16
THE ITALIAN MARKET ran three blocks or so along Ninth Street in South Philly, roughly between Wharton and Fitzwater streets, and was home to some of the best Italian food in the city, probably the country. Cheese, produce, shellfish, meats, coffee, pastries, bread—for more than a hundred years, the market had been the beating heart of Philly’s large Italian American population.
As Jessica and Sophie walked up Ninth Street, Jessica thought about the scene in Psycho. She thought of the killer entering the bathroom, throwing back the curtain, raising the knife. She thought of the young woman’s screams. She thought of the huge splatter of blood in that bathroom.
She held Sophie’s hand a little tighter.
They were on their way to Ralph’s, the landmark Italian restaurant. They had dinner once a week with Jessica’s father, Peter.
“So how was school?” Jessica asked.
They walked in that lazy, no-place-to-be, not-a-care-in-the-world way that Jessica remembered from her childhood. Oh, to be three again.
“Preschool,” Sophie corrected.
“Preschool,” Jessica said.
“I had an awfully good time,” Sophie said.
When Jessica had joined the force, she’d spent her first year patrolling this beat. She knew every crack in the sidewalk, every chipped brick, every doorway, every sewer grate—
“Bella ragazza!”
—and every voice. This one could only belong to Rocco Lancione, owner of Lancione & Sons, purveyors of fine meats and poultry.
Jessica and Sophie turned around to see Rocco standing in the doorway of his shop. He had to be in his midseventies now. He was a short, plump man with jet-black dyed hair and a blindingly white, spotlessly clean apron, courtesy of the fact that his sons and grandsons did all the work at their meat store these days. Rocco had tips missing from two fingers on his left hand. A hazard of the butcher’s trade. To this day he kept his left hand in his pocket when he was outside the store.
“Hi, Mr. Lancione,” Jessica said. No matter how old she got, he would always be Mr. Lancione.
With his right hand, Rocco reached behind Sophie’s ear and magically produced a piece of Ferrara torrone, the individually boxed nougat candy Jessica had grown up with. Jessica remembered many a Christmas Day when she had wrestled her cousin Angela for the last piece of Ferrara torrone. Rocco Lancione had been finding the sweet, chewy confection behind little girls’ ears for almost fifty years. He held it out in front of Sophie’s widening eyes. Sophie glanced at Jessica before taking it. That’s my girl, Jessica thought.
“It’s okay, honey,” Jessica said.
The candy was snatched and stashed in a blur.
“Say thank you to Mr. Lancione.”
“Thank you.”
Rocco wagged a warning finger. “Wait until after your dinner to eat that, okay, sweetie?”
Sophie nodded, clearly plotting a predinner strategy.
“How’s your father?” Rocco asked.
“He’s good,” Jessica said.
“Is he happy in his retirement?”
If you called abject misery, mind-numbing boredom and spending sixteen hours a day bitching about the crime rate happy, he was ecstatic. “He’s great. Taking it easy. We’re off to meet him for dinner.”
“Villa di Roma?”
“Ralph’s.”
Rocco nodded his approval. “Give him my best.”
“I sure will.”
Rocco hugged Jessica. Sophie offered a cheek to be kissed. Being an Italian male, and never passing the opportunity to kiss a pretty girl, Rocco bent down and happily complied.
What a little diva, Jessica thought.
Where does she get it?
PETER GIOVANNI STOOD on the Palumbo playground, impeccably turned out in cream linen slacks, a black cotton shirt, and sandals. With his ice-white hair and deep tan he could have passed for an escort working the Italian Riviera, waiting to charm some wealthy American widow.
They headed to Ralph’s, with Sophie on point just a few feet ahead.
“She’s getting big,” Peter said.
Jessica looked at her daughter. She was getting bigger. Wasn’t it just yesterday she took her first wobbly steps across the living room? Wasn’t it just yesterday that her feet didn’t reach the pedals of her tricycle?
Jessica was just about to respond when she glanced at her father. He had that wistful look he was starting to have with some regularity. Was it all retirees, or just retired cops? Jessica wondered. She asked, “What is it, Pa?”
Peter waved a hand. “Ah. Nothing.”
“Pa.”
Peter Giovanni knew when he had to answer. It had been this way with his late wife, Maria. It was this way with his daughter. One day, it would be this way with Sophie. “I just … I just don’t want you to make the same mistakes I made, Jess.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I mean.”
Jessica did, but if she didn’t press the issue, it would give credence to what her father was saying. And she couldn’t do that. She didn’t believe that. “I really don’t.”
Peter looked up and down the street, gathering his thoughts. He waved to a man leaning out of the third-floor window of a trinity row house. “You can’t make your life all about the job.”
