Red Hook Page 7

  “What are you working on back there?”

  She brightened, as he knew she would. The one thing that always improved her disposition was talk about her research. Sheila had her problems, but he liked listening to someone with such a vivid life of the mind. He wondered if he wouldn’t have enjoyed college himself, given the chance.

  She allowed herself to relax back into the sofa. “I’m writing about a book from the seventies called The Denial of Death.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s it about?”

  “Well”—she took a sip of her wine—“it’s a psychoanalytic—actually post-Freudian—work. The premise is that much of human civilization, from religion to war to art, has been developed by people to defend themselves against their fear of death.” She stopped as he rose from the sofa. “Am I boring you?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “Hey, death’s my middle name, right?”

  She didn’t crack a smile.

  “I’m just getting some more wine,” he said. He went into the kitchen, returned with the bottle, and topped off their glasses.

  “Maybe we should talk about something more interesting,” she said. Meaning, he gathered, that he wasn’t supposed to be able to handle an intellectual conversation. But wasn’t he a professional thinker too? He’d taken his own courses: Estimating Time of Death, Forensic Entomology, Death by Asphyxia and Narcotic-related Deaths, Interrogation Techniques…

  “Why don’t you tell me about your work,” she said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like, I don’t know—do you think you have a different attitude toward your own death than most people? Do you believe in an afterlife? You never talk about what you do.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. He’d started to feel relaxed—now he recognized a clamping-off he always felt when asked such questions by someone who wasn’t a cop or a doctor or a forensics expert.

  “You don’t know what? Surely you must have thought about these things. I mean, you have this job where you deal with dead people all the time.”

  He stood up, crossed to the sliding door, and looked out at the glowing skyscrapers across the river.

  “Well?” she said. “Tell me something.”

  He tugged on the knot of his tie. “You really have to be there.”

  “Where?”

  “You have…I don’t know. “You have to have seen it.”

  “That’s silly. I don’t have to go to the pyramids to learn about Egypt.”

  He turned sharply. “Nobody’s talking about pyramids. I’m talking about…I don’t know—”

  “What? Like this is supposed to be some macho thing that a woman can’t understand?”

  “How about a little baby girl with half of her head blown off? You want to talk about that?”

  Sheila winced.

  Somehow there always seemed to be a tension between them and he didn’t know whose fault it was. “Look, I’m sorry” he said. “I just don’t feel like talking about work after a long day. Okay?” She didn’t respond.

  An awkward silence.

  “Am I keeping you up?” he finally asked.

  Sheila didn’t answer. She had to drink a certain amount before she’d admit she wanted sex too. Before then, he had to pretend that wasn’t the reason for his visits. He leaned over to kiss her. She let him, but didn’t respond.

  Christ, he told himself. Get up. Leave. What are you doing here?

  The first few times, they’d kissed like hungry teenagers because they didn’t know what to say to each other. Now they went straight into the main event.

  Jack slid below the sheets and started to kiss the inside of Sheila’s thighs. He worked his way forward, deeper. Her muscles stiffened—not with anticipation, but distaste.

  “Come here,” she said, pulling him up. And then she moved down his body, took him in her mouth, and began to suck him with a detached earnestness, offering the act to avoid exposing herself. He lay back and tried to relax. Outside the bedroom window, the leaves of a tall tree shimmered silver in the street light.

  After his divorce he’d been free to get laid as much as he could, with whomever he wanted. After years of bachelorhood, now he realized that the best sex he’d ever had was with his wife. She’d known that sometimes the greatest gift you could give someone in bed was to trust them enough to let yourself go. Was that all behind him now? Lord knew, most of life’s other milestones were: high school graduation, the army, marriage, having a kid. What was left?

  He couldn’t unwind enough to come. He pulled back, rolled Sheila over, and pushed into her from behind, taking pleasure, when he had wanted to give it.

