The Manhattan Hunt Club

  Keith reopened the wallet, but kept it just beyond the man’s reach. The man leaned forward, squinting, and Keith winced as his breath—a combination of stale wine and tobacco—threatened to overwhelm him.

  “I dunno,” the man finally said. Keith moved the five dollar bill closer. “Maybe that coulda been him,” the drunk went on. “But maybe not.” Keith let him have the five. “They was over there—” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the fire hydrant. “—an’ I was sittin’ right here. An’ I didn’t get a real good look before they went down in the subway.”

  “The subway?” Keith echoed. “Who went into the subway?”

  The man sighed as if explaining something to a child who wasn’t paying proper attention. “I told you. The guy Scratch took outta the van.” Something across the street seemed to catch the drunk’s eye, and he struggled to his feet. “Gotta git to gittin’,” he muttered, but Keith grabbed his arm as he started away.

  “Scratch? Who’s Scratch?”

  The man’s eyes widened, then darted once more across the street. “I dunno,” he mumbled. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.” Pulling his arm loose from Keith’s grip, he started shambling down the street, one hand clutching at the collar of his filthy jacket while the other hand, which held the five-dollar bill, was plunged deep into his pocket. As he shuffled toward the corner, Keith scanned the street to see what had spooked the bum.

  All he saw were three homeless people—a woman and two men—moving along the sidewalk, the woman pushing a shopping cart that seemed to be stuffed with nothing more than a bundle of rags. The little group, making their way slowly along the sidewalk with their heads down, looked far more pitiable than frightening. Keith shook his head to rid himself of the pathetic image, and also because of a twinge of guilt that he was going to do nothing to ease their plight.

  The subway.

  The man had said “Scratch” had taken someone from the van—someone who might have been Jeff?—to the subway.

  At the corner he saw the sign, and the flight of stairs leading down into the subterranean station.

  He started toward it.

  Al Kelly glanced back over his shoulder. The man who’d given him the five dollars was headed the other way, but across the street, Louise and Harry were still coming. Al didn’t know the guy with them, but it didn’t matter—he looked like trouble. Looked like he didn’t belong on the surface at all, in fact. Al shuddered, just thinking about the way some people lived. Okay, so he curled up in a doorway every now and then, or slept in the park over on Chrystie Street, at least when the weather was nice. But when it was bad, he slept indoors—went to one of the shelters, even if he did have to listen to some preaching or say he was going to try to clean up and find a job. But at least he still lived like a human being instead of some kind of rodent sneaking around in the sewers.

  Of course, Louise had told him it wasn’t that bad, not if you knew where to go, but he didn’t have any desire at all to find out if she was telling the truth. No matter what happened—no matter how bad things got—he was going to stay on the surface.

  He glanced over his shoulder again. Louise and Harry and the other guy had crossed the street now, and he was pretty sure he knew exactly what they wanted.

  The five bucks the tourist had given him.

  Shit!

  He should’ve been more careful, should’ve palmed the bill, or at least made sure no one was looking when he took it—the last thing you wanted was money in your pocket.

  He turned onto Rivington Street, cut diagonally across, then ducked into Freeman Alley and headed toward the jog halfway up it. Maybe Louise and Harry wouldn’t spot him, but even if they did, he might find a place to stash the money, at least until he could lose them and their friend. He quickened his pace, but the blister on the sore on his right foot was hurting real bad today, and he couldn’t move quite fast enough. He was just coming up to the jog when Harry’s hand closed on his shoulder and turned him around.

  “Hey, Al—whatcha doin’?”

  Al’s eyes darted from Harry to the other man, then back to Harry. “Nothin’. Just lookin’ for something to eat.”

  “Why don’t ya buy something?” the other man asked. “You got the money, don’t you?”

  “I ain’t got nothing,” Al protested, but Harry’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

  “We saw you, Al,” Harry said. “We saw you talkin’ to that guy, and we saw him give you the money. So what were you talkin’ about, Al?”

