Beware the Solitary Drinker (25 page)

Then with a burst of movement, Nigel surged wildly toward the steel fence that ran along the river. He grabbed at it with both hands, then hand over hand, feet digging into the chain links, he scrambled up to the top, heedless of the barbed wire. For seconds, he froze at the top of the fence—standing, it seemed, standing up straight on the top wire at the top of the fence—and then flung himself—almost gracefully—almost soaring—into the murky river. His initial plunge sent up a plume of water that cascaded back down stirring up the water all around him. Then his wake rippled out toward the middle of the dark river until the ripples began to shine and glitter from lights far across on the Jersey side.

Nigel took his dive not twenty feet in front of us. I don't know how long it was after Nigel plunged into the water before I was able to move. I didn't know what I was watching—an escape, a death, a murder. When I could move, I ran to the place where he jumped and hoisted myself, feet kicking against the fence, hands grabbing the chain links, climbing to the top, ripping my skin, cutting my hands on the wire, then lowering myself onto the other side, getting my feet onto the stone wall that served as the bank of the river, stepping carefully, knowing I was dead if I slipped, reaching for Nigel and calling him. Calling all this time, I realized later, calling him the whole time I clambered over the steel fence.

Seeing him then in the water, struggling, sinking, still wearing his glasses, his face contorted with that same terrible look—knowing then what the expression was and hoping against hope that Kevin hadn't seen it. What I saw in Nigel's face was disgust, total contempt for life and everybody in it.

I called and he turned his face full toward me, those fogged-up Coke bottles pointed right at me as he went down and there again as he came back up and as he went back down again. He made no sound. I thought I should go in after him, to save him. But I didn't jump in. I don't know if I could have saved him, or if he would have taken me down, and I would have been lost with him. I don't know if he killed himself. Or if we killed him. I don't know if he would have been glad I saved him. But I didn't.

***

Before long, Eric came over the fence after me. He more or less lifted me, while I climbed. Then Sam the Hammer and Ntango helped me down on the other side. We stood around with no one saying anything, watching the spot where Nigel had gone down. Pretty soon, we heard sirens in the distance.

Sam started to walk away. “Better for me not to be around,” he said, casting his “you wanna make somethin' of it?” look at me. “It was his idea,” he said, gesturing with a jerk of his head toward the river.

When we reached the cab, Ntango radioed the cops. But we could already see the blue and red lights coming toward us inside the park. Ntango's expression tried to tell me something, but I couldn't figure out what. “Ditch the blow,” he said.

I chucked it over the fence, and the gun right behind it, hoping I wouldn't hear Nigel scream for help from the murky river, hoping, too, that his body wouldn't surface right in front of me, or come back to haunt me, since I'd driven it to its watery grave.

***

Sheehan arrived with a convoy of police cruisers. Not at all disconcerted, he watched the river for a while with us. “I checked him,” Sheehan said, as if we were sharing a professional confidence. “No record. How would I figure it? No one even put his father on the same block with her.” Sheehan jerked his head toward the river. “Him and his old man, real Alibi Ikes. I give you five to one the old man comes up with a half-dozen witnesses for that night when we get to court.”

“Rich people don't play by the same rules as the rest of us,” I told Sheehan. “Nigel left the door to Ozzie's apartment unlocked. Ozzie passed out. He wouldn't wake up to let someone in. Maybe Nigel forgot to lock the door, I thought. But no way. Somebody in Dubuque may forget to lock his door. Nobody in New York would. Why did he leave the door unlocked? I had to keep wondering about the door.

“Angelina's mother's life was made out of lies. Why should I believe anything she tells me? But mostly that poor terrified girl, Sharon. I couldn't get her voice out of my mind. Ozzie could have identified Edwin Barthelme, and I'll bet Danny saw him that night, too. I know a doorman on West End who saw Angelina with Barthelme that night.”

“We'll put a case together,” said Sheehan. “Fuck the lawyers.”

“There's a dead girl in Connecticut, and Barthelme's car somewhere. Maybe that'll mean something.”

***

Later, we drank in Oscar's. No cook, no bartender, and the waitress got pissed off at Oscar's bitching and left, so he ran the bar, cooked, and waited on tables. Amazingly enough, he carried it off. When we ordered our second round of drinks, he went to get them, but after a minute or two behind the bar called me over to the service bar to ask me gruffly where the olives were. Then, while I looked in the bottom of the cooler, without saying anything, he left me behind the bar. A little later, Eric went back into the kitchen to put out whatever fire had caused a cloud of black smoke to gush from the place, and he stayed.

“Was Nigel going to kill us?” Kevin asked when things quieted down. He was a little kid again, sipping his Shirley Temple, working out his bad dreams, still young enough to think I took care of things.

“I don't know,” I told him. “When you were a little kid, I told you never to go anywhere with strangers. Why would you go somewhere with him?”

“Nigel wasn't a stranger. He was going to take us out on the boat, and I'd never been on a yacht.” Kevin's lip trembled. Monsters had shown up after all in his life. Nothing I could do would keep them away forever. “Why would he kill us?”

“Killing's a bad habit, like drugs. Once you start, it's hard to stop.” I looked him over. “Listen to your father. Don't do drugs, and don't kill people.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Delight took him over again, almost a grown-up, perched on his barstool between Sam the Hammer and Ntango.

I honestly didn't know that Nigel would have killed Kevin. Leaving the door open on poor Ozzie was one thing, pulling the trigger something else. Edwin went off the deep end once he killed Angelina, arrogant enough to think he was entitled to kill those who got in his way—conscienceless. I wasn't sure that maybe Nigel did have a conscience and saw the murky Hudson a better alternative than facing up to Edwin.

“Nigel was really nice to me,” Kevin said, “except he began drinking, and I'd never seen him drink before. I was worried he wouldn't be able to drive the boat. Then he made us walk into the park instead, and he said, ‘Brian thinks I killed Angelina. He went to Connecticut where my father will take care of him. What can I do with you?'

“I felt creepy. He said, ‘Your dad, dumb as he is, came out on top after all.' I think maybe he already planned to jump in the river.”

I put my arm around my son's shoulder, thinking of the monsters that would invade his dreams. Thinking about Angelina without a father and Nigel with a father who cared more about the family name than the family, and my own distant and distracted father, I wondered what might be in store for Kevin. He didn't reach for me so blindly anymore; he was getting older and he expected more from me.

“Wait 'till I tell Mom,” he said. There was enthusiasm in his voice. He'd be okay. His mom would work him through this. He'd been through worse things—like his dad leaving home. Watching him bounce back now from what he'd been through, I wished it were me who'd be working him through things. I wished he needed me as much as I needed him.

***

Carl van Sagan came in then. I was happy to see him and really happy he wasn't a murderer. “I just left my post,” he announced. “It's pretty easy to slip out without getting caught. I don't know why I never thought of it before.”

I poured him a scotch. “I knew you'd bring him in,” he said when he'd sipped on his drink. “Where's Janet?”

“She's packing to go back to Massachusetts…”

He looked at me for a long moment over the rim of his scotch glass. “Back to the right side of the tracks, eh?”

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