Icarus. (27 page)

He was pissed.

Jack did not like irresponsibility. He did not like wasting a Knicks ticket. And he especially did not like being stood up.

He'd called twice during the game. Once after the first quarter, once at the half. Both times he'd heard the same recording; neither time did he leave a message. Now, his third call of the night, the phone picked up and the machine offered the same apology: "Hey, it's Kid. Sorry I'm not available right now but I'll be checking in, so if you leave your name and number I'll call you back as soon as I can. Bye-bye."

This time, Jack spoke: "It's Jack, Kid, and you are in deep shit. You'd better have a damn good excuse for not showing up. Damn good. I'll be home in a little while. Call me whenever you get in." He hesitated and then, out of spite, added, "Great celebration. Thanks." He pressed the "Okay" button, disconnecting the call. Then he shook his head, muttered a fierce "Shit" to himself, and didn't even hear the fan to his right taunt, "Hey, what's the matter? Indiana fan?"

Jack shoved his phone back into his front pants pocket and started walking briskly uptown. He walked about twenty blocks before his legs started feeling tired. By then he was far enough away from the Garden to hail a cab. Ten minutes later he was saying a curt, distracted hello to Ramon, the doorman, another Knicks fan. By then, Jack was too busy being angry and wondering what the hell could possibly have happened to notice that there was someone watching him.

The someone was across the street, standing in the shadow of the small birch tree on the corner. It was someone who had been waiting for him to come home. And was prepared to wait as long as necessary.

Someone who had been waiting a long, long time for what was about to happen.

Patience McCoy had had a lot of bad nights over the past twelve years. There was the night that Carmen Maria Mendez, a perfectly harmless transvestite whose real name was Alonso Jorge Mendez, had managed to get her/his testicles sliced off and stuffed into her/his mouth. McCoy had responded to the call with her partner, a rookie named Johnny Johnson, a big tough white boy, and when they arrived under the highway at the scene of the crime, Johnny took one look at his first murder victim and puked all over the body.

That was bad.

It wasn't a great night either when she'd responded to a phone call from an executive at a small brokerage company down on Wall Street, Pettit and Bandier, who said that a dissatisfied client was in the office waving a gun, threatening to kill everyone who'd been involved in his latest trade, which had lost him $265,000. By the time McCoy got there, the client had become even more dissatisfied. He'd shot four brokers, killing three and wounding one seriously in the back of the right shoulder, before turning the gun on himself and blowing his brains out.

Oh, yeah. She couldn't forget the time they were shooting a TV series, a cop show, down on Hudson in front of the Sporting Club. One of the lead actors was fooling around with a prop gun that an extra had given him. He'd put it in his mouth, laughing the whole time, and pulled the trigger. He wasn't laughing by the time McCoy got there. He was dead as could be, the blank cartridge having been strong enough to go in right where he'd fired it – the back of his throat – and come out on the other side of his head.

Well, this was right up there.

For one thing, she'd promised her husband a romantic dinner tonight, just the two of them. Elmore was in charge of grilling the steaks, she was in charge of the salad and dessert. She'd already made up her mind that dessert was going to be an apple pie – she made a major apple pie, a lot of cinnamon in the crust, and some crushed coffee beans; they really added flavor and no one ever recognized what they were – along with homemade chocolate ice cream. She'd just bought one of those fancy Italian ice cream makers; she decided she wanted it for the summer. It cost a fortune but what the hell, they didn't have a lot of expenses, they both made decent money, and they both really liked their ice cream. Well, no ice cream tonight. No pie or steak, for that matter, either. Elmore would not be happy, no, sir.

So there was that.

And, more to the point, there was the fact that at her feet was one big bloody fucking mess.

Sergeant Patience McCoy of the NYPD, Eighth Precinct, Tribeca, was standing on Greenwich Street, about fifteen feet south of Duane. She was in front of one of the few tall buildings in this part of town. An apartment building that had been converted about five years earlier. There were no doormen, but there was a live-in super. He hadn't seen a thing, naturally, just heard a noise. And then some more noises – people yelling, horns honking, things like that – so he'd come out to see what had happened. He told her the name of the person lying on the sidewalk, told her that he'd moved in pretty recently, a few months ago, maybe. Nice