  Al Kelly sighed heavily—no point trying to pretend he didn’t have the money. They’d just go through his pockets, and probably beat him up for making them look for it. Pulling the five out, he handed it to Harry. “Okay, so you got it.” He started to pull away, but the second man blocked his way.

  “Harry asked you a question, Al. Ain’t you gonna answer it?”

  Al shrugged. “He was just askin’ about somethin’ I saw yesterday, that’s all.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “So what did you tell him?”

  Al shrugged. “Nothin’ much. Just about the guy goin’ into the subway.”

  Harry’s grip on Al’s shoulder tightened, and the other man reached into his pocket. When his hand emerged a moment later, Al saw the blade of a knife.

  “What did you want to do that for, Al?” Harry asked, sounding almost sad.

  “What’s the big deal?” Al protested. “He wasn’t a cop—he was just some guy lookin’ for his kid. I—”

  But before he could say anything else, he felt a strange sensation in his belly, like somebody had punched him. He looked down, and sure enough—the other guy’s fist was right up against his belly. But where was the knife?

  The man jerked his arm and fist upward then, and Al Kelly knew where the knife was. It was deep in his gut, and now the blade was moving up, slashing through his flesh and organs.

  A guttural sound bubbling up from his throat, Al tried to pull away, but it was far too late.

  Harry held him upright as the knife slashed through his lungs and its point pierced his heart. Then, as the other man pulled the knife free of Al Kelly’s lifeless body, Harry lowered it gently to the ground and propped it against a door.

  A door that was painted a shade of red that almost matched the blood oozing from the wounds in Al Kelly’s body.

  Slipping the five-dollar bill into his own pocket, Harry and the other man quickly went back to the street where Louise was waiting for them.

  Anyone looking into the alley would see nothing more than Al Kelly’s feet, and assume he was just another drunk sleeping it off in solitude.

  That’s what they would have thought, unless they noticed he was sitting in a pool of his own blood.

  Keith took the stairs down to the subway station two at a time, fishing in his pocket for money. He had no idea how much a subway token cost now—it had been twenty years since the last time he’d ridden one. He glanced around for the token booth but saw instead several machines that looked like some kind of ATM. Frowning, he went over to a machine, read the directions, pressed some buttons, then put five dollars in the slot. A few seconds later a plastic card popped out. With the card in hand, he moved toward the turnstiles, then stopped.

  What did he think he might find, out on the platform?

  Did he believe Jeff might be down there waiting for him?

  If it had even been Jeff that the old drunk on the sidewalk had seen. Chances are the man just made up the story, wanting the five dollars he’d been waving in front of him like a fly above a trout.

  But the bum had seen someone getting out of the back of the van. And not just getting out, either—the drunk had said: “The guy Scratch took outta the van.”

  Not “got” out, or “let” out. “Took” out.

  But after the fire, there’d been someone in the van—someone who burned to death.

  Someone they’d told him was Jeff.

  Or he was wrong, and the drunk was either confused or making up a s
tory to get the money.

  It all came back to the body in the Medical Examiner’s office. If he was right, and the body wasn’t Jeff’s, then maybe the drunk was right, too. Maybe someone had let Jeff out of the van before it burned. But he had to know—had to know with absolute certainty whether the body was Jeff’s or not. And now he realized there was a way—it had been staring him in the face all the time.

  If they said the body was Jeff’s, they would have to release it to him. He was Jeff’s father, wasn’t he? So when they were done with the autopsy, done with whatever examinations they were performing, they would release the body to him.

  And then he could have his own tests done.

  DNA tests.

  Wheeling around, he went back up the stairs almost as fast as he’d gone down them, yelled at a cab that had stopped for the light at Bowery, and five minutes later was once more in the Medical Examiner’s office.

  “I want to claim a body,” he told the woman at the reception counter. “My son’s body.”

  Not so much as a flicker of sympathy—or even concern—passed over the woman’s face. Instead she simply pulled out a form and pushed it across the counter to him.

