Dope (12 page)

I knew she wouldn't call, and I didn't blame her, either. Putting a few dinners on the table and buying a few dresses didn't make up for a long list of disappointments. Because that's what junkies do; they disappoint. They say they'll show up for dinner at eight and they come at eight the next morning. They say they'll take care of the rent and then they shoot the money up their arm. They say they'll always be there for you and then they nod out on a park bench when you need them the most. We didn't have a father around, and our mother wasn't good for much. It was just the two of us. There wasn't a lot of room for those kinds of disappointments. I was clean now, but there was no reason for her to forgive me. I wouldn't have.

Shelley walked out of the ladies' room and I waited another minute before I left, so it wouldn't look like we were walking out together. By the time I got back to my table she'd already sat back down with the producer. Across the room I could hear him telling a new story, this one about his latest airplane trip to Los Angeles.

“Should I go over and say hello?” Jim asked. “I haven't seen her in ages.”

“Nah,” I said. “She can't afford to be seen with the likes of us.”

Jim looked at me for a minute. “Hey,” he said. I guess he was going to say more, something bright and cheerful, but there really wasn't anything to say.

As we finished our omelets I snuck a few glances at Shelley's table. Another man had dropped by their table, a man about my age, and I wondered if he was another of her boyfriends. Most girls would have lost both guys if they were in the same place at the same time, but Shelley had always been good at that. She never slipped up, always played it off perfectly. I watched as she gave exactly equal attention to each man, first looking at the one and then the other like she was watching a tennis match.

Jim paid the bill and we left. We went to the garage and got the car, and then Jim walked home and I started driving toward Brooklyn.

T
he black Rocket 88 was polished spotless inside and out, but while I was going over the Brooklyn Bridge I noticed something sticking out from under the passenger-side seat. A piece of brown paper. At a red light on Atlantic Avenue I leaned down and pulled it out. What I'd seen was the edge of a brown paper package, tied with string.

Hope it fits
was written on the front in black pen.

I opened it up. It was the dress Jim told me about, the one he bought from Mick. I looked at it. It was from Bergdorf's all right, the real thing. Midnight blue with a tight waist and a full skirt. It would fit just fine.

The car behind me honked. The light had changed, and I got moving. I felt pretty high on myself driving around in a new car like that. I thought maybe if this all panned out and I did get the other thousand I'd buy myself a car. I'd never had one before, not all my own. Of course I wouldn't get a new car like this, that'd be all the money I made. Something a little older. But still nice. Jim could help me pick it out.

The drive took a little under an hour. I thought I knew the way, but halfway through Brooklyn I had to stop at a gas station and buy a map. I was going to fill up the car, too, but when I saw they were asking twenty-five cents a gallon I figured I'd just give Jim a few pints of blood instead. Finally I found Forty-fifth Street and Fifth Avenue, the Brooklyn versions. Sunset Park in Brooklyn was pretty much like any residential neighborhood in Manhattan, but with more trees. Lots of limestone houses that could be nice if anyone cared and lots of low apartment buildings that never would be. Just like Harry promised, there was a brick apartment building on the corner of Forty-fifth and Fifth. It wasn't a big place, four stories with probably two apartments on each floor. There were fire escapes on both sides. The entrance was on Forty-fifth. I drove by. A plain glass door and a bank of mailboxes built into the wall. Not much to come home to.

I parked across the street on Forty-fifth, a few yards down from the building, where I had a nice clear view in the rearview mirror. All the curtains were closed. After watching the windows for a few minutes I walked over and checked the mailboxes. Kanstowski, Koen, Dubinski, and a bunch of blanks.

I settled in to watch the building. McFall and Nadine were in there somewhere, and eventually they'd have to come out. Once I was sure they were there I'd call her parents and see what they wanted to do—if they wanted to come see her themselves or call the police or have me try to talk to her. I kept my eyes on the door. No one came in or out of the building. In fact no one seemed to be awake on the whole block, and after a while it was hard to stay awake. I turned on the radio. On one station there was a news report about the communists. They were everywhere, and if we didn't look out they'd get our kids. Sure. Like the drug pushers with mustaches. On another station was a detective story. I listened for a while. The good guy won. The bad guy lost. The girl didn't do much of anything at all. After a few hours I started to doze off, but every few seconds I opened my eyes to make sure nothing was going on.

At five-thirty the sun began to come up. Soon enough people started leaving their houses to go to work, which made it easy to stay awake. By eight the working people thinned out and the block was quiet again. I dozed.

At ten after eleven I woke up and checked the rearview mirror.

I had struck gold.

A pretty girl walked out of the brick building on the corner, wearing dungarees and a man's shirt tied at the waist. She was a small blonde, young, and wore her hair in a ponytail.

It wasn't Nadine. But right next to her was Jerry McFall.

It was funny to see the guy in person again. He looked just like I remembered, except he was nothing at all like I had in mind. Physically, he was the same. Tall and thin with a narrow face. He wore gray trousers and a yellow shirt, no jacket, and a gray fedora on his head. A little flashy, maybe, but not over the top.

What I didn't expect was for the guy to look happy. He had a smile on his face and put his hand gently on the small of the girl's back as they walked. There was no swagger. No sneer. If I hadn't known better I would have figured him for a regular working guy, a guy who loved his girl and was happy with the world. Maybe worked at a trade: a carpenter, a stonemason. Good at his job. Got on with his neighbors. Everyone liked him. I could see why women fell for him again and again. They like that in a guy. I knew I did.

But I knew—this was a guy who wasn't good at anything. A guy who would lie to a woman, bully her, and if that didn't work, beat her to get her into bed. A guy who was going to take that nice-looking girl walking around with him and turn her into a street whore.

