Red on Red (31 page)

“What I need is a clean shirt.”

“Whaddaya wanna do?”

“Let’s swing by the apartment.”

“Must be nice, having everything here, all in one place.”

When they pulled up outside the building, Nick stepped out of the car and told Esposito he’d be back in a minute. It brought unexpected protests. “You’re kidding me! You won’t invite me into your house? For an Italian, this is like spitting in my face!”

“Yeah? For a non-Italian, it’s a little weird, like you’re trying to hustle your way inside at the end of a first date.”

“Yeah, but it isn’t our first date! How long have we been working together? You don’t want me to meet your family?”

“My family is my father. You never saw an old Irishman before? Rent
The Quiet Man
. You’ll get the idea.”

“What, are you ashamed of him? I’m not the one being a little weird here, Nick.”

And he was right. Esposito had a way of getting close to him with sudden gestures, straightening his collar, brushing a crumb from his chin, that bothered Nick at each first instance, struck him as intrusive. Sometimes it was that kind of primate intimacy, picking nits from a pal; at others, the interference was different, like with Daysi, because Esposito knew better, and wanted to know more. And he was right about this, Nick knew. It was not as if Nick were ashamed of his father, as such; it was more the general circumstances of how Nick found himself, at this moment. He had to think, were there still Little League trophies in his room? No, they were in boxes, in the closet, along with the other tokens of meager and remote accomplishment. Or tucked safely beneath the bunk bed. Had he made the bed? His father would have. He did that; he
had time. To bring a friend over had a nightmare quality, as if he’d slipped back into an iteration, a film loop of childhood. Would his father offer cookies? Would Esposito expect them? And yet a visitor would give his father something to talk about, to mull over; it would open up a brand-new conversational line. Nick couldn’t deny him that.

“Relax. Come on in, if it means that much to you.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard. This is why Irish hospitality is famous, the world over.”

As they walked through the lobby, Nick noticed how much it was like the places they went to at work. It was better than many, in that it was clean, but its worn linoleum and chipped plaster columns placed it square in that category, that class. At least Jamie Barry wasn’t nodding off in the corner. A lot of cops came from places like this, but most didn’t stay. There was a great pride in poverty, or at least in lack of privilege, as long as it was in the past. More cops came from stolid brick two-families in Queens, or little ranches and colonials out on Long Island, or in the upstate counties, reaching increasingly north. The cops from upstate and the Island descended from blue-collar refugees who set out in the sixties and seventies, prompted by a fear of crime and a fetish for mowing lawns, as if the possession of that patch of grass were a truer proof of American arrival than any paper handed out at Ellis Island. On one of the lobby walls, Nick noticed for the first time a Magic Marker scrawl: “Nagle Ave is pussys and fags.” Tell that to the Cole brothers, kid! Tell it to their faces! Ah, to be home.

Nick knocked first before unlocking the door—“Daa, it’s me!” The same bare hall, the bare table in the kitchen, the threadbare couch in the living room, across from the television Nick had given him, the first color set, ten years ago. He was in his beloved black vinyl recliner in the corner, and the footrest receded as he pulled a lever on the side. He stood and approached, intensely curious.

“Hello, Nick! Hello?”

“Da, this is Espo, my partner.”

“Hello.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Meehan.”

“Likewise … Espo?”

“It’s short for ‘Esposito.’ ”

“Ah! Italian, is it?”

He pronounced it “Eye-talian,” as if he had grown up with that pronunciation,
though Nick couldn’t conceive of any occasion when he would have had to say the word at all, on the little Meehan farm in Roscommon. The particularity of Nick’s father’s interest couldn’t have anything to do with novelty—there were Italians in New York, they were not new and not few—and yet it seemed to intrigue him, as if Esposito had claimed to be a Navajo chief. Nick realized how few people his father spoke to, and he delayed his trip to the bedroom to change his shirt.

“Yeah, Mr. Meehan. I’m Italian, both sides.”

“Both sides, are you? Is that how many sides people have, two?”

The younger men could not decide if the question required an answer. The old man settled the issue with a bit of nothing. “Well, how about that …”

Esposito smiled, and pointedly avoided Nick’s anxious glance. Whether Nick’s father would impress Nick next with some insight, or embarrass him with some off-kilter retrograde remark, Esposito stood to enjoy it. As the next conversational blank awaited filling, Nick shifted his stance, and a floorboard groaned beneath him. Here it comes.

“Quite a few Italian plumbers, I understand. You’re not a plumber, are you?”

“No, I’m not, Mr. Meehan.”

“Please, call me Sean. Not a master plumber, I mean. You wouldn’t be a policeman had you a money trade like that. But even a few years of apprenticeship? No?”

“No. I mean, I know the basics. I have a house. You need to be handy with things. What’s the problem?”

“Ah, yer the man! It’s the toilet, the water flow or some such. It’s become fierce lately. You haven’t noticed, Nick?”

“No. Da, he’s not a plumber. If we need one, we can call the super—”

“Not at all, Nick. I’d be happy to have a look at it.”

Nick had seen the toilet before, and felt no need to join them in the bathroom. He went back to his room and found a clean shirt. The toilet flushed, and a respectful silence followed. Nick could picture his father’s gaze, moving from the bowl to Esposito, awaiting his diagnosis. His face must have registered some disappointment when it came.

“Well, it looks fine to me. What’s the problem?”

Nick joined them by the bathroom, to have a look in the mirror as he tied a new tie.

“It doesn’t seem unusually high to you, the water?”

“No, not so you’d notice.”

“What is it, Da?”

“Nick, there you are. Does the water hit your balls, too? It hits mine when I flush. It’s been happening for a while, but I only think about it at the time. I’d just gone in, when you came, and with Espo here—good man, he is—it seemed lucky. Tell me, Nick, does the water rise up on you like that when it flushes?”

