Dope (15 page)

For the second time that day, I felt lucky. At least I didn't live my life putting on makeup to watch cereal commercials all day.

“Yes. I'm here about your daughter, Nadine.”

Mrs. Nelson's smile dropped. “Is she okay?”

She didn't say anything about the police. I guessed they probably hadn't bothered with the wife. “I don't know,” I said. “That's why I'm here.”

“Do you want to come in?”

“No thanks,” I said. Like I said, the place gave me the creeps. “I work for a private investigator in New York City, Mrs. Nelson. We have reason to believe your daughter witnessed a crime and we're desperately hoping she can help us. Do you have any idea where she is?”

“No, I—Is Nadine okay?”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“About a month ago.”

“And did you recently hire anyone to find her whereabouts?”

She looked confused and shook her head. “No, I mean . . . it's not like I never see her. Every once in a while I go in the city and meet her somewhere.”

“Where?”

She frowned. “A cafeteria, coffee shop—someplace like that. I mean, I can't take her someplace nice. Not looking like she does.”

“And what does she look like?”

Mrs. Nelson grimaced. “Skinny, dirty—well, like a whore. Like a drug addict and a street whore,” she said angrily. “Do you have children?” she asked.

“No,” I told her. “I can't.”

She looked at me. There's usually only one reason why a healthy woman can't have children. Maybe a woman like her could find a real doctor when she needed one. But not me.

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled. I didn't say anything. “You don't know,” she said, more softly. “You don't know . . . to see your own daughter, like
that.
”

“You ever try to bring her home?”

Mrs. Nelson shook her head and looked down at the ground. “Oh no, I couldn't do that. She couldn't come back here. Her father . . . He wouldn't like that at all. We couldn't have her around. Not in the state she was in.”

“How about her brother and sister?”

She shook her head. “Nadine was never close to them. She's much younger.” She tried to make a little smile. “I . . . I had some female problems, too, and I didn't think I could have any more children until Nadine came along.”

“The last time you saw her,” I asked, “where was she staying?”

Mrs. Nelson shrugged. “She was living with girlfriends, I think. I don't know. Maybe a man. I don't know where she was living then, or how she was supporting herself. Of course I gave her whatever I could, whenever I saw her, but Nathaniel has a budget for me, and there's only so much we can do without. He doesn't want me giving her any money, he's been very firm about that. He doesn't know that I see her at all.”

“How did you talk to each other? Did she leave a phone number, or—”

“No,” Mrs. Nelson said. “I guess they don't have phones in the kind of places she stays. She's always called me whenever . . . whenever she was desperate enough, I guess.”

“How about this neighbor?” I asked. “I heard there was a problem with the man who lived next door?”

Mrs. Nelson looked everywhere except at my face. “I don't know. Nathaniel said it was impossible. That he would never . . . Nadine always was . . . dramatic, I guess you'd call it. She was an artist, you know.”

“I know,” I said. “I saw one of her drawings. It looked good.”

She smiled. “She is good, isn't she?” I smiled back. “You know I always liked to draw, too, but I never had the chance. . . . Well, I was so pleased when Nadine took an interest in it. That's one thing that gives me hope. At least she has something. . . .”

She started to cry, but kept herself under control. That was all she knew. I asked her to be more specific about the places she had met Nadine. She could remember two: a Ukrainian coffee shop on the Lower East Side and a cafeteria near Times Square, but she didn't know their names. There were over a dozen of each. It didn't do me any good.

“Do you think she's okay?” Mrs. Nelson asked before I left.

“Yeah,” I lied. “I think she's fine. From what you've told me I think this was all a big misunderstanding. The girl who was mixed up in all this—I don't think it was Nadine at all. I'm sure Nadine's just fine. I'll let you know.”

“Really?” she said. “You really think she's okay?”

“I'm sure of it,” I said. I made myself smile. “It's just a misunderstanding. Nadine is in no kind of trouble at all.”

A relief came over her that was so strong it almost rubbed off on me.

“And who did you say you were working for?” she asked. “I was so startled when you came to the door, I've forgotten what you said.”

“I'll be sure to let you know when I find Nadine,” I said, and walked back to the car.

Just for good measure, I threw a rock through the window of the house next door before I left New Village.

T
he drive back to the city seemed longer than the drive out. It was just as I'd thought: Nadine's family had no idea where she was and had nothing to do with any of this. It was most likely that Jerry had cut Nadine loose as soon as they got into trouble. The girl in the Royale had said that Nadine was leaving to meet Jerry somewhere later. He probably never showed up. She knew where they had stolen the dope from. That was probably who had killed McFall. And my chance of finding her was about as good as finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I'd thought I was at a dead end before. I didn't know just how dead an end could be. I wouldn't waste any more time looking for her. There were other ways to find out who McFall had been dealing with.

In the Bronx, up north where it was still the country, I stopped at a gas station to fill up the Rocket 88. And I noticed something funny. Behind me on the road had been a black Chevy, a few years old, a big dusty car that needed a wash—although by now, so did Jim's. I'd noticed it because I was switching lanes a lot, trying to shave a few seconds here and there off the trip. And the black sedan kept right up with me. That wasn't so strange.

But now that same car pulled into the station just behind me. Not over to the pumps, but over by the office, like he was going to get a Coke. Except he didn't get out of the car. I must have passed five gas stations on the way. And there was nothing special about this one.

The kid pumping gas came to my window. “Sorry,” I said. “I forgot—I don't have any money on me. I'll come back later.”

“Yeah, sure,” he spat out, and walked away. I waited a minute. No one got out of the Chevy. I pulled back out and got on the road going south again. The Chevy followed. I kept in the same lane, now, so he could get right up behind me and I could get a look at him in the rearview mirror. But he didn't. He was following me, all right, but he wasn't quite that dumb, and he put a few cars in between us now.

