The Railroad (30 page)

The next five hours were spent reacquainting myself with Manhattan. Things hadn’t changed much, but they had changed. I saw at least 4 new Co-op buildings going up and a couple that had been finished while I was gone. At one point I thought I was on the wrong block because the strip joint that had been a neighborhood landmark had turned into a bagel shop. While I had always felt somewhat uneasy about its presence in my neighborhood, it had been there since before I moved to Manhattan.

It seemed obvious that, despite 9/11 and a soft economy, my slightly industrial, bohemian, neighborhood was turning into a yuppie haven. I saw three new supermarkets and a few new seriously gourmet restaurants. I wondered if the City View would become a casualty of gentrification.

It was close to five when I wandered into one of my old haunts: The Urban Guerrilla Bookstore. Bookstores of its type are something special in Manhattan and especially in Chelsea. They usually sell a very bizarre collection of books and vinyl records as well. Gothic types and intellectuals shared the aisles looking for everything from rare collections of the works of Goethe to SciFi comics.

I gave myself twenty minutes before I left, giving me enough time to make it to Dennis’s house by 5:30. I was leafing through a book on the Civil War, feeling Bardstown fade pleasantly into the background when a voice interrupted my reverie by calling my name. I cursed myself immediately, knowing full well that she got off work at four and came here at least three days a week on her way home. Maybe I had realized that at some level and managed to bring myself here. Maybe I’d wanted to stick it to her and make her pay for her shabby treatment of me. How mature.

“Hello Barbara,” I answered tentatively.

“What the fuck are
you
doing here?” There was a trace of accusation in her voice, as though I had somehow committed a crime.

“Do you think we can share the same store?” I asked her sarcastically.

“You’re an asshole. You don’t call me for months and then you show up
here
.” The point wasn’t lost on me. She was right; I must have known that I would have an excellent chance of meeting her.

I wasn’t going to concede the point, especially to her. “I’ve spent the last few hours walking around. This was the last place on my list. I’ll be going in a few minutes if that’ll make you happy.”

She looked pained. “It’s just, well what have you been doing?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“No. I mean that it isn’t all that pleasant.”

“Is something wrong?”

I realized that among other things I could say about Barbara, she did care about my welfare. I didn’t want this to be a battle. After considering the fallout for a few seconds, I decided that I needed to come back to the City more gracefully than I’d left. I’d seen too much pain and anger to let this conflict go any farther.

“I’m going to be going to Dennis’s apartment in a few minutes. Why don’t you come? I haven’t had dinner, I mean a real dinner in months."

“Well, I didn’t get the feeling I was part of your life anymore." Her eyes became misty.

“Come on up Barbara. You can hear the whole story.”

“Ummm…okay.”

*

Dennis looked oddly at me as I walked through his front door with Barbara. I just shrugged, not really knowing why I’d brought her. They made small talk while I put my bag in his spare room and saw to the call of nature. I could imagine the tension in the room as they spoke; Dennis had never been very fond of Barbara, though she had always seen him as a stepping stone, well connected political hack that he was. I came out and saw them drinking what looked like alcohol. A neat whiskey rested on a coaster in front of the couch next to Barbara. Realizing it was for me, I assumed it was a single malt.

Dennis raised his glass to me as I sat down and took my first sip. “Do you want to tell us your story now or do it over dinner? Barbara told me you want to eat.”

“I do. I want to go over to Sharp’s and have a hamburger, but I want to tell you what’s happened before we go. I’ll feel too exposed outside.”

“Was it that bad?” Barbara asked, the color draining from her face.

“Yes, and…well you’re not going to like some of it. I guess I should just tell you. Dennis has heard some of it.”

I took another gulp and then launched into the story, fearing that I’d lose my nerve if I waited. Once it started to come out, it became easy. I spoke for close to an hour, leaving out very little. I winced as I described the nature of my relationship with Eileen, knowing that Barbara’s guts would be boiling. Whatever the result, I had to purge Bardstown from my soul.

When I’d finished, I stood up and went to make myself another drink. There was silence in the room and I could feel their eyes on my back. I felt weak and drained. I sat down again, with my new drink, feeling somewhat vulnerable and embarrassed.

Dennis blew out his cheeks. “That is really fucked up, Alfalfa.”

I laughed. “Thank you for cheering me up.”

Barbara grunted and we turned to her. “I thought I’d never hear
Alfalfa
again.”

Our code had always driven Barbara crazy; it had been another thing she couldn’t control. After all I’d been through, her pettiness pissed me off. “Come on Barbara,” I said. “That’s the past.”

She looked stricken. I’d just implied that we’d never have a relationship again, and I realized that that was exactly how I felt.

Dennis changed the subject. “There isn’t much else to say, I guess. Except it’s good you’re out of there. What do you plan to do?”

“Stay here for a while. Find myself a place to live. Then go back with some friends and a truck and get everything I own out of that house. I’ll let a realtor sell it then.” I paused; until that second I hadn’t know that those were my intentions. It seemed to make sense once I’d said it.

“You’re coming back?” Barbara stammered.

“It looks that way.”

In the end we went to the City View; Sharp's seemed a little too high powered for my frayed nerves, as well as my dwindling bank account. I had a feeling it was my friends' way of letting me know that they knew my funds would be tight. Realistically, a dinner at any of our old favorites wouldn’t have killed me. But being back at the City View with friends was just like old times and much better for the soul than the expensive Duck Pad Thai at Fusion Palace or a $15 hamburger at Sharp's.

I was home.