  Keith filled it out, turned it around, and pushed it back.

  The woman glanced down at it, then looked up again, frowning. “You here for the Converse case?” she asked. “Jeffrey Converse?”

  Keith nodded. “Is there a problem? I just want to arrange to have his body transferred to a funeral home whenever your office is done.”

  The woman turned to a computer terminal, tapped a few keys, and her frown deepened. “I’m afraid he’s not here anymore.”

  “Not here?” Keith repeated, his head suddenly swimming. What was going on? How could the body not be here? But the woman on the other side of the counter was already telling him.

  “It was released yesterday afternoon,” she said.

  “Released?” Keith echoed. “What are you talking about, released?”

  The woman’s eyes never left the computer terminal. “To a Mary Converse.”

  Keith’s eyes narrowed angrily. “How could you do that? I’m his father, for Christ sake. How come nobody called me?”

  The woman behind the counter shrugged helplessly. “Mrs. Converse was listed as his next of kin in all our records, sir. Either her, or a Keith Converse.” She glanced at him almost disinterestedly. “I guess that would be you?”

  “You guess right,” Keith growled. “And you better get whoever authorized this down here right now.” The woman’s expression hardened, and Keith realized his mistake. “Look,” he added, trying to mollify her. “I didn’t really mean it the way it sounded. But he was my son! It just seems like—”

  The woman softened slightly. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but all the procedures were followed. If you like, I can tell you where the body was sent.” Before Keith could answer, her efficient fingers tapped at the keyboard once more. “Ah, here it is.” She copied down the address on a card and pushed it across the counter. “Vogler’s,” she said. “They’re up on Sixth Street, I think. They picked up the body at—let me see—yes, here it is. Five twenty-three.” She smiled brightly, as if having come up with the precise minute at which the body had left the Medical Examiner’s should somehow mollify him.

  Keith, though, was already out the door, and as soon as he was back on the sidewalk, he punched in Mary’s number.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Mary, understanding what must have happened, sighed heavily. “I should have called you, I suppose, but I just didn’t want to get into another argument. And knowing how you feel—what you think—” She fell silent for a moment, then went on. “I decided to take care of it myself.” Her voice took on the faintly superior tone that he knew meant she was about to wrap her religion around herself as a protective, and utterly impenetrable, shield. “He was my son, and no matter what he did, I have an obligation to him. There’s going to be a memorial mass at St. Barnabas next week.”

  Keith frowned. Memorial mass? What was she talking about? If she was sure it was Jeff who had died, wasn’t she going to have a funeral? But before he could ask the question, she answered it.

  “I decided a funeral would just be too hard—too hard for everyone. And now that he’s gone . . .”

  Keith’s anger smoldered as her voice trailed off. But even though she wouldn’t do it herself, he had no trouble finishing her thought: now that he’s gone, I don’t have to deal with him anymore. “Where’s the body?” he demanded. “Is it still at this Vogler place?”

  There was another silence, then she said, “There isn’t any body, Keith,” her voice breaking. “I—I had him cremated. After what happened, I just couldn’t stand the thought of—well—” There was a short silence before she concluded, “It just seemed like the best thing to do, that’s all.”

  But Keith was no longer listening.

  Cremated.

  The body—whoever it was—was gone, and gone with it was any possibility of proving whether it had been Jeff.

  So all he had left were the words of the drunk.

  And a subway station.

  Wondering if he shouldn’t go back home and just try to do as Mary wanted—try to accept what had happened—he started back toward the garage where he’d parked the car. But instead of going into the garage, he kept on walking.

  Kept walking until he was back at the subway station on Delancey Street.

  CHAPTER 13

  By seven o’clock Eve Harris was almost four hours behind in her work. Not surprising, considering that she’d managed to fit two committee meetings into the day, along with lunch with the mayor and a carefully planned but apparently impromptu drop-in on Perry Randall—in which she’d succeeded in extracting the check he’d promised at last night’s banquet. She was now wrapping up a meeting on Delancey Street, at Montrose House itself, where she’d been pleased to be able to deliver Perry Randall’s check in person.

