Walking the Perfect Square (25 page)

In my pre-hangover haze, I asked: “What was with the suit tonight?”

“I felt like dressing down,” he joked. “No, I just get tired of the playwright uniform, the angry young man thing. Besides, I just got this shirt as a gift,” he said, tugging at the gold cufflinks, “and wanted to let the world see it.”

“It’s a great shirt, classic. Here, this is for you,” I handed Jack his bottle of ’68 French cabernet.

“This is awfully generous of you,” Jack’s voice cracked slightly. “Why?”

“Pete told me you were in charge of buying the gifts, so I figured it was only right to get you something. Also, I think it’s a
way of apologizing. The first two times we met, I pretty much thought you were an asshole. You know, just too cool. But now Katy and I agree, you’re a good man. And even if you’re not, you’re pretty fucking funny.”

Shaking my hand and nodding at Katy, Jack wondered: “How’s she holding up?”

“Holding up?” I puzzled, the alcohol starting to take its toll.

“With her brother missing and all. How’s she—”

“Oh, sorry, sorry. I’m sorta out of it. Katy’s all right, I think. She’s pretty tough. But her family’s losing it.”

“Thanks for the passes you left me,” he quickly changed subjects, as Katy shifted in the booth. “Visiting Dirt Lounge is like visiting Disneyland or Auschwitz; everybody should do it at least once.”

I recounted for him Katy’s experiences in the Dirt Lounge bathroom. Jack offered a final toast in her honor. In spite of what he’d said about only darkening its door once, I assured Jack I could probably get him as many passes to Dirt Lounge as he wanted. I took his long-winded response to mean: Thanks, but no thanks.

Katy was stirring to consciousness. I thanked Jack again, excused myself and headed down to the office to bid Pete Parson farewell. He was dead asleep in his chair. Rather than trying to rouse him, I wrote him a note.

“Pete’s sleeping,” I informed Jack as I reemerged from the basement.

Jack told me he’d take care of it. There was a cot and bedding downstairs. Given Pete’s alcohol intake, Jack and I agreed it was probably best he not drive back to Long Island tonight. I took my own advice, packing the semiconscious Katy and our gifts into a cab.

I left her to sleep in the cab while I hauled everything upstairs to her loft. When I shook her shoulder that it was time to come with me, she whispered “Happy Valentine’s Day” and kissed me softly. “I love you, Moe.”

At that, my heart should have soared. Drunk or not, she had mouthed the words I’d secretly hoped to someday hear her say. Yet in spite of her proclamation of love, in spite of Aaron’s joyous news, in spite of the party, the gifts, in spite of it all, my heart was anchored to the street. What it was exactly that robbed me of my pleasure, I could not say. The swirl of the alcohol left me unsure of my footing.

I HAD DONE it. I found him. He was somewhere just beyond this door, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in his hand or maybe still in bed, his lover’s arms wrapped protectively around him. Brought into the case not to find Patrick, but to play the fool, I’d accomplished what all the Sullys in the world stacked end to end and all the high-priced talent had failed to do. Today I could hold my head up high, for though the city bureaucracy and a misplaced piece of carbon paper had reduced me to a lame ex-patrolman, I felt I’d earned the gold shield I would never have the opportunity to carry. Why then, after my finger touched the bell, did my heart fill with regret? Why did I want to run and not look back, ever?

I can’t point to the moment it hit me. There was no bolt of lightning, no epiphany. Somewhere in my fitful drunken sleep, the random lines and incomplete trails had woven themselves into a road map. I simply woke up knowing all I needed to do was take a last few steps.

Katy was still heavy with sleep when I crept out of her bed. My head ached, my breath and sweat stank of scotch. I hesitated at the foot of the bed, listening for ambient sounds that might let me know whether Misty and Kosta were also still asleep, if in the loft at all. I did not want to explain myself to anyone until I had proof of what I believed to be the truth. In Manhattan it’s impossible to hear nothing unless you’re stone deaf. Even then, I’m not so sure. But after a minute or so, I decided either Misty and Kosta were still out of it or over at Kosta’s place. I showered as quietly as I could. Figuring she had an emergency set, I borrowed Katy’s house keys before I left.