All this time I'd been wondering how someone could have followed me to McFall's without my noticing. Because I was sure someone had followed me—there was no other way for them to know when I found McFall. But now I saw that it was pretty easy to follow someone. If I hadn't pulled into the gas station, I never would have noticed the Chevy at all.

The Chevy kept up a good pace behind me and at the next gas station I pulled in and let the attendant fill up the car. While he was doing that, the Chevy pulled in, not to one of the pumps, but by the office again.

While the kid was filling up the car I got out and went over to the Chevy. He pulled out of there and back onto the road so fast you'd think I'd pulled a gun on him.

I didn't mind being followed. I wasn't making any secret of where I was going. But I did want to know who he was. It was probably the same person who had followed me to Brooklyn. And if he didn't kill McFall himself, he probably knew who did. There was no one else who would be so interested in how I was spending my time. But he was gone now, and I'd have to wait until next time to try to catch him.

I was sure there would be a next time.

 

 

 

Jim answered his door with a copy of the
Daily News
in his hand, open to the entertainment page.

“Read all about it,” he said. I came in and sat on the sofa and looked at the paper. There was a picture of Shelley. I glanced at the column next to it.

Lovely lady Shelley Dumere is slated to star in the upcoming weekly television production
Life with Lydia.
The sultry starlet will star opposite Tad Delmont as wacky housewife Lydia Livingston, whose antics and mishaps are sure to keep us laughing all the way until next week. . . .

“Great,” I said. “Listen. I need to talk to you about your car.” His face fell. I told him the car was fine. Only I wasn't giving it back quite yet, if he didn't mind, on account of that I might need it, because I was being set up for murder and had a lot of errands to run.

Jim went to the bar and fixed us each a drink in the fancy glasses with the gold seashells, and he stood by the bar while I told him everything that had happened since the last time I saw him.

“So,” Jim finally said when I finished. “What are you gonna do?”

It took me a minute to realize what I didn't like about that question. It was the
you.
I was thinking it might have been a
we.
He brought me my drink and then went back by the bar and leaned against it.

I looked at Jim's face. It was like something had drained right out of it. Like he was locking a part of himself up, and he wouldn't let it out again. Not around me.

I didn't blame him. Jim had stuck with me through some tough times, but this was different. He couldn't afford this kind of trouble. Nobody could.

I shrugged. “I'm gonna find out who killed Jerry McFall.”

I looked at Jim. His eyes were on his drink. “If there's anything I can do,” he said. “Anything at all . . .”

It was kind of sweet, when you thought about it. He was saying everything he was supposed to say. He just couldn't look me in the eye when he said it. Sometimes it was hard to believe Jim was a professional con man. Because he wasn't a very good liar at all.

“No,” I said. “I don't think so.”

“I'll see what I can find out,” he said. He was looking at the bar now. “Talk to some people. Ask around.”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

I stood up and told Jim it was time for me to go. I could almost see the relief on his face. Then he looked me in the eyes.

“The car,” he said. “It's yours, Joe, for as long as you need it. Keep it. It's the least I can do.”

The least he could do. And the most he would.

“You're gonna be okay, Joe,” he said when I was leaving.

It was a statement, not a question, and I figured the least I could do was say, “Yeah. I'll be fine.” By the time I got home it was after twelve. I lay in bed and didn't sleep for hours. I tried to stop thinking, but I couldn't.

It was always hard for me to sleep. I still dreamed about dope, sometimes. Dreams where I'd be doing something ordinary, walking down Fifth Avenue or something like that, and then all of a sudden I'd find myself in a dark little room somewhere, one of a thousand dark little rooms I had been in, and the room would be full of people fixing and I would be, too. I'd have my works out and my arm tied off and someone would be cooking up a fat dose of junk in a spoon and I would smell that smell and the next thing I knew I'd be taking a shot.

Oh no,
I'd think.
No, no, no. Not again. Not anymore.
It would be like all the hard work of the past two years and all the other times I'd tried to quit before that, all the awful cold turkey and the chills and the crying and the grinding my teeth so hard I chipped them, all the horrible willpower that it took and that it still took, every day—it was all for nothing. Because here I was right back in the middle of it again. I'd be so ashamed of myself that I'd start to cry. How could I be so weak again, so stupid again, when I tried so hard and prayed so much?

No,
I'd think.
Please God, no.

But then at the same time, I'd also be thinking,
Yes. Please God, yes.

Finally I got out of bed and moved a chair over to the window and watched the sun come up over Second Avenue. No one was out. The city looked like it had been abandoned, like a ghost town. The streets went from black to gray to pink to gold, and then the sky turned lighter and lighter until the sun was out and the sky was blue. Soon a few trucks started rattling around delivering bread and newspapers and milk, and slowly it all came back to life. One at a time the people took their places on the sidewalks again and the cars and buses took their places on the streets, and it was like the quiet of just a few hours before had never happened. Like everything had always been this way, and it always would. And it seemed like the whole city was mine, watching it from up there, and I wanted to hold on to it forever.

T
he next afternoon I drove down to the Red Rooster. Harry wasn't there, but that was fine, because I knew where he lived. The Prince George on the Bowery rented beds by the night. From what I had heard not only was the desk wrapped in chicken wire, but each bed was, too, to protect each fellow from the man in the bed next to him. That was how Skinny Harry lived.

Like all the others, this Prince hotel used to be better than it was now, but not by too much. On one side of the lobby was a battered wood counter. To the left was a small waiting room, where a handful of old men sat on threadbare furniture. Half of them were on the nod and the other half were drunk. Their shirts were frayed and their hats, if they had them, were crumpled and dirty. Three of them were talking about the races. One of them liked Lucky Lucy for the third tomorrow.