  “By the way, did you hear about Al Kelly?” Sheila Hay asked as Eve was pulling on her coat. The councilwoman’s brows rose questioningly, and Sheila unconsciously brushed a strand of her prematurely graying hair from her forehead as she pulled off her glasses and let them drop on their gold chain to rest on her ample bosom, as she did at the end of every meeting. “Louise and Harry found him in an alley this morning.”

  The words hung in the air: “found him.”

  Not “found his body,” or even “found him dead.”

  Just “found him.”

  The rest was implied.

  What kind of world are we living in? Eve wondered. What kind of world is it that we just assume that if someone was found, they were dead? But she knew what kind of world it was—it was the world she’d been dealing with all her life. “Did they say what happened to him?” she asked.

  Sheila Hay shook her head as much in resignation as in sadness. “You know how these things go—unless there’s someone around to make a fuss, who’s going to ask?”

  Again Eve knew exactly what the other woman meant without having it spelled out. “Did the police even take a look?”

  Sheila rolled her eyes. “Sure—that’s their job, isn’t it? And I’ll bet I can tell you exactly what the report says, too—’assailant unknown.’ There’ll be enough gobbledy-gook to make it look like a report, and that’ll be that.” Her eyes met Eve’s, and now Eve saw the sadness in them. “Who can even say they’re wrong—it probably was some junkie looking for money, and how many thousands of those do we have? Like Al would have had any money. He didn’t even have a place to live, for God’s sake!”

  “Louise and Harry didn’t see anything?”

  Sheila shrugged. “Come on, Eve. You know what they’re like—even if they saw it happen, they wouldn’t tell the police. Or me. Or you, either. They don’t trust us.”

  “Is there a reason why they should?” Eve asked. Then, seeing the hurt in Shei
la Hay’s eyes, she quickly softened her words. “I don’t mean you, Sheila. You know how it is—it’s us. All of us. I mean, there they are, living like animals, and all they ever hear are promises. But they never see anything change! They—” She cut off her words as quickly as they’d come. “What am I telling you for? You know it all as well as I do.”

  Saying good-bye to Sheila, she considered going back to the office, then quickly changed her mind. Whatever messages were waiting for her could wait until tomorrow, and the two reports she had to review by tomorrow morning—one on the need for more public housing, the other on the failure of the public housing that already existed—were already in the ever-present leather bag she carried slung over her shoulder. Not that she needed to read them to know what was in them, since she was fairly certain that both reports contained far more lobbyists’ arguments than actual facts. Indeed, she’d weighed the option of leaving them on her desk unread, but in the end the weight of her own conscience was far heavier, so she’d stuffed the two thick reports into her bag.

  Two minutes later she was hurrying down the stairs to the subway station, barely looking around as she passed through the turnstile and descended to the platform. Though rush hour was over, there were still a few dozen people waiting for trains, and Eve moved toward the far end of the platform where the crowd was thinnest before reaching into her bag and pulling out one of the reports. She was just starting to leaf through it when she heard an insistent voice from farther down the platform.

  “All I’m asking is if you were here yesterday morning!” The man sounded strident, almost angry. “A little after five.”

  “What’s it to you?” another voice said, sounding even angrier than the first. “I got a right to be anywhere I want—”

  Eve looked up from the report to see two men. One of them—a black man who could have been anywhere between forty and sixty—was wearing the uniform of the homeless: several layers of bulky clothes, all of them threadbare, none of them clean.

  The other one—the one she’d heard first—looked like he had to be from out of town, though Eve couldn’t have said exactly why. There was just something about his khaki pants, his denim shirt, and his work boots—or perhaps the unself-consciousness with which he wore them—that told her he didn’t live in the city. And yet, for some reason, she thought she recognized him.