  After, she went right to sleep, but he tossed and turned. He wasn’t used to sharing a bed anymore; he hadn’t had a real relationship since the divorce. The woman next to him was a stranger. He gently disengaged from her arm and rolled onto his side. Pictured Tomas Berrios, lying on his side down by the canal.

  Halfway through the night, he finally dropped into an uneasy sleep.

  He was walking along, being pulled…he held a leash tugged by a huge, wolflike dog. He looked to his left—his brother Peter was walking by his side. They weren’t talking, but the silence seemed okay. Then the dog lunged at his brother, and Jack was sprayed in a vicious red gout of blood.

  eight

  AT THE HEIGHT OF the morning rush hour, Ben Leightner’s neighbors hurried toward the Bergen Street subway station and their jobs. They paid little attention to the visible world—they pondered what to buy for dinner, or why their spouse had refused them sex the night before, or how to make the boss appreciate their work. They hurried down the sidewalks looking inside, instead of out.

  Ben walked slowly surveying the world.

  Once he’d seen an incredible, perfect rainbow arcing from the clock tower of the Williamsburg Savings Bank to the caged roof of the Brooklyn House of Detention. Nobody else noticed it because nobody looked up. A woman saw him standing on the corner, staring at the bright arc. She stopped, someone else did—soon they were a group of strangers, smiling up in awe.

  A few people did look. On his block an old Puerto Rican grandmother leaned out of her third-story window all day, her massive bosom resting on her forearms, her forearms resting on a pillow. She wore a pink nightgown and had her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She watched everything that went on—the street was her private movie.

  Best of all was a little kid who lived a couple doors down. Ben often paused to watch him playing by the curb, The boy spent hours just moving sticks and pebbles around the base of an old sycamore tree. It made Ben remember what it was like to be five or six: you could look at a rough, cracked square of side-walk and imagine you saw canyons, valleys, rivers. Grains of sand were people, pebbles were cows.

  There were others on the street who passed much of their time alone.

  By nine A.M., he was deep in Red Hook.

  He stopped to film a little fenced-in garden with overgrown rosebushes leaning over a sky-blue statue of the Virgin Mary. He concentrated so hard on framing the shot that he didn’t hear the front door of the house open.

  “Why you wanna take a picture of my yard?”

  A round little old guy dressed in a blue Adidas running suit stood on the porch. He’d owned the suit so long it had gone in and out and back in style again—some young hipster would probably pay a fortune for it now. He squinted up at the morning sun, then down at Ben.

  “Whatcha wanna take pictures around here for?”

  “I like your statue.”

  The man grinned widely, “You like it? It’s the real thing: I got it in Italy.”

  “It’s great.” He was not the kind of person who could just walk into a bar and strike up a conversation. Especially not to pick up women—he didn’t have much luck with that. But this was one of the good things about his work: people liked talking to him.

  “Whaddaya taking the movies for?”

  “I like the neighborhood.”

  “Bahh.” The man waved a h
and past his nose. “This neighborhood’s crap—excuse my French. “You shoulda seen it in the old days. We had movie theaters, grocery stores, bars all up and down the street.”

  Ben realized that in his travels around Red Hook he hadn’t seen a single theater or supermarket and only a couple of bars.

  “Really?”

  “Oh, sure. We had the shipyards goin’ and all the workers and their families. Hundreds of sailors walkin’ around. “You could go out on a Friday night and drink in seven different places without goin’ more than a coupla blocks.”

  “Have you lived here a long time?”

  “My whole life.”

  Ben froze, struck by a sudden thought. So far he had only a vague plan for a broad documentary about Red Hook. But what if he personalized it, made it more about his father—and maybe even his grandfather? The notion made him nervous, but excited.

  Shy now, he took a step forward. “Did you ever know somebody named Jack Leightner?”

  The man chewed his lower lip. “Leightner, yeah, I remember.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Jack? Nah, he was just one a the neighborhood brats. But his brother—that kid was an amazing ball player. Shortstop. I used to go over to the diamond over there on Bay Street sometimes and watch them play. I’d bring ’em sodas.” The man shook his head fondly. “I worked down by the water at the White Rock plant. “You know White Rock?”