“Sweet Jesus.”

Nick walked down the hall, and Esposito followed.

“We don’t need a plumber, Da. Espo, let’s get out of here.”

“What? Why not?”

“Think about it. God help me, you made me think about it, too….”

Nick couldn’t bear to turn as he headed down the hall.

“How do you mean?”

“Balls and water, Da. We’ve ruled out the water.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sean.”

“Likewise, Detective…. Good God, am I that old?”

A
s they crossed the lobby, Nick looked over to Esposito, who shrugged haplessly, raising both hands. It was as if he knew what Nick was thinking, and he did not want the picture in his own mind. The old man naked; the thought of his physical decay, his nearing death. And Nick could not swear as to which thought he found more horrible. Or rather, he was glad not to be asked, under oath. It was not what he should be dwelling on, en route to meeting Daysi. First dates, last rites. Why had he picked that restaurant? He hadn’t eaten there, hadn’t even gone in. The only time he’d been near, he’d lingered outside, praying for a sign about Allison. Was this the sign? Not likely, unless there were patron saints the Church didn’t talk about, go-to guys for no-fault divorce or getting a piece on the side. Live a little, Nick thought, before realizing that’s what he’d been doing—barely living, just getting by. He had to live more. It was time to get on with things, to get moving again, before the balls hit the water.

They were on the highway before they spoke. Esposito had insisted on driving him, in his own car, mentioning offhandedly that he was going to meet Audrey, the nurse from Rikers, for a drink farther downtown. Nick chafed a little, feeling like he was being dropped off for his first day of school.

“I can pick you up after dinner, if you want.”

“That’s all right.”

“I know a guy, does security at the Marriott. He can get you a room, cheap.”

“I’ll let you know.”

Nick strained not to be sharp with him, to not overreact even when his partner was meddlesome. None of this would have happened
without him, Nick reminded himself. Without Esposito, tonight would have been stew night. Still, he was nervous, and he wasn’t sure whether it was because of what tonight meant for him with Allison, or what it could mean with Daysi. What time was it? Were they late?

They were half a block from the restaurant when Esposito called out—“Hey!
Hola!
Baby!” That brought a wave from a woman approaching from the opposite side. He pulled over, and Nick stepped out of the car. Yes, they were late, he’d kept her waiting. Daysi waved, then put her hand back into her pocket. A long leather jacket, tawny-colored. She was cold. It didn’t seem cold to Nick. Indian summer still, barely cool, though there was a wind from the river, lifting the golden tangle of hair from her face, the green eyes, the violet dusk behind her. The Manhattan solstice, when the sunset aligned with the street grid—when was it? It would have seemed fake-fateful if had been today, like a horoscope, something to laugh at but still half-believe. He could have told her about it. As it was, this was only beautiful. Would that be enough? She kissed him on the cheek. Yes, it would be enough. She lightly clasped Nick’s arm, and leaned over to say hello to Esposito.

“Hey, you! And what are you up to tonight?”

“Gotta meet a friend from prison,” he said, driving away. Nick had not expected such a speedy exit, but he was glad for it. Esposito had done enough for him, and it was his to take from here.

“He’s funny,” said Daysi.

“He’s not boring,” Nick agreed. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

Nick liked the way she said that, but he liked the way she said everything. He led them to the restaurant, and held the door for her.

Inside, Nick was immediately disappointed, let down. When he’d been watching through the window, it had looked snug and unassuming, a little hokey but with real warmth, a vagabond charm. Was that just because there had been a crowd there, and Allison, with Nick outside, pressed against the glass? Now it seemed old and shoddy; the vibe was brittle, chilly. Nick thought of a funeral parlor in the provinces, a wake for the town miser. An elderly couple got up from their table, and the owner, with his egg head and weird hat brim of hair, pulled back the lady’s chair, speaking clots of consonants—Hungarian?—in quiet speed, as if he feared being overheard. The restaurant was otherwise empty. Nick thought about turning around and making a run for it, but the owner
seemed overjoyed to see them, and it would have been a slap in the face to leave. With a flourish of the hand, he directed them to a banquette. That was that, Nick thought. This is it.

Later on, looking back at that night, Nick realized how hard it was to tell a good story about a good time. What happened? The two of them surprised each other with their easy candor. They ate and talked, and it felt like there was music in the restaurant, though there wasn’t. They told funny little stories of childhood, places they’d been, that stopped and started and flowed from one to the other, one picking up from the next. The food kept coming, on little plates that made them want more. With the wine and candlelight, the emptiness of the restaurant shifted to intimacy; the shabbiness seemed like character, good-natured and enduring. What mattered to Nick was Daysi, listening to her, feeling how close she was, taking her in. For most of the night, Nick wouldn’t have noticed if they’d been on a park bench eating potato chips, but every once in a while he did notice where they were, and he was glad.

Everything Daysi said was fresh to Nick, of moment and interest. She had come over when she was eight, and, at first, she’d had nightmares that the island of Manhattan would sink, because there were too many people on it. Her father died when she was twelve, when a machine at a factory exploded, and for years after, they were very poor. When the family got an apartment in the projects, they felt like they’d won the lottery. She had three sisters, all older, all of whom had since moved to Florida. Daysi studied art in college, planned to go back when she had more time, just for herself. Esposito had been right, she loved museums. She had a son, she said, fourteen years old. Nick didn’t ask about him or the father. Dessert had arrived when she asked, in an uncharacteristically coy way, “Do you like being a cop?”

Nick had sought neither to avoid the subject nor to introduce it. It was the largest part of his life now, not to mention the reason they’d met. But the way she said it made him think for a moment that she liked him despite it.

“Yeah.”