“It isn’t.”
Peter Giovanni labored under the yoke of guilt that he had neglected his children when they were growing up. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. When Jessica’s mother, Maria, passed away from breast cancer at the age of thirty-one, when Jessica was only five, Peter Giovanni dedicated his life to raising his daughter and his son, Michael. Maybe he wasn’t there for every Little League game, and every dance recital, but every birthday, every Christmas, every Easter was special. All Jessica could remember were happy times growing up in the house on Catharine Street.
“Okay,” Peter began. “How many of your friends are not on the job?”
One, Jessica thought. Maybe two. “Plenty.”
“Gonna make me ask you to name them?”
“Okay, Lieutenant,” she said, surrendering to the truth. “But I like the people I work with. I like cops.”
“Me, too,” Peter said.
For as long as she could remember, cops had been Jessica’s extended family. From the moment her mother died, she had been cocooned in a family of blue. Her earliest memories were of a houseful of officers. She remembered well a female officer who would come over and take her shopping for school clothes. There were always patrol cars parked on the street in front of their house.
“Look,” Peter began again. “After your mother died, I had no idea what to do. I had a young son and a younger daughter. I lived, breathed, ate, and slept the job. I missed so much of your lives.”
“That’s not true, Dad.”
Peter held up a hand, stopping her. “Jess. We don’t have to pretend.”
Jessica let her father have his moment, as misguided as it was.
“Then after Michael …” In the past fifteen or so years, that’s about as far as Peter Giovanni had ever gotten with that sentence.
Jessica’s older brother, Michael, was killed in Kuwait in 1991. Her father shut down that day, closing his heart to any and all feelings. It wasn’t until Sophie came along that he dared to reopen.
It wasn’t long after Michael’s death that Peter Giovanni entered a reckless phase on the job. If you’re a baker or a shoe salesman, being reckless is not the worst thing in the world. For a cop, it is the worst thing in the world. When Jessica got her gold shield, it was all the incentive Peter needed. He turned in his papers the same day.
Peter reined in his emotions. “You’ve got, what, eight years on the job now?”
Jessica knew that her father knew exactly how long she had been in blue. Probably to the week, day, and hour. “Yeah. About that.”
Peter nodded. “Don’t stay too long. That’s all I’m saying.”
“What’s too long?”
Peter smiled. “Eight and a half years.” He took her hand in his, squeezed. They stopped walking. He looked into her eyes. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”
“I know, Pa.”
“I mean, you’re thirty years old and you’re working homicides. You’re working real cases. You’re making a difference in people’s lives.”
“I hope so,” Jessica said.
“There just comes a time when … the cases start working you.”
Jessica knew exactly what he meant.
“I just worry about you, honey.” Peter trailed off, the emotion once again stealing his words for the moment.
They got their feelings in check, entered Ralph’s, got a table. They ordered their usual cavatelli with meat sauce. They talked no more of the job or crime or the state of affairs of the City of Brotherly Love. Instead, Peter enjoyed the company of his two girls.
When they parted company, they hugged a little longer than usual.
17
“WHY DO YOU want me to put it on?”
She holds the white dress up in front of her. It is a scoop-neck white T-shirt dress, long-sleeved, flared at the hips, cut just below the knee. It took a little searching to locate one, but I finally found it at a Salvation Army thrift store in Upper Darby. The dress is inexpensive, but on her figure it will look fabulous. It is the kind of dress that was popular in the 1980s.
Tonight it is 1987.
“Because I think it would look good on you.”
She turns her head and smiles slightly. Coy and demure. I hope this won’t be a problem. “You’re a kinky boy, aren’t you?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Is there anything else?”
“I want to call you Alex.”
She laughs. “Alex?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say it’s a screen test of sorts.”
She thinks about it for a few moments. She holds the dress up again, stares at herself in the full-length cheval glass. The idea seems to appeal to her. Finally.
“Oh, why not?” she says. “I’m a little drunk.”
“I’ll be right out here, Alex,” I say.
She steps into the bathroom, sees that I have filled the tub. She shrugs, closes the door.
Her apartment is decorated in the funky, eclectic style, a décor comprising an amalgam of mismatched sofas, tables, bookcases, prints, and rugs that were probably donated by family members, with the occasional flourish of color and individuality purchased at Pier 1 or Crate & Barrel or Pottery Barn.
I flip through her CDs, looking for something from the 1980s. I find Celine Dion, Matchbox 20, Enrique Iglesias, Martina McBride. Nothing that really speaks to the era. Then I luck out. At the back of the drawer is a dusty boxed set of Madame Butterfly.
I put the CD in the player, forward to “Un bel di, vedremo.” Soon the apartment is filled with longing.