  “Isn’t that a soda company?”

  “You bet. But the plant closed. The whole neighborhood has gone to hell.” The man shrugged. “Whaddaya gonna do?”

  “Do you remember anything in particular about Jack Leightner?”

  The man flapped a hand, a little crabby now. “I told ya. I didn’t really know him. He was just one a the kids that used to run around here.” He brightened. “Hey, listen—you wanna take a picture, take one of me and my wife. Don’t go away.” He disappeared inside the house.

  Ben checked to make sure he had enough tape left in the camera.

  A minute later, the man came out on the porch leading his wife, a plump little orange-haired lady in a faded housecoat.

  “This guy’s makin’ a movie about the neighborhood,” the man said. He turned to Ben. “This gonna be on TV, or somethin’?”

  “Who knows?” Ben said. “Maybe someday. Is it okay if I film you?” he asked the woman.

  “I guess it’d be all right,” she said. “Wait, let me take this off.” She removed the housecoat to reveal a Let’s Go Mets T-shirt.

  “You ready?” the man asked. He put his arm around his wife.

  Ben nodded.

  Instantly they transformed themselves into the stiff little plastic couple on top of a wedding cake.

  nine

  JACK FOUND DASKIVITCH HUNCHED down behind his desk in the Seven-six squad room. Closer inspection revealed that the detective was using some Crazy Glue to repair the thick rubber sole of his shoe.

  “You wanna be careful with that stuff,” Jack said. “Might be kind of embarrassing to have to walk around all day with your hand stuck to a shoe.”

  “Thanks, bunk,” Daskivitch mumbled, frowning at his handiwork. “Any calls from our friend Mallow and his mom?”

  “Nope.” Jack beelined for the lounge and the coffee maker.

  “I phoned the vic’s wife again,” Daskivitch called out. “Her mother-in-law said she’s still sedated.”

  Jack reemerged gulping down a cup of coffee. “We’re gonna have to talk to her soon.”

  “The funeral’s Thursday morning.”

  “That’s good. I’m off tomorrow and Wednesday, but I think we should check that out. For now, how about one of us runs some interviews at the vic’s job while the other guy follows up on Plates at the Scene.” That report made it possible to track down owners of cars parked by the canal on the day of the murder, in hopes they might have witnessed something.

  “Where you wanna begin?”

  “I’ll start with a shave. You have a razor I can use?”

  Daskivitch looked up from his shoe. “Hey, you look like shit.”

  “Thanks. I had a hard time sleeping.”

  The young detective dropped the glue applicator on a copy of the Post and stared up at his partner. “Wait a minute—those are the same clothes you wore to work yesterday. “You little slut. I bet you were out all night doing the flat tango.”

  Jack grinned despite himself. “Give it a rest.” Sheila had promised him that her alarm clock was reliable, but it wasn’t, and only his own internal clock woke him in the morning, too late to stop off at home.

  “Anybody special?” Daskivitch asked.

  Jack sighed. “Not really. She makes me want to shoot myself in the head.”

  “Use at least a thirty-eight,” Daskivitch said. They’d both seen what happened when a would-be suicide didn’t use enough firepower. He brightened. “Hey, why don’t I hook you up? My wife has some nice-lookin’ friends.”

  Jack winced. “Please—don’t bother.”

  “You don’t wanna grow old alone, do ya?”

  Jack didn’t answer. Should he be touched by the young detective’s concern or offended by the familiarity? “I haven’t had a blind date since I was twenty,” he finally said.

  “How’d that one go?”

  “I married her. You know how that turned out.”

  A pause.

  “Let me just ask Jeannie if she knows anybody,” Daskivitch said. “Theoretically speaking. All right?”

  Jack sighed. “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  Daskivitch grinned. “No trouble at all.”