I thought of the first time I had met him. For a minute, I wanted to kill the guy. Or myself. But then it passed.

Once they were around the corner I got out of the car and followed. I was sure McFall wouldn't remember me. As long as I wasn't too obvious I didn't need to worry about them seeing me.

I walked around the corner and I spotted them down the block. McFall slipped his hand off her back and down her arm, then down to hold her hand. The girl smiled. They crossed Fifth Avenue and walked down to a little coffee shop on the corner of Fifth and Forty-sixth. I waited across the street. Half an hour later they walked out holding hands. They stopped at a grocery store, left with one bag each, and then went back to the brick building.

Just before they went inside, I stopped him.

“Jerry McFall,” I said.

They both stopped and turned around. For the first time, I saw something on McFall's face like the look that was in his photo. This was the Jerry McFall I remembered, the one Monte and Yonah and the girls in the Royale had told me about.

He didn't say anything. The girl looked from Jerry to me and back again, confused.

“Jerry McFall,” I said again. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He stared at me. The sun hit his eyes and he was squinting. I didn't move. He turned and whispered something to the girl and handed her the groceries. She turned and went inside.

“I'm looking for Nadine Nelson,” I said. “Her parents paid me to find her. The last anyone heard she was with you.”

He still didn't talk. It's a good trick—intimidates the hell out of the other guy. It almost worked on me. But not quite.

“I don't know what else you're up to,” I said. “And I don't care. All I want is Nadine.”

Finally he spoke. His voice was like I remembered it: kind of syrupy and smooth but also angry. “I ain't Jerry McFall,” he said. “And I don't know any
Nadine.
”

He said her name like it was a curse. He turned to walk back into the building.

“Hey.” I grabbed his arm and tried to turn him around. “All I want to know is—”

He turned around all right. Turned around and slugged me right in the gut. I fell down to the ground, gagging.

I'd be okay. But I wasn't okay then. I lay on the sidewalk, curled up around my stomach.

He kicked me lightly on the back.

“I told you,” he said.
“I ain't Jerry McFall.”

He turned and went back in the building. I lounged around on the sidewalk for a minute until I could breathe okay and I was sure I wasn't going to be sick. An old lady in black walked by on her way back from the market, with a shopping cart full of a thousand bags of groceries. She looked down at me.

“Goddamned drunks,” she said, and kept walking.

 

 

By the time I got home it was two o'clock in the afternoon. I was sick and tired and worn out. I called Jim from Lavinia's phone, told him I was all right, and told him the car was all right. Then I took off my clothes and went right to bed.

I slept like the dead.

T
he next morning I woke up to a heavy knock on the door. I sat up, and felt an awful pain at my waist. I lifted up my pajamas and looked at my belly. A purple bruise had grown where I took one from McFall the day before. It was a solid punch but I'd taken worse. The purple color would last awhile but the pain wouldn't last longer than the end of the day.

In the time it took me to get to the door the knock grew to a steady thud that was close to bringing the whole building down. I knew who it was. The cops. No one else would be beating down my door at nine in the morning. No one else ever had.

I answered the door in my pajamas. Two cops, one in a uniform, one in a cheap suit and a porkpie hat, pushed their way in as soon as I had the door unlocked.

“Hey Springer,” I said to the cheap suit. “What's the good word?”

“It ain't your name, Flannigan,” he said. The two men looked around my apartment, hoping to find maybe a corpse on the bed and a bag of dope on the coffee table. I'd known Springer as long as I could remember. He used to be a beat cop at the Fifty-fourth Street station, where I'd grown up. Now he was a homicide detective, but he still liked to keep in touch with his old pals from the neighborhood—like when his rent was due, for example. He was a big guy with a meaty face that only laughed if there was someone to laugh at. He didn't like me and I didn't like him and that was fine. The uniform I had never seen before. He was younger than me, and looked like an ex-boxer, or just a guy crazy for fighting. Not too tall, plenty wide, and a battered face that probably hadn't been much to begin with.

I walked over to the hot plate and put on the percolator. The cops started poking around the room, looking around at the empty glasses and magazines on the coffee table.

“So what's the dope on Jerry McFall,” Springer said. “What'd he do, take a nickel off you? Stand you up for a date?”

The thug snickered. Springer smiled. He was pretty proud of his wit.

“I don't know any McFall,” I said.

“That's funny,” Springer said. “A hell of a lot of people say you've been looking around for him lately.”

“So what?” I said. “Since when is looking for someone against the law?”

“Don't crack wise with me, Josephine,” Springer said, angry now. “Shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you.”

I didn't crack wise with him again. Instead I went to my purse and found the envelope I always kept with me. Inside was a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

“All right,” I said to Springer. “I get it. The Policemen's Ball is coming up.” I took the twenty out of the envelope and handed it to him. He took it and stuck it in his pocket. But he didn't go anywhere.

“Come on, Springer,” I pleaded. “Look at this place—that's the best I can do.” I had the real money, the $925.50 left over from the Nelsons, under a floorboard that was sealed shut under the bed. The floorboard looked good and they'd never find it.

“Thanks for the donation, Joe,” he said, looking sour. “But it ain't gonna help you this time.”

That was when I knew something was wrong. I sat down and drank a cup of coffee while they looked through my room. They covered all the spots a dumb thief would have hidden something: under the sofa, top shelf of the closet, inside the sugar jar. They had lots of fun in my underwear drawer, too. Then they got a little rougher and knocked the cups out of the cabinet and emptied the drawers onto the floor. They didn't find anything because there was nothing to find.

“If you're looking for dope,” I said finally, “you can forget it. I'm clean and you know it.”

“We ain't looking for dope,” Springer said. “I don't give a shit about that. We're looking for a gun.”

I was slow that morning. “Why would you be looking for a gun?”