A Ticket to the Boneyard

Page 35

 

  "I ought to get to sleep," I said.

  "Youre not even tired. "

  He was right. I wasnt. I dont know how he knew it, because I must have looked tired, but the whole evening had somehow energized me. He drove downtown and west and parked at a fire hydrant in front of an old-fashioned diner across from the river a few blocks south of the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. A white-haired waitress brought us menus. He ordered steak and eggs, the steak rare, the eggs over easy. They had Philadelphia-style scrapple on the menu, and I ordered that with scrambled eggs. And coffee, I said.

  "Did you want the special coffee?"

  I asked what it was. She looked uncomfortable, and Ballou told her Id have plain black coffee, but that hed like the special coffee. At that point I caught on, and I wasnt surprised when the special coffee turned out to be straight scotch served in a coffee mug.

  He said, "You can give the police his address. "

  "I could. I dont know what theyd do with it. I tried to press charges against him and Durkin wouldnt even listen to me. "

  "Theres more," he said. "You have to do this alone. "

  "Do I?"

  "I think you do. Its between the two of you, and thats how it has to be settled. "

  "Thats how it feels to me, too," I admitted. "But it doesnt make sense. Its not as though hes a worthy foe and I have to meet him as an equal. Hes a murderous psychopathic son of a bitch and Id love it if he got hit by a bus crossing the street. "

  "Id buy the driver a drink. "

  "Id buy him a new bus. But I cant wait for a bus to get him, and theres as much chance of that as the cops bagging him. I got a call earlier from the police lieutenant in Ohio. He did some work on his own, found a motel clerk who IDd Motley. But nothing like that is going to make a difference in this case. I have to face him myself and I wish I knew why. "

  "Your business with him is personal. "

  "Is it? Im not even in a rage. I was before, God knows, but I used it all up on that big stupid kid in the park. It ran away from me, Mick. I could have killed him. "

  "Small loss. "

  "A big loss to me if I went away for it. Anyway, my rage went away somewhere after that. I must be carrying a lot of anger, but I swear to God I cant feel it. I must hate the bastard, but I dont feel that, either. I just feel-"

  "What?"

  "Driven. "

  "Ah. "

  "Hes my problem and I have to solve him. Maybe its because I set him up twelve years ago. I didnt play according to the rules, and everything thats happened since has to be charged to my account. Or maybe its simpler than that. Its personal to him, and maybe theres no way to avoid buying into his perception of it. Either way, I have to do something about him. Hes the boulder in front of my door. If I dont shove him out of the way Ill never leave the house again. " I drank the rest of my coffee. The grounds were like sludge on the bottom of the cup. "Except hes an invisible boulder," I said. "Ive got a sketch of him based on a pair of twelve-year-old memories. I never get to see him. I keep looking over my shoulder and hes never quite there. "

  "He was there the other night. In the empty lot. "

  "Was he? I think back on it and it might as well have happened in a dream. I never quite got to see him. He was behind me almost all the time. The one time I took a swing at him I couldnt really see what I was doing. It was dark as a coal mine in there, all I saw was a shape. Then I was facedown in the dirt, and then I was unconscious, and then I was all by myself. I suppose I should be grateful for the aches and bruises. They were proof the whole thing really happened. Every time I pissed blood I knew I hadnt made it all up. "

  He nodded, and ran his right forefinger over a scar on the back of his left hand. "Sometimes pains a great comfort," he said.

  "I went to take him down and bring him in," I said. "In a funny way I have a better shot than the cops do. Im a private citizen, so none of the Supreme Court rulings get in my way. I dont need probable cause to search his dwelling, and I can enter the premises illegally without disqualifying any evidence I turn up. I dont have to read him his rights. If I get a confession out of him, they cant disallow it on the grounds that he didnt get to consult an attorney. I can record anything he says without getting a court order first, and I dont even have to tell him Im doing it. "

  The waitress brought me more coffee. I said, "I want him in cuffs and leg irons, Mick. I want to see him sent away and know he wont be coming out again. And I think youre right. I think I have to bring him in myself. "

  "You may not be able to. You may have to use the gun. "

  "Ill use it if I have to. "

  "Id use it first chance. Id shoot him in the back. "

  Maybe I would, too. I couldnt really say what Id do, or when I might get to do it. Chasing after him was like pursuing mist once the sun came up. So far all I had was an address and an apartment number, and I didnt even know if he really lived there.

  When I was a working cop there had been restaurants where I didnt get a check. The owners liked having us around, and I guess they thought our presence was worth the occasional free meal. Evidently some establishments feel similarly about career criminals, because there was no check for us at the diner. We each left five dollars for the waitress, and Mick stopped at the counter to pick up a couple of containers of coffee.