From a pay phone on Hudson Street I dialed Pooty’s number. I let it ring ten times before hanging up. I repeated the process, hoping I’d dialed the wrong number on my first try. On the eighth ring, someone picked up. Well, they didn’t really pick up, they sort of dropped the phone on the floor. I waited.

“Christ, Louise, I’ll be home in a few hours.” Pete Parson’s voice was thick with sleep and alcohol.

“It’s not Louise, Pete,” I said. “It’s me, Moe Prager. I’m down the block from you at a pay phone. Do me a favor, go upstairs and let me in. I’ll explain when I get there.”

I hung up and walked half a block to the bar. I had maybe a minute to whip up a bowl of bullshit Pete would swallow like blueberries and cream.

“Hey, I’m really sorry about this,” I begged his pardon, “but it couldn’t wait.”

“It’s 7:30 in the freakin’ A.M. What couldn’t wait?”

“Can I have the film from your camera?” I asked, handing him a cup of black coffee.

“Thanks, I need this. My head feels like lead. So,” he said, going around the bar to get some milk and sugar, “why’s the film so important ya hadda interrupt my hangover?”

“There’s this picture you took last night of Katy that I thought maybe I could get a rush job on . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Just lemme finish this coffee and I’ll go downstairs and—”

“I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll be right back up.”

“Suit yourself.”

After a quick peek around and with film in hand, I was back up in the bar within two minutes. I thanked Pete again for the party and for being so understanding about the film. I vowed to make a set of copies for him.

“Ya know,” he called to me as I headed out the door, “I ain’t been off the job so long that I can’t smell bullshit when I step in it. Whatever ya want with that film is okay with me, but I just want ya to know I’m not fooled.”

I didn’t bother trying to defend my lie: “Sorry, Pete. You’re right, I should’ve just asked.”

Calling from the same phone on Hudson Street, it took me almost half an hour to find a photographer willing to develop the film. Desperation and the Yellow Pages came through in the end. Along with actors, dancers, writers, painters and musicians, there are plenty of starving photographers living in Manhattan. The
problem was finding one desperate enough to do darkroom duty at 8:00 A.M. Saturday.

His studio/apartment was on Hester Street on the Lower East Side. Getting up to his rooms was an adventure in urine and broken syringes. Julio greeted me at the door with a joint in his hand. I politely turned down his offer to share. There was a pale skeleton of a girl passed out on his living room floor. With a pair of striped pajamas and a yellow star, she would have cast well in any concentration camp role.

Julio put his hand out for the film. I delivered it to him wrapped in two twenties and a ten.

“That’s two sets,” I reminded him, “and a proof sheet.”

For another ten bucks, he let me have unlimited use of his phone. I wonder if Julio would have upped the ante if he knew I was going to call Florida? Tony the Pony Palone was just as surprised, but less grumpy, about my call than Pete Parson had earlier been. We talked old times, my retirement and discussed his bourgeoning construction business there in Fort Lauderdale. He offered me a job.

“You can’t trust these Bible-bangin’ yahoos down here. They quote scripture to you and rob you blind. I need to import a New York Jew. There’s plenty of ’em here already, but they’re all like a hundred and fifty years old. You know what I mean? Forget about it.”

I told him I’d think about it—which I did for a second—and mentioned that his cousin Nicky and I were becoming friendly. He knew that, he said, Nicky had called him about me. Unfortunately, I said, I only had Nicky’s number at work. This was no good because I got a sudden request for passes to his place tonight and couldn’t reach him. Tony came through with Nicky’s home number. Tony took my number down and promised to call. I hung up thinking I’d probably never hear from him or him from me again.

I didn’t wake Nicky up because Nicky hadn’t yet been to sleep. He was happy to hear from me, but turned sour when he found out it was really Bear I was looking for. He loosened back up when I told him I’d just spoken to his big cousin Tony. We talked about the party at Pooty’s for a bit and he begged me to come in again soon. Like Tony, Nicky didn’t trust the people he had chosen to surround himself with. He too wanted an old neighborhood type around.

“You can work security. I’ll pay you cash.”

Frankly, it was a more tempting offer than Tony’s and when I told him I’d consider it, I meant it. But in the meantime I needed Bear’s address and/or phone number. He gave me both. I promised to see him soon and to kiss Katy for him. The whole time I was on the phone, skeleton girl hadn’t moved. I was about to check her pulse when Julio reappeared.

