Lush Life (46 page)

Well, he could either help Matty here or he could secure page three.

Fucking his girlfriend for the last time in this life was no longer an option.

"Mr. Marcus," Beck said, "just speak your heart."

As the last rays of day dropped down below the bridges, Matty, standing on his terrace, finally got it up to make the call.

"So how'd it go," he asked, "they split them up?"

"Yeah," his ex said. "I spent all day bouncing from court to court like a pinball."

"And?"

"Eddie was ROR'd to me in Family, Matty Junior's still locked up."

"Charged with?" "CPM?"

"CPM what degree?"

"First. Man, that judge really ripped him a new one too. Talking about disgracing his badge, betraying public trust, despicable this, reprehensible that."

"Good. Glad to hear it. What's his bail?"

"Fifty thousand."

"Fifty?"

"I'm trying to raise the ten percent now, put up the house as security."

"Why are you raising it? Where's his money, big fucking kingpin."

"I don't imagine you'd consider throwing a little into the pot, would you?"

"You got to be high."

"Just asking."

"Just answering."

"All right then."

Matty was about to hang up, then hung up. Called back right away.

"Hey, it's me."

"What."

"Is the Other One there?" "In his room."

"Could I talk to him please?"

Matty stood there rehearsing his lines, hearing the footsteps coming to the phone. "Hullo?"

"Hey, how you doing." "OK."

"Let me ask, when do you turn sixteen?" "When's my birthday}" "Just ... I'm trying to help you here." "How do you not know my birthday?"

"Eddie, I ve been humping for twenty-four hours straight on something," Matty scrambled. "I can't think straight, OK?" "December twenty-eighth, Jesus." "And you'll be sixteen then?"

"Yeah, Dad," Eddie honking like a goose. "I'll be sixteen." "OK. Did you get a visitor today?" "A what?"

"One of your brother's friends, somebody from the job." "Cyril came by."

"All right, this Cyril, what did he say. What did he tell you to do." "I don't know."

"Did he tell you to say that the weed was yours and your brother didn't even know it was in the car? Did he tell you that if the DA knows up front that that's what you'll say in front of a grand jury, there's no way he's going to waste his time trying to prosecute your brother?" "I don't know."

"Did he tell you that if you didn't do that, your brother would lose his tin, maybe go to jail?" "He would"

"And that since you're only fifteen, your slate gets wiped clean in December no matter?" "It does, so why not?"

"Did he also happen to mention that you'll most likely draw three years' probation, mess up once, in you go?"

"So?" A little wavering. "I won't mess up then."

"Meaning what, you won't sell weed or you won't get caught?"

Another heartbeat of hesitation, then, "Won't sell weed. Jesus, what do you think?"

"Eddie, I know what you're doing, and it's sort of noble of you, but I hate the idea of him just walking on this and leaving you with a three
-
year sword over your head."

"So? So what?" the kid's voice going high-low on the oscilloscope again. "You don't think I can make it?"

"Honestly?" Matty suddenly so tired. "I have no idea if you can or can't."

"Thanks a lot, Dad."

"It says more about me than you. But that's not the point. It's . . . you're being used."

"No, I'm not! I'm keeping my brother out of jail. And by the way?" Eddie nearly shouting now. "Your birthday is May sixth."

It was four hours since they first kissed in the cellar, and even though the restaurant was packed all night long, they kept going back down every half hour, hour or so, for another bump followed by frantic tongues and groping, each time pushing it a little further than the time before. They never spent more than a minute per trip, but Eric always came back up to walk across the crowded room with a hard-on like an Indian club.

On the second trip down she just flat-palmed the bulge in his pants.

Next time it was his turn, taking her nipple in his mouth, one long, slow suck, the thing popping up rubbery and going back in her shirt twice as big as it was when pulled out; looked like a top hat.

The time after that she got a hand down inside the front of his jeans, ice-white fingers stroking his balls.

Time after that, his hand went down hers, down to the curls, her breath in the hollow of his throat.

And each time they came back up the stairs, studiously ignoring each other, the room seemed a little more agitated than before; but he was on tonight, Eric; crisp, speed-reading people like a radar gun; you to the bar, you go home, you right this way, embracing the regulars, giving passing waiters and busboys two-second shoulder squeezes, back rubs, everybody happy? He sure was.

The last time they had gone down there, maybe forty-five minutes ago, she unzipped him, pulled him out, bent over, and put it in her mouth.

And now it was eleven o'clock, the next time down his turn to jack up the stakes, Eric drunk on the possibilities, on hope. He didn't understand anymore why he was being so obstinate about cooperating with the cops. So fearful. Just go in tomorrow first thing and do the right thing. Do it and be done with it. Then write, act, take yoga, take five, whatever, live.

The front door was momentarily clear to the street, Eric seeing the bouncer, Clarence, out there hitting on a tall, redheaded chain-smoker, and then that Post reporter Beck curved into the frame, Eric even having a half smile of recognition ready for this foot-dragging vulture.

"Hey, bar or a table," reaching for a Ten Commandment-sized menu.

"Actually, can I talk to you for a minute?" Beck smiled apologetically.

"About?" Eric already sinking.

He heard the words: interview, father, cowardly, unconscionable, unspeakable.

"And I think it would only be fair to give you a chance to tell your side of it before this goes to bed, you know what I mean?"

Eric stood there.

And when he could finally turn to the room, Bree was uncorking a bottle of red at the nearest deuce, looking at him alight with tension, mouthing over the heads of her customers, Shall we?