I cross the living room and ease open the bathroom door. She spins around quickly, a little surprised to see me standing there. She sees the camera in my hand, hesitates for a moment, then smiles. “I look like such a slut.” She turns to the right, then the left, smoothing the dress over her hips, striking a Cosmo cover pose.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She giggles. She really is adorable.
“Stand over here,” I say, pointing to an area at the foot of the tub.
She obeys. She vamps for me. “What do you think?”
I look her up and down. “You look perfect. You look just like a movie star.”
“Sweet talker.”
I step forward, camera raised, and push her gently backward. She falls into the tub with a great splash. I need her dripping wet for the shot. She flails her arms and legs wildly, trying to get out of the tub.
She manages to rise to her feet, soaking wet, appropriately outraged. I cannot blame her. In my defense, I made sure the water in the tub was not too hot. She turns to face me, rage in her eyes.
I shoot her in the chest.
One quick shot, bringing the pistol up from my hip. The wound blossoms on the white dress, spreading outward like small red hands offering benediction.
She stands quite still for a moment, the reality of it all slowly dawning on her pretty face. There is that initial look of violation, followed quickly by the horror of what has just happened to her, this abrupt and violent punctuation of her young life. I look behind her to see the thick impasto of tissue and blood on the venetian blind.
She slides down the tile wall, slicking it crimson. She sinks into the tub.
With the camera in one hand and the gun in the other, I walk forward, as smoothly as I can. It is certainly not as smooth as it would be on a track, but I think it will lend a certain immediacy to the moment, a certain vérité.
Through the lens, the water runs red—scarlet fish struggling to the surface. The camera loves blood. The light is ideal.
I zoom in on her eyes—dead white orbs in the bathwater. I hold the shot for a moment, then—
CUT TO:
A few minutes later. I am ready to strike the set, as it were. I have everything packed and ready. I start Madame Butterfly at the beginning of atto secondo. It really is moving.
I wipe down the few things I have touched. I pause at the door, surveying the set. Perfect.
That’s a wrap.
18
BYRNE CONSIDERED WEARING a shirt and tie, but decided against it. The less attention he called to himself in the places he had to go, the better. On the other hand, he wasn’t quite the imposing figure he once was. And maybe that was a good thing. Tonight he needed to be small. Tonight he needed to be one of them.
When you’re a cop, there are only two types of people in the world. Knuckleheads and cops. Them and us.
The thought made him consider the question. Again.
Could he really retire? Could he really become one of them? In a few years, when the older cops he knew had retired, and he got pulled over, they really wouldn’t know him. He’d be a just another knucklehead. He’d tell the scrub who he was, and where he’d worked, and some stupid story about the job; he’d flash his retirement ID and the kid would let him go.
But he wouldn’t be inside. Being inside meant everything. Not just the respect, or the authority, but the juice. He thought he had made the decision. Obviously he wasn’t ready.
He decided on a black dress shirt and black jeans. He was surprised to find that his black peg-legged Levi’s fit him again. Perhaps there was an upside to being shot in the head. You lose weight. Maybe he’d write a book: The Attempted Murder Diet.
He had made it through most of the day without his cane—having steeled himself with pride and Vicodin—and he considered not bringing it with him now, but soon banished the thought. How was he supposed to get around without it? Face it, Kevin. You need a cane to walk. Besides, maybe he would appear weak, and that was probably a good thing.
On the other hand, a cane might make him more memorable, and that was something he didn’t want. He had no idea what they might find this night.
Oh, yeah. I remember him. Big guy. Walked with a limp. That’s the guy, Your Honor.
He took the cane.
He also took his weapon.
19
WITH SOPHIE BATHED and dried—and powdered, another one of her new things—Jessica began to relax. And with the calm came the doubts. She considered her life as it was. She had just turned thirty. Her father was getting older, still vibrant and active, but aimless and alone in his retirement. She worried about him. Her little girl was growing up by the moment, and somehow the possibility loomed that she might grow up in a house in which her father did not live.
Hadn’t Jessica just been a little girl herself, running up and down Catharine Street, a water ice in hand, not a care in the world?
When did all this happen?
WHILE SOPHIE COLORED a coloring book at the dining room table, and all was right with the world for the moment, Jessica put a videotape in the VCR.
She had taken a copy of Psycho out of the Free Library. It had been quite awhile since she had seen the movie start-to-finish. She doubted if she could ever watch it again without thinking about this case.
When she was in her teens she had been a fan of horror movies, the sort of fare that took her and her friends to the cineplex on Friday nights. She remembered renting movies while she babysat for Dr. Iacone and his two little boys—she and her cousin Angela watching Friday the 13th, Nightmare on Elm Street, the Halloween series.