Handing me the pictures, he seemed surprised, almost wary. Apparently he was taken aback by their rather innocuous subject matter. I suppose he was more accustomed to bare breasts and rubber lingerie. Private porn and divorce work was more than likely his bread and butter. When I surveyed the photos, I understood his desperate conditions. He did shitty work, but the pictures I needed were clear enough and he gave me back the negatives. I thanked him out of habit.

“Anytime,” he said hopefully.

Somehow I didn’t think so.

I decided against calling Bear. The motorcycle club where he crashed wasn’t too far from my final destination. I dropped the negatives off at a real photo lab on the way.

“I’m coming,” he shouted through the door, his heavy footfalls registering as he approached.

“Hey Bear,” I greeted him warmly.

Panic looked almost comical on his big brooding face. “What do you want? What are you doing—”

I shoved two pictures at him: “Is this the man you saw with Patrick at SBNF and stag at Dirt Lounge?”

“That’s him. Look, you gotta get outta—”

“Can you remember whether he paid his way in,” I continued, “or if he used a guest—”

“Guest pass,” Bear answered distractedly. “He definitely used a pass. Is that all?”

“I think so, yeah.”

He slammed the door shut before I could thank him.

It had taken less than ten minutes for me to walk from Bear’s clubhouse door to where I now stood. I didn’t have to ring a second time.

“I’ve been waiting for you all night,” Jack said, pulling back the door. “I suppose you had better come on in.”

He directed me toward a small kitchen table and poured me a cup of coffee.

I demanded to know: “Is Patrick here?”

Jack nodded at a closed bedroom door. “In there.”

“Come on, open up and let me speak to him. Let’s get this over with.”

“He asked me to speak to you for him. What will it cost you to hear me out?”

“How do I know you’re not stalling for him? He could be headed down the fire escape or already be halfway to God-knows-where by now. How do I know he’s even in there?”

“Because I give you my word.” He extended his right hand. “Do I have yours?”

I shook his hand that he did indeed have my word. He sat down across from me and poured coffee for himself. He lit a Marlboro.

“Oh, how rude,” he said. “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead.”

“What was it? How’d you know?” he wondered. “It was that I asked how Katy was holding up, wasn’t it? God, I knew it the second I asked.”

“No, not necessarily. I was pretty drunk when you asked after Katy. I’ll admit to being confused by your question because Katy and I had been real careful to not mention her last name or connection to Patrick. But it had been a long night. Everybody was tired and drunk. I couldn’t be sure one of us hadn’t let something slip. I figured maybe one of the regulars knew Katy.”

“What was it then?”

“A lot of things,” I said. “The shirt, for one.”

Jack was confused. “The shirt? I don’t under—”

“When Patrick was spotted in Hoboken, there was a second witness.”

“But the papers didn’t say anything about a second witness.”

“It never made the papers,” I explained. “They dismissed it as unreliable info. I guess no one figured he’d be out buying dress shirts.”

Jack smiled sadly. “It is a beautiful shirt.”

It was more than the shirt. Without referring to Bear by name or description, I detailed how I had hit upon a source who’d spotted Patrick with a companion at SBNF. The source had also spotted Patrick’s companion at Dirt Lounge. I reminded Jack that he was the one who’d brought up his visit to Dirt Lounge.

“It was right after I asked about Katy,” he remembered. “I was trying to change subjects so you wouldn’t dwell on my faux pas. I didn’t know I was just digging myself in deeper.”

I tried letting him off the hook: “Like with the shirt, you couldn’t have known. It wasn’t one thing, Jack. It was a lot of little coincidences that added up in my sleep. And even though I woke up knowing, all the
ifs
broke my way and against you.”

If Pete hadn’t taken pictures last night . . . If Pete had gone home instead of sleeping it off at Pooty’s . . . If I’d failed to get a rush job on the developing . . . If my source wasn’t home or was out of town and couldn’t identify Jack as the man he saw with Patrick and again at Dirt Lounge . . .

Had any of the
ifs
gone against me, I offered, it could have been days or even weeks before I could confirm Jack’s connection to Patrick.