Yet despite her controlling streak, Barbara turned out to be a big help. I spent the next day just relaxing in Dennis’s apartment and wandered around the City some more. But the next morning, she had me up and out at 7:00, armed with the New York Times real estate section. After seeing rents of $1700 for a one bedroom, I knew I’d have to think about what my budget would be for the next year or so. It wasn’t clear that I’d be able to find a job; things were tight in New York and they didn’t seem to show any signs of getting better. Queens was looking better and better, rent-wise, but it would take me out of my old comfortable neighborhood and it would add up to an hour a day in commuting. I’d been spoiled when I was riding high; now I had to think about practicalities.

One thing that buoyed my spirits was the lack of scars from 9/11. I hadn’t gotten the nerve to go downtown yet, where I heard they were still cleaning up Ground Zero. But Chelsea and most of New York seemed to show no signs of wear.

Well, almost no signs. Maybe it was my paranoia, but I seemed to notice something in people’s eyes. Not quite fear, but a sort of resignation and a bit of despair. There were times when I’d be standing at a light, waiting to cross, and I’d be sure I’d see it in the eyes of someone standing next to me, looking off across the street. Then I’d examine my reactions carefully, and it would fade away, making me wonder what I’d seen.

Other people told me they’d seen it as well. Sometimes an odd jolt in the subway, or a loud sound on the street, would make people stop and jerk toward the source of the noise, their eyes glazed and filled with a kind of dread. One time I saw a woman who’d stumbled across an old ’Have you seen this person’ flyer, something that must have been stuck to the bottom of a park bench for months and just been freed by some stray gust of wind, crying and holding herself.

But mostly, Manhattan, in its inevitable style, had covered up its scars and moved on. I had heard that Jerry Seinfeld had said that New York was the best place to take on a disaster like 9/11 because we “weren’t a bunch of candy-asses”. What I saw made me agree.

I became lazy for a couple of weeks. I did my best to try to revive my old lifestyle: dinner out every night, going to my old bars, and on and on. Dennis kept up with me and he seemed happy that things were the way they were, at least for a while.

I’d been stressed out for months and hadn’t realized it how bad it was until I spent a few days outside of Bardstown. Being back in the City felt like the end of a long nightmare; I was finally able to put the dream aside. Eventually I started to get tired of what I was beginning to consider a step backwards. A few more weeks of being Mike the Yuppie and I’d be just as bored and disgusted as I was months back. I couldn’t go home again.

So about two and half weeks after I’d come home, I started looking for apartments in earnest. I started in Manhattan, but the rents had gotten worse, if anything. Near to where I used to live, there were at least six new luxury high-rises in what had been a mostly industrial loft neighborhood. I was looking at $3000 a month for a two bedroom. Despite the fact that I was still pretty well off, the prices stuck in my craw; I knew I’d go through my savings in no time.

After two days of Manhattan, I finally bit the bullet and considered what every good Manhattan yuppie dreads: the idea of living out in the boroughs. Queens had always seemed a decent place to me: relatively near the City with some decent neighborhoods. I woke up one morning and looked in the paper, but found myself to be too lethargic to go out and look. The next day I got myself out to Queens only to find a bunch of roach-infested dives on one end of the spectrum, and overpriced condos on the other end.

It went like that for a couple of more days. Then I took a four day vacation from looking. Dennis didn’t seem to mind.

The fifth morning I went out to Queens again and looked at some more apartments. The first looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since before I left New York and cost a staggering $1400 per month. There was also mention of key money, an illegal greasing of palms that guaranteed you getting the apartment. I’d heard about such things before, but in my previous incarnation in Manhattan it had never come up; high rent properties like the kind I lived in never required key money. The landlords were always well-dressed and managed to steal their money with a smile.

I found one possibility for $1200 a month, owned by the proverbial Queens old lady with an apartment she’d created in her house. She seemed to like me and I got the distinct impression that she was more interested in finding a good tenant than in gouging for the highest rent she could get. She told me she’d hold it for me for a couple of days and I assured her I’d let her know before then. I knew it would be gone if I wasn’t proactive, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to make the jump to Queens just then.

I was walking into the lobby of Dennis’s apartment, feeling somewhat discouraged, when three men detached themselves from the crowd on the sidewalk and surrounded me. A badge was flashed and, with a sinking feeling, I recognized Wills as the one flashing the badge. I got the impression that the other two were City cops helping him arrest me out of his jurisdiction.

I felt anger bubble up inside of me. “This had better be really good. If you think you can let Benoit’s influence extend here, you are really in trouble.”

He blinked a moment, clearly uncomfortable. Then he spoke the last words I would have ever considered hearing him say. “Michael Dobbs, you’re under arrest for the murder of Robert Benoit. You have the right to remain silent.”

How odd to hear those familiar words spoken to me. It occurred to me in passing, that the Bardstown nightmare was following me back to my real home and that, somehow, once I’d tainted myself, it would never go away. Then it hit me that Bob Benoit was dead. After that I was too confused to think much. “Can I call my lawyer?” I asked.

One of the City cops answered. “Once we get you to the precinct.”

I just nodded, numbly, watching the passersby stare at me in open curiosity. Certainly, I thought through the sludge in my brain, they had seen enough arrests in Manhattan not to be shocked.

I allowed myself to be handcuffed and put in a police car. Just like in the movies, they pushed my head down before I sat. Wills refused to look at me during the whole ride. I wondered if he had been forced to make this arrest when he must have thought that I was clearly innocent. In the precinct, I had my possessions taken; I was processed and brought to a room for questioning. I had enough presence of mind to tell them that they should let me contact my lawyer immediately. Dennis told me he’d come down as soon as he could, dropping whatever important work he was in the middle of. There was a pang of guilt as I realized that it could cause him some trouble at his job.

All that became secondary. Wills walked in and gestured for me to get up. “We’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?”