Her interest faded the minute she became a cop, of course. She saw enough of the reality every day. She didn’t need to call it entertainment at night.
Still, a movie like Psycho certainly transcended the slasher fare.
What was it about this film that made the killer want to reenact the scene? Beyond that, what made him want to share with an unsuspecting public in such a twisted way?
What was the mind-set?
She watched the scenes leading up to the shower sequence with a dark anticipation, although she really didn’t know why. Did she really think that every copy of Psycho in the city had been altered? The shower scene passed without incident, but it was the scenes directly afterward that got her added attention.
She watched Norman clean up after the murder—spreading the shower curtain on the floor, dragging his victim’s body onto it, mopping the tile and tub, backing Janet Leigh’s car up to the motel room door.
Norman then carries the body to the open car trunk and places it inside. Afterward, he returns to the motel room and methodically collects all of Marion’s belongings, including the newspaper containing the money she had stolen from her boss. He stuffs all of it into the trunk of the car and drives it to the edge of the lake nearby. Once there, he pushes it into the water.
The car begins to sink, slowly being consumed by the black water. Then it stops. Hitchcock cuts to a reaction shot of Norman, who glances around, nervously. After an excruciating few seconds, the car continues to descend, eventually disappearing from view.
Cut to the next day.
Jessica hit PAUSE, her mind racing.
The Rivercrest Motel was just a few blocks from the Schuylkill River. If their doer was as obsessed with re-creating the murder from Psycho as he appeared to be, maybe he took it all the way. Maybe he stuffed the body into the trunk of a car and submerged it in water, the way Anthony Perkins had done with Janet Leigh.
Jessica picked up the phone and called the Marine Unit.
20
THIRTEENTH STREET WAS the last remaining seedy stretch of downtown, at least as far as adult entertainment was concerned. From Arch Street, where it was bounded by two adult bookstores and one strip joint, to about Locust Street, where there was another short belt of adult clubs and a larger, more upscale “gentleman’s club,” it was the one street the Philadelphia Convention and Visitors Bureau told visitors to avoid despite the fact it ran smack into the Convention Center.
By ten o’clock, the bars were starting to fill up with their strange smorgasbord of rough trade and out-of-town business types. What Philly lacked in quantity, it certainly made up for in breadth of depravity and innovation: from underwear lap dances to maraschino cherry dances. In the BYOB places, the law permitted customers to bring their own liquor, which allowed full nudity on the premises. In some of the places where alcohol was served, the girls wore a thin latex covering that made it look like they were nude. If necessity was the mother of invention in most areas of commerce, it was the lifeblood of the adult entertainment industry. One BYOB club, the Show and Tell, had lines around the block on weekends.
By midnight, Byrne and Victoria had visited half a dozen clubs. No one had seen Julian Matisse or, if they had, they were too afraid to acknowledge it. The possibility that Matisse had left town was becoming more and more likely.
At around one o’clock, they arrived at a club called Tick Tock. It was another licensed club that catered to that second-tier businessman, the guy from Dubuque who had concluded his business in Center City and found himself drunk and horny and diverted on his way back to the Hyatt Penn’s Landing or the Sheraton Society Hill.
As they approached the front door of the freestanding building, they heard a loud discussion between a big man and a young woman. They were in the shadows at the far end of the parking lot. At one time, Byrne might have intervened, even off duty. Those days were behind him.
The Tick Tock was a typical urban strip club—a short runway bar with a pole, a handful of sad and sagging dancers, a two-watered-down-drink minimum. The air was dense with smoke, cheap cologne, and the primal smell of sexual desperation.
A tall, skinny black girl with a platinum wig was on the pole when they walked in, dancing to an old Prince song. Every so often she’d get down on her knees and crawl the area in front of the men at the bar. Some of the men waved money; most didn’t. Every so often she’d pick up the bills and hook them on her G-string. If she stayed in the red and yellow lights she looked passable, at least for a downtown club. If she stepped into the white light, you could see the mileage. She avoided the white spotlights.
Byrne and Victoria stayed at the back bar. Victoria sat a few stools away from Byrne, giving him his play. The men were all very interested in her until they got a good look. They did their double takes, not entirely ruling her out. It was still early. It was clear they all felt they could do better. For the money. Occasionally a business type would stop, lean in, whisper something to her. Byrne wasn’t worried. Victoria could handle herself.