On tiny, otherwise deserted Mangin Street, Lugo and Daley walked towards the BMW with South Carolina plates parked in the shadows directly beneath the Williamsburg Bridge, each overhead passing vehicle announcing itself with a rattling rumble.

The driver, a black man in a button-down blue shirt, rolled down his window before they got there, regarded Lugo and his flashlight with a sober forbearance, a here-we-go-again tightness around the corners of his mouth. Slowly crossing her arms over her chest, the girl in the passenger seat leaned back and murmured to him, "Didn't I tell you?"

Lugo looked from one occupant to the other, then smiled. "Did I just help somebody win a bet?"

Eric showed up for work an hour late the next morning, his eyes as cracked as fried marbles. Page three:

Did Eric Cash have a rough day? Maybe, but you know who had a really rough day? My son. My son Ike had the day to end all days. You were wronged, Eric, no doubt. So you take a little time to smooth your feathers, then step up. Otherwise it's cowardly, it's unconscionable, it's unspeakable.

He would have gone in to them today. Fired the lawyer and stepped to the plate. Last night that girl, that Irish-eyed girl, the possibility of her, had got him past his own monumental NO, had got him past his terror of that windowless room, had got him past his own desperate and desolate resolve to flee, but it was as if they had been waiting for this, waiting for his heart to reopen, some cosmic cocksucker hiding in the bushes, whispering, Now.

Smash me flat. Again. So, no. Raise me up to slam me down. So, no. No.

People looking at him . . .

Before this morning, the only one besides the cops and his lawyer who knew the full story was Harry Steele. And when he saw todays paper, his boss was sympathetic, although Eric felt that there was something sinister in his commiseration; something on the layaway plan.

He looked across the cafe to the newspaper dowels; his humilation hanging there like hanks of hair. Shaving the tip pool just wasn't cutting it. He had nine thousand to his name, five thousand of which was the start money on that never-to-be-finished bullshit screenplay, and nothing else, no marketable talent, nothing in his kit but running a dining room and the notion of doing that in upstate New York, or anywhere else . . .

He thought of his parents' house: white chenille bedspreads and floral wallpaper; of Binghamton: fields of slush, gray highways to nowhere.

There was a rumor that Steele was sniffing around Harlem for a new spot. But they had cops uptown too. They read papers uptown too.

The thing to do was make as much money in as short a time as possible and go.

People looking at him.

Fuck you all.

I am gone.

Matty walked into the squad room at noon to see Berkowitz, the deputy inspector, sitting on the visitor's side of his desk, his boiled youthful face staring calmly out the window.

Well, even if Billy had followed the script perfectly yesterday, what the hell did he expect?

"Boss."

"Hey" Berkowitz rose, the John Jay ring on his offered hand catching the light. "Busy?"

"Couple of break-ins around Henry, a shooting at Cahan, Scout troop short a child . . ."

"Khrushchev's due at Idlewild."

"There you go." Matty took his seat behind the desk, waited for Hammertime.

"May I?" Berkowitz gestured for Matty's Post, then flipped it to the back sports page: Bosox 6, Yanks 5.

"This new guy, Big Papi, guy has what, five walk-off home runs this year? Huge as he is, can you imagine what a monster he'd be if he played in New York? With the media machine we have?"

And there it was: Matty telling himself to play it smart by playing dumb.

Berkowitz first turned to the photos of the memorial pyre on , then turned to that buck-wild, utterly out-of-control Billy Marcus interview on , folded and flopped it on the blotter, the header facing Matty

Fucking Mayer.

"What did you not understand about the press gag?"

"Do you see my name anywhere in that?" Matty started working it. "Or with the other, do you think the dead kid's friends came to me for permission on that memorial service? And this fucking reporter Beck has weaseled his way into the father's head since day one. What can I do? I say to the guy, please don't talk to anybody especially that snake, but you know what? He doesn't work for me. He can do what the hell he wants. And frankly? I wish the poor bastard would stay home and deal with his family, because right now I have got my hands full on this one. I'm like a one-man band on this one. I can't even get anyone on the horn, whoever I reach out to it's 'Oh, Jimmy? He's out in the field right now.' I call so many guys that're all of a sudden out in the field, it's like harvest time. Guys who named their children after me: 'Oh yeah, he just stepped out.'You don't think I get the message?"

"Look." Berkowitz laid a hand on the blotter. "No one wants whoever did this to walk, but there's a right way and a wrong way to go about it here."

"There is?"

Berkowitz gave him a look and Matty got off his horse.

"The fact of the matter is, Mangold, Upshaw, they pick up the paper today, I get called in, 'Is English not Clark's native language?'"

"Boss, I just explained-"

Berkowitz held up a hand. "Perception, reality, whatever. They're not happy, and shit rolls downhill. They're at the peak, I'm like mid
-
mountain, and you're in this, this arroyo at the bottom. If I can be any more picturesque than that, let me know."

"In my fathers house there are many bosses," Matty said.

"Whatever. Hey, nobody is telling you not to go all out, just do it quietly."

"How can I possibly go all out with what I just told you?"

"Well," sighing, "this too shall pass. Hopefully this week'll bring another headline . . ."

"Why is that a hopeful thing? He was a good kid from decent people, I'm not gonna lay low until some solved triple-header makes 1PP look better in the papers."

"There's this mountain, see?"

"We've been to the mountain."

"Right." Berkowitz crossed his knee, picked a thread from the lapel of his jacket.

The DI sat there fuming, rock and a hard place, Matty knowing enough to keep his mouth shut, at least for the moment.

"You're making your problem my problem, you know that, right?" Berkowitz finally said, Matty almost bowing in acknowledgment. "But, I have to say, you did the right thing at that meeting last week."