked, wanding his spindly hand in front of his face and sunken chest. “Some fuckery, dis.”

Byrne was at a loss for words. “I’m sorry.”

Gauntlett shook his head. “I had my time,” he said. “No regrets.”

They sipped their drinks. Gauntlett fell silent. He knew the drill. Cops were always cops. Robbers were always robbers. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Detective?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

Gauntlett nodded again. This much he had figured.

“Punk named Diablo,” Byrne said. “Big fucker, tats all over his face,” Byrne said. “You know him?”

“I do.”

“Any idea where I can locate him?”

Gauntlett Merriman knew enough not to ask why.

“Is this in the light or the shadow?” Gauntlett asked.

“Shadow.”

Gauntlett looked out over the dance floor, a long, slow scan that endowed his favor with the weight it deserved. “I believe I can help you in this matter.”

“I just need to talk to him.”

Gauntlett held up a bone-thin hand. “Ston a riva battan nuh know sun hat,” he said, slipping deep into his Jamaican patois.

Byrne knew this one. A stone at the bottom of the river doesn’t know the sun is hot.

“I appreciate this,” Byrne added. He didn’t bother to add that Gauntlett should keep all this to himself. He wrote his cell phone number on the back of a business card.

“Not at all.” He sipped his water. “Ever’ting cook and curry.”

Gauntlett rose from the table, a little unsteadily. Byrne wanted to help him, but he knew that Gauntlett was a proud man. Gauntlett found his balance. “I will call you.”

The two men embraced again.

When he got to the door, Byrne turned, found Gauntlett in the crowd, thinking: A dying man knows his future.

Kevin Byrne envied him.