Byrne was on his second Coke when a young woman approached, sidled up next to him. She wasn’t a dancer; she was a pro, working the back of the room. She was on the tall side, brunette, wore a charcoal pin-striped business suit and black stiletto heels. The skirt was very short, and she wore nothing under the blazer. Byrne figured her routine was to fulfill the secretary fantasy a lot of these visiting businessmen had for their office mates back home. Byrne recognized her as the girl being pushed around in the parking lot earlier. She had the flushed, healthy complexion of a recently transplanted country girl, perhaps from Lancaster or Shamokin, someone who hadn’t been at this long. That glow will certainly fade, Byrne thought.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” Byrne replied.
She looked him up and down, smiled. She was very pretty. “You are one big guy, fella.”
“All my clothes are big. It works out well.”
She smiled. “What’s your name?” she asked, having to shout over the music. A new dancer was up, a chunky Latina in a strawberry-red teddy and maroon pumps. She danced to an old-school song by the Gap Band.
“Denny.”
She nodded, as if he had just given her a tip on her taxes. “My name’s Lucky. Nice to meet you, Denny.”
She said Denny with an emphasis that told Byrne she knew it was not his real name, and, at the same time, that she didn’t care. Nobody at the Tick Tock had a real name.
“Nice to meet you,” Byrne replied.
“Whatcha up to tonight?”
“Actually, I’m looking for an old friend of mine,” Byrne said. “He used to come here all the time.”
“Oh yeah? What’s his name?”
“His name is Julian Matisse. Know him?”
“Julian? Yeah, I know him.”
“Know where I can find him?”
“Yeah, sure,” she said. “I can take you right to him.”
“Right now?”
The girl looked around the room. “Gimme a minute.”
“Sure.”
Lucky made her way across the room, over to where Byrne figured the offices were. He caught Victoria’s eye and gave her a nod. After a few minutes, Lucky returned. She had her purse over her shoulder.
“Ready to go?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“I generally don’t provide such services for free, ya know,” she said with a wink. “Gal’s gotta make a living.”
Byrne reached into his pocket. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, tore it in half. He handed one half to Lucky. He didn’t have to explain. She grabbed the half, smiled and took him by the hand, said: “Told ya I was Lucky.”
As they headed to the door, Byrne caught Victoria’s eye again. He held up five fingers.
THEY WALKED A block to a crumbling corner building, the type of structure that was known in Philly as a Father, Son and Holy Ghost—a three-story row house. Some called it a trinity. Lights burned in a few of the windows. They walked down the side street and around back. They entered the row house and walked up the rickety stairs. The pain in Byrne’s back and legs was excruciating.
At the top of the stairs, Lucky pushed open the door, entered. Byrne followed.
The apartment was crackhead-filthy. Stacks of newspapers and old magazines lined the corners. It smelled like rotting dog food. A broken pipe in the bathroom or kitchen had left a damp, briny odor throughout the space, warping the old linoleum, decaying the baseboards. There were half a dozen scented candles burning throughout, but they did little to mask the stench. From somewhere nearby a rap song played.
They walked to the front room.
“He’s in the bedroom,” Lucky said.
Byrne turned toward the door to which she was pointing. He glanced back, saw the infinitesimal tic on the girl’s face, heard the creak of the floorboard, caught the flickering reflection in the window overlooking the street.
As far as he could tell, there was just one coming.
Byrne timed the impact, silently counting down as the heavy footsteps approached. He sidestepped at the last second. The guy was big, broad-shouldered, young. He slammed into the plaster. When he recovered, he turned, dazed, came at Byrne again. Byrne planted his feet and brought the cane up and out with all his strength. It caught the guy in the throat. A clot of blood and mucus flew out of his mouth. The guy tried to regain his balance. Byrne hit him again, this time low, just below the knee. He screamed once, then folded to the floor, scrambling to get something out of his waistband. It was a Buck knife in a canvas sheath. Byrne stepped on the man’s hand with one foot, kicked the knife across the room with the other.
The man was not Julian Matisse. It had been a setup, a classic ambush. Byrne had all but known that it would be, but if word just happened to spread that a guy named Denny was looking for someone, and that you fucked with him at your own peril, it might make the rest of the night and the next few days move a little more smoothly.
Byrne looked at the man on the floor. He was clutching his throat, gasping for air. Byrne turned to the girl. She was shaking, backing slowly toward the door.
“He … he made me do it,” she said. “He hurts me.” She pushed up her sleeves, revealing black-and-blue bruises on her arms.
Byrne had been in this business a long time, and he knew who was telling the truth and who wasn’t. Lucky was just a kid, not a day over twenty. Guys like this guy preyed on girls like her all the time. Byrne rolled the guy over, reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, took his driver’s license. His name was Gregory Wahl. Byrne rummaged his other pockets and found a thick roll of cash in a rubber band—maybe a grand. He peeled off a hundred, pocketed it, then tossed the money to the girl.
