Gladyss of the Hunt (45 page)

I hung up on him. We didn't have any further communication until a little over a year later at our family's 2012 New Year's Eve party, which ended with me storming out the door as he yelled: “Fascist Bloomberg is finally out this year! He can't buy any more reelections!”

Three months after Crispin's murder, I was back in Neighborhood Stabilization doing foot patrol in uniform again. It was almost like those four weeks in Homicide had never happened. To make matters worse, I'd been paired up with O'Ryan's old partner, Lenny Lombardi. Under the circumstances, I was nervous about returning to duty—it's rare that people who kill their co-workers end up returning to their old position. But when everyone read the news reports of Eddie's lunacy, they were genuinely sympathetic. Still, that first day back, I kept waiting for Lenny to ask about it, and he didn't say a single word.

That evening we found ourselves all the way east on Forty-second, passing through Grand Central Station. I looked up at the famous ceiling and stared at those wonderful zodiac signs, drawn out from their starry backdrops. Aries the ram, Taurus the bull, Gemini the twins, Cancer the crab . . . I was amazed by the notion that three thousand years earlier, people had extrapolated their gods from seemingly random dots in the sky.

“You know,” Lenny said, seeing my heavenward gaze. “Someone once figured out that those images are all painted backwards.”

“No fooling.”

“Yeah, and when they asked the Vanderbilt family, who owned the building, what the deal was, one of them said, that's the perspective from the gods looking down at us.”

“A good spin on a fuck up,” I commented. And since it seemed a natural progression, I asked, “Did you know there's a Greek myth tie-in to the O'Flaherty murder case?”

When he said that he did not, I told him about the postcard of the Diana statue that was taped up over the killer's bed.

“That's it?”

“Well, he had been killing tall blondes, and I'm a tall blonde—which was why I had been brought in in the first place.”

“So it's like you were the goddess Diana.”

“There were other similarities,” I added, without going into the matter of my recent virginity.

“Well, I guess that would account for your old partner,” he said casually.

“Bernie Farrell?”

“No, Eddie O'Ryan.”

“What about him?”

He pointed up at the constellations on the ceiling again. “Orion's Belt.”

“Huh?”

“Orion was Diana's hunting partner. She ended up killing him, too.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to the following people who helped with
Gladyss of the Hunt
. My cousin Patrick Burke 3rd; my Uncle Steve Burke; Coree Spencer; Jennifer Belle; Justin Michael Niotta and
Rabid Magazine
; Jeff Vargon, who has kindly videotaped so many of my readings; Johnny Temple and my other friends at Akashic Books. Among my yoga guides, first and foremost Sylvia Rascon, who patiently and generously gave so much of her time and expertise; Syama and Dhyana at the Stanton Street Yoga; Sandi and Yoga to the People on Saint Mark's Place. Sarah, Erik, Henry Hanson-Spence, and Jane. My friends at the Strand Bookstore, among them Nathan, Andrea, Justin, Peter, Anna, Aya, Martine, Michael, Jorge, Jeremy, Tom, David, Sheldon, Eric, Sam, Antonia, and of course the great Ben McFall. My friends at the Cooper Square post office, including Amy, Carmen, Brenda, Vincent, Shirley, and Cynthia. My many friends at the Jackson Heights Branch of the Queens Community House, and Delphi, who introduced me there. The great St. Marks Bookshop, the longest-running indie bookshop in Manhattan, worked by Shauna, Peter, Jessie, Anton, Benjamin, Jed, Margarita, and of course Bob and Terry. Two talented young writers who helped me with this book, Anjelica V. Young and Kyle Lucia Wu. So many friends I've met on Facebook in recent years who have become like a cyber family. Also special thanks to Paul Rachman, Mike McGonigal, and last, yet perhaps most, Steve Connell, a brilliant editor and friend.