  The Cadillac had a ticket on the windshield. He folded it and tucked it in a pocket without comment. The sky was growing light, the morning still and fresh around us. He drove up along the river and over the George Washington Bridge to the Jersey side, then headed north on the Palisades Parkway, pulling off at an overlook high above the Hudson. He parked with the big cars nose against the guardrail and we sat and watched the dawn come up over the city. I dont think either of us had said more than a dozen words since we left the diner, and we didnt speak now.

  After a while he got our coffees out of the paper sack and handed one to me. He reached across me to open the glove compartment and removed a half-pint silver flask. He uncapped it and added an ounce or two of whiskey to his coffee. I must have reacted visibly because he turned and raised his brows at me.

  "I used to drink coffee that way," I said.

  "With twelve-year-old Irish?"

  "With any kind of whiskey. Bourbon, mostly. "

  He capped the flask, took a long pull of the sweetened coffee. "Sometimes," he said, "I wish to God youd take a drink. "

  "So youve said. "

  "But do you know something? If you reached for the flask right now Id break your arm. "

  "You just dont want me drinking up your whiskey. "

  "I dont want you drinking any mans whiskey. And I couldnt tell you why. Have you been up here before?"

  "Not in years. And never at this hour. "

  "Its the best time. In a little while well go to mass. "

  "Oh?"

  "The eight oclock at St. Bernards. The butchers mass. You went with me once before. Whats so funny?"

  "I spend half my life in church basements, and youre the only person I know who goes to church. "

  "Your sober friends dont go?"

  "I suppose some of them must, but if so I havent heard them talk about it. What do you want to drag me to mass for, Mick? Im not even a Catholic. "

  "Werent you raised one?"

  I shook my head. "I was brought up sort of half-assed Protestant. Nobody in the family went regularly. "

  "Ah. Well, what difference does it make? You dont have to be a fucking Catholic to go to the fucking mass, do you?"

  "I dont know. "

  "I dont go for God. I dont go for the fucking church. I go because my father went every morning of his life. " He took a short pull straight from the flask. "God, thats good. Its too good to put in coffee. I dont know why the old man went and I dont know why I go. Sometimes its where I want to be after a long night, and its a good night weve just had. Come to mass with me. "

  "All right. "

  He drove back into town an
d left the car on West Fourteenth in front of Twomeys funeral parlor. The eight oclock mass was held in a small chapel off the main sanctuary at St. Bernards. There were less than two dozen people in attendance, perhaps half of them dressed like Mick in white butchers aprons. When the mass ended they would go to work in the meat markets just south and west of the old church.

  I took my cues from the others, standing or sitting or kneeling when they did. When they handed out the communion wafers I stayed where I was. So did Mick, along with three or four of the others.

  Back at the car he said, "Where now? Your hotel?"

  I nodded. "I ought to get some sleep. "

  "Wouldnt you sleep better in a place unknown to him? Ive an apartment you could use. "

  "Maybe later," I said. "Im safe enough for now. Hes saving me for last. "

  In front of the Northwestern he shifted the car into park but left the engine running. He said, "Youve got the gun. "

  "In my pocket. "

  "If you need more shells-"

  "If I need more shells Im in deep trouble. "

  "Well, if theres anything you need. "

  "Thanks, Mick. "

  "Sometimes I wish you drank," he said, "and then Im glad you dont. " He looked at me. "Why is that?"

  "I dont know, but I think I understand. Sometimes I wish you didnt drink, and sometimes Im glad you do. "

  "I never have nights like this with anybody else. "

  "Neither do I. "

  "The mass was all right, wasnt it?"

  "It was fine. "

  He fixed his eyes on me. "Do you ever pray?" he demanded.

  "Sometimes I talk to myself. Inside my head, I mean. "

  "I know what you mean. "

  "Maybe thats praying. I dont know. Maybe I do it in the hope that something is listening. "

  "Ah. "

  "I heard a new prayer the other day. A fellow said it was the most useful one he knew. Thank you for everything just as it is. "

  His eyes narrowed and he mouthed the words silently. Then his lips curled into a slow smile. "Oh, thats grand," he said. "Wherever did you hear that one?"

  "At a meeting. "

  "Thats the sort of thing you hear at those meetings, is it?" He chuckled, and for a moment I thought he was going to say something else. Then he straightened up in his seat. "Well, I wont keep you," he said. "Youll want to get some sleep. "

  In my room I shucked off my topcoat and hung it up, then drew the gun out of my jacket pocket. I swung the cylinder out, dumped the shells into the palm of my hand. They were hollow points, designed to expand upon impact. That made them do more damage than standard rounds, but it also lessened the likelihood of a dangerous ricochet, because the slug would shatter into fragments upon impact with a solid surface instead of ricocheting intact.

  If Id had hollow points in my gun some years ago I might not have caused the death of that child in Washington Heights, and who could say what a difference that might have made in all our lives? There was a time when I could drink away hours on end running that one through my mind.