“You’re … fuckin’ … dead,” Wahl managed.
Byrne pulled up his own shirt, revealing the butt of the Glock. “We can end this right now if you like, Greg.”
Wahl continued to stare at him, but the threat was gone from his face.
“No? Don’t want to play anymore? Didn’t think so. Look at the floor,” Byrne said. The man complied. Byrne turned his attention to the girl. “Leave town. Tonight.”
Lucky looked side-to-side, unable to move. She had noticed the gun, too. Byrne saw that the roll of cash had already been spirited away. “What?”
“Run.”
Fear flashed in her eyes. “But if I do, how do I know you won’t—”
“This is a one-time-only offer, Lucky. Good for another five seconds.”
She ran. Amazing what women can do in high heels when they have to, Byrne thought. In a few seconds he heard her footsteps on the stairs. Then he heard the back door slam.
Byrne knelt down. For the moment, the adrenaline negated any pain he may have felt in his back and legs. He grabbed Wahl by the hair and pulled his head up. “If I ever see you again this will seem like a good time. In fact, if I even hear about a businessman getting rolled down here in the next few years I’m going to assume it was you.” Byrne held the driver’s license in front of his face. “I’m going to take this with me as a memento of our special time together.”
He stood up, grabbed his cane. He drew his weapon. “I’m going to look around. You are not going to move an inch. Hear me?”
Wahl remained defiantly silent. Byrne took the Glock, put the barrel against the man’s right knee. “You like hospital food, Greg?”
“Okay, okay.”
Byrne walked across the front room, edged open the doors to the bathroom and bedroom. The windows were wide open in the bedroom. Someone had been in there. A cigarette burned in an ashtray. But now the room was empty.
BYRNE RETURNED TO the Tick Tock. Victoria was standing near the ladies’ room, chewing on a fingernail. He made his way over. The music was pounding.
“What happened?” Victoria asked.
“Nothing,” Byrne said. “Let’s go.”
“Did you find him?”
“No,” he said.
Victoria gave him the eye. “Something happened. Tell me, Kevin.”
Byrne took her by the hand. He led her toward the door.
“Let’s just say I hit the Wahl.”
THE X BAR was in the basement of an old furniture depot on Erie Avenue. A tall black man in a yellowing white linen suit stood at the door. He wore a Panama hat and red patent-leather shoes, a dozen or so gold bangle bracelets on his right wrist. Two doorways west, partially shadowed, stood a shorter but far more muscular man—shaved head, sparrow tats on his massive arms.
The cover charge was twenty-five dollars each. They paid a pretty young woman in a pink leather fetish dress just inside the door. She slipped the money through a metal slot in the wall behind her.
They entered and went down a long, narrow staircase to an even longer hallway. The walls were painted a glossy raspberry enamel. The thumping rhythm of a disco song got louder as they neared the end of the corridor.
The X Bar was one of the few hard-core S&M clubs left in Philadelphia, a throwback to the hedonistic 1970s, a pre-AIDS world in which anything went.
Before they made the turn into the main room, they encountered a niche built into the wall, a deep alcove in which a woman sat on a chair. She was middle-aged, white. She wore a leather master mask. At first, Byrne wasn’t sure if she was real or not. The skin on her arms and thighs looked waxen, and she sat absolutely still. When a pair of men approached, the woman stood up. One of the men wore a full-torso straitjacket and a dog collar attached to a leash. The other man roughly yanked him to the woman’s feet. The woman took out a riding crop and lightly flailed the one in the straitjacket. Soon he began to cry.
As Byrne and Victoria made their way across the main room, Byrne saw that half the people were in S&M costumes: leather and chains, spikes, catsuits. The other half were the curious, the hangers-on, the parasites on the lifestyle. At the far end was a small stage with a lone spotlight on a wooden chair. No one was on the stage at the moment.
Byrne walked behind Victoria. He watched the reactions she aroused. The men immediately spotted her: her sexy figure, the smooth confident gait, that mane of black shiny hair. When they saw her face they did a double take.
But in this place, in this lighting, she was exotica. All styles were served here.
They made their way to the back bar, where a bartender was wiping down the mahogany. He wore a leather vest, no shirt, a studded collar. He had greasy brown hair, swept back from his forehead, a deep widow’s peak. Each forearm held an elaborate spider tattoo. At the last second, the man looked up. He saw Victoria and smiled a mouthful of yellow teeth, topped by grayish gums.
“Hey, baby,” he said.
“How are you?” Victoria replied. She slipped onto the last stool.
The man leaned over and kissed her hand. “Never better,” he replied.