  The Bentley was a big building, probably built in the sixties, all green glass and chrome. It was several blocks east of the Gold Coasts of Park and Fifth avenues, yet ritzy enough to have two doormen. One of them swung open the door as Jack approached, but there was no deference in the gesture. Anyone except a bum who came to the main entrance would have to be treated as a potential guest, but the man had clearly looked Jack over—his off-the-rack gray slacks, inexpensive blue blazer—and made a quick judgment.

  Jack didn’t get into Manhattan much, except for an occasional visit to One Police Plaza, the monolithic NYPD headquarters down by the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. Like his father, he was a Brooklynite to the bone—the old man had only been above Times Square a couple of times in his life. Maybe he had a point—who needed to go somewhere just to be looked down on, even by doormen?

  An elevator chimed open in the lobby, followed by a scrabbling of paws on the marble floor. A little dog with a face made entirely of wrinkles strained at a leash, which led to an elderly woman in the type of high-collared suit that Jack associated with presidents’ wives. Her mouth was pulled back in a permanent Nancy Reagan face-lift half-grin.

  The doorman, a white-haired man with the guarded face of a solitary drinker, transformed himself into a genial butler. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lambert,” he called to the lady, who swept by without a glance. The younger doorman rushed up to hold the door for her, then bustled out into the street to flag a cab.

  The elder doorman’s sour look returned. “Can I help you?”

  Jack cleared his throat. He was a senior detective with the New York Police Department—why did he feel like the ten-year-old from the wrong side of the tracks who didn’t even have other poor kids over to visit, because they might see the old man in the kitchen with his big bushy eyebrows and perpetual gloomy squint, sucking the marrow out of a soup bone, eating cloves of garlic like a Russian peasant?

  He flashed his shield. “I’m with the NYPD. I’ll need to speak with the super.”

  Normally, when confronted with a shield, people either got defensive or effusive, as if to demonstrate that they had nothing to hide, but this man kept his cool. He turned to a podium, picked up a phone, and pressed a button on a computerized switchboard.

  “He’s out of his office right now,” the doorman said. “May I ask what this is in regard to?”

  Jack ignored th
e question; there was no reason the doorman needed to know. “I’ll wait.”

  Giant bowllike lamps of frosted glass hung from ceiling chains and shone over the lobby’s marble floor. In front of a huge mantelpiece, several silk-upholstered armchairs were posed around a coffee table topped with a grand arrangement of fresh flowers. It was like a hushed museum display of a living room. Jack pulled off his jacket, draped it over one of the chairs, and sat. He snuck a look at a mirror to run a hand over his hair.

  “I’ll have someone take you down to the office,” the doorman said abruptly.

  “All right.” Just because you’ve got dome gold braid on your hat, that doesn’t make you a general.

  The doorman pressed another button on his console. An unmarked door near the back of the lobby opened and out trotted a young guy in blue work pants and a blue shirt with a tag stitched over the pocket. Mike. His hair was slicked back and his short sleeves revealed the biceps of a bodybuilder.

  “The officer is here to see Mr. Guzman,” the doorman said. “Take him to the back, would you?”

  Mike reached out his hand for a friendly shake. “Ay, ’ow you doon?”

  Jack was grateful for the Brooklyn accent.

  He might have fallen through a rabbit hole. After the opulent lobby, they walked down a flight of stairs into what looked like a lower passageway of a Navy ship, like the one that had taken him to the Philippines in 1966. The same glopped-on industrial gray paint coated the walls. He followed the porter around a corner.

  A model-handsome young man leaned against the wall next to a service elevator. A garment bag lay folded over at his feet.

  “Is someone helping you?” Mike asked.

  “I’m the waiter for the Robbins’.”

  “They having a dinner tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve been here before, right?”

  The waiter unfolded a stick of gum and nodded. “Yeah, unfortunately. The guy’s got about twenty zillion dollars, but he never tips.”