The bartender looked over her shoulder, saw Byrne, and his smile quickly faded. Byrne held his gaze until the man looked away. Byrne then glanced behind the bar. Next to the shelves of liquor were racks of books appealing to the BDSM culture—leather sex, fisting, tickling, slave training, spanking.
“The place is crowded,” Victoria said.
“You should see it on Saturday nights,” the man replied.
I’ll pass, Byrne thought.
“This is a good friend of mine,” Victoria said to the bartender. “Denny Riley.”
The man was forced to officially acknowledge Byrne’s presence. Byrne shook hands with him. They had met before, but the man at the bar didn’t remember. His name was Darryl Porter. Byrne had been there the night Porter had been busted for procuring and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. The bust came at a party in Northern Liberties where a group of underaged girls were found partying with a pair of Nigerian businessmen. Some of the girls were as young as twelve. Porter, if Byrne remembered correctly, had done only a year or so on a plea bargain. Darryl Porter was a chicken hawk. For this and many other reasons, Byrne wanted to wash his hand.
“So what brings you to our little slice of heaven?” Porter asked. He poured a glass of white wine and set it in front of Victoria. He didn’t even ask Byrne.
“I’m looking for an old friend,” Victoria said.
“Who would that be?”
“Julian Matisse.”
Darryl Porter furrowed his brow. Either he was a good actor or he didn’t know, Byrne thought. He watched the man’s eyes. Then—a flicker? Definitely.
“Julian’s in jail. Greene, last I heard.”
Victoria sipped her wine, shook her head. “He’s out.”
Darryl Porter mugged, wiped down the bar. “First I’m hearing of it. I thought he was pulling the whole train.”
“He’s out on some kind of technicality, I think.”
“Julian’s good people,” Porter said. “We go back.”
Byrne wanted to jump across the bar. Instead he glanced to his right. A short, bald man was sitting on the stool next to Victoria. The man was meekly giving Byrne the eye. He wore a Campfire Girl outfit.
Byrne turned his attention back to Darryl Porter. Porter filled a few drink orders, returned, leaned over the bar, whispered something in Victoria’s ear, keeping eye contact with Byrne the whole time. Men and their fucking power trips, Byrne thought.
Victoria laughed, tossed her hair over a shoulder. It made Byrne’s stomach flip to think she would in any way be flattered by the attentions of someone like Darryl Porter. She was so much more than that. Maybe she was just playing her part. Maybe it was jealousy on his part.
“We’ve got to run,” Victoria said.
“Okay, babe. I’ll ask around. If I hear anything, I’ll call you,” Porter said.
Victoria nodded. “Cool.”
“Where can I reach you?” he asked.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Victoria dropped a ten on the bar. Porter folded it up and handed it back to her. She smiled, slipped off her stool. Porter smiled back, went back to wiping down the bar. He didn’t look at Byrne again.
On stage, a pair of women in blindfolds and gag ball trainers knelt before a huge black man in a leather mask.
The man held a thong whip.
BYRNE AND VICTORIA stepped out in the humid night air, no closer to finding Julian Matisse than they had been at the beginning of the night. After the madness of the X Bar, the city was shockingly still and quiet. It even smelled clean.
It was nearly four o’clock.
On the way to the car, they rounded a corner and saw two kids: young black boys, maybe eight and ten years old, patched jeans, ratty sneaks. They sat on a row house stoop behind a box full of mixed-breed puppies. Victoria looked over at Byrne, lower lip out, eyebrows aloft.
“No, no, no,” Byrne said. “Unh-unh. No way.”
“You should have a puppy, Kevin.”
“Not me.”
“Why not?”
“Tori,” Byrne said. “I have enough trouble taking care of myself.”
She gave him a puppy look of her own then knelt down next to the box and surveyed the small sea of furry faces. She grabbed one of the dogs, stood, and held him up in the streetlight, like a chalice.
Byrne leaned against the brick wall, propped his cane. He took the dog. The puppy’s rear legs freewheeled in the air as it began to lick his face.
“He likes you, man,” the younger kid said. He was obviously the Donald Trump of this organization.
As far as Byrne could tell, the puppy was a shepherd-collie mix, another child of the night. “If I were interested in buying this dog—and I’m not saying I am—how much would you want for it?” he asked.
“Fiddy dollars,” the kid said.
Byrne looked at the handmade sign on the front of the cardboard box. “It says twenty dollars on the box.”
“That’s a five.”
“That’s a two.”
The kid shook his head. He stepped in front of the box, obscuring Byrne’s view. “Nunh-unh. These is thorobed dogs.”
“Thorobeds?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Most def.”
“What kind are they exactly?”
“They Philadelphia pit bulls.”
Byrne had to smile. “Is that right?”
“No doubt,” the kid said.
“I’ve never heard of that breed.”
“They the best, man. They do they bidness outside, they guard the house, they don’t eat that much.” The kid smiled. Killer charm. He was headed all the way in one direction or the other.
Byrne glanced at Victoria. He was starting to soften. Slightly. He tried his best to conceal it.
Byrne slipped the puppy back into the box. He looked at the boys. “Isn’t it a little late for you guys to be out?”
“Late? Nah, man. It’s early. We up early. We businessmen.”
“All right,” Byrne said. “You guys stay out of trouble.” Victoria took his arm as they turned and walked away.
“Don’t you want the dog?” the kid asked.
“Not tonight,” Byrne said.
“Forty for you,” the kid said.
“I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“They might be gone tomorrow.”
“Me, too,” Byrne said.
The kid shrugged. And why not?
He had a thousand years to go.
WHEN THEY REACHED Victoria’s car on Thirteenth Street, they saw a van across the street being vandalized. Three teenaged boys broke the driver’s window with a brick, setting off the alarm. One of them reached in, grabbed whatever was on the front seat. It looked like a pair of thirty-five-millimeter cameras. When the kids spotted Byrne and Victoria, they took off down the street. In a second they were gone.
Byrne and Victoria shared a glance, a shake of the head. “Hang on,” Byrne said. “I’ll be right back.”
He crossed the street, turned 360, making sure he was not being observed, and, after wiping it down with his shirttail, dropped Gregory Wahl’s driver’s license into the burglarized vehicle.
VICTORIA LINDSTROM LIVED in a small apartment in the Fishtown section. It was decorated in a very feminine style: French provincial furniture, gauzy scarves on the lamps, floral wallpaper. Everywhere he looked he saw an afghan or a knitted throw. Byrne envisioned many a night when Victoria sat here alone, needles in hand, a glass of Chardonnay at her side. Byrne also noted that, with every light on, it was still dim. All the lamps had low-watt bulbs. He understood.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked.
“Sure.”
She poured him three inches of bourbon, handed him the glass. He sat on the arm of her couch.
“We try again tomorrow night,” Victoria said.
“I really appreciate this, Tori.”
Victoria waved him off. Byrne read a lot in the wave. Victoria had a stake in getting Julian Matisse off the street again. Or, perhaps, off the world.
Byrne gulped half the bourbon. Almost instantly it met the Vicodin in his system and produced a warm glow inside. He had held off drinking alcohol all night for that very reason. He glanced at his watch. It was time to go. He had taken more than enough of Victoria’s time.
Victoria walked him to the door.
At the door, she put her arms around his waist, her head on his chest. She had kicked off her shoes and, without them, she seemed small. Byrne had never really realized how petite she was. Her spirit always made her seem larger than life.
After a few moments, she looked up at him, her silver eyes nearly black in the dim light. What began as an affectionate hug and a kiss on the cheek, the parting of two old friends, suddenly became something else. Victoria pulled him close and kissed him deeply. Afterward, they pulled back and looked at each other, not so much out of lust as, perhaps, surprise. Had this always been in them? Had this feeling been simmering just below the surface for fifteen years? The look on Victoria’s face told Byrne he wasn’t going anywhere.
She smiled as she began to unbutton his shirt.
“What exactly are your intentions here, Miss Lindstrom?” Byrne asked.
“I’ll never tell.”
“Yes you will.”
More buttons. “What makes you think so?”
“I happen to be a very skilled lawman,” Byrne said.
“Is that right?”
“Oh yes.”
“Will you take me into a small room?” She unbuttoned a few more buttons.
“Yes.”
“Will you make me sweat?”
“I’ll certainly do my best.”
“Will you make me talk?”
“Oh, there’s no question about that. I am a seasoned interrogator. KGB.”
“I see,” Victoria said. “And what is KGB?”
Byrne held up his cane. “Kevin Gimp Byrne.”
Victoria laughed as she slid his shirt off, and led him to the bedroom.
AFTERWARD, AS THEY lay in the afterglow, Victoria took one of Byrne’s hands in hers. The sun was just beginning to breach the horizon.
Victoria gently kissed his fingertips, one by one. She then took his right forefinger and slowly traced the scars on her face.
Byrne knew that, after all these years, after they had finally made love, what Victoria was doing right then was far more intimate than sex. He had never felt closer to a human being in his life.
He thought about all the stations of her life to which he had been present—the teenaged firebrand, the victim of a horrible attack, the strong, independent woman she had become. He realized that he had long harbored a great and mysterious well of feelings for her, a cache of emotion he had never been able to identify.
When he felt the tears on her face, he knew.
All this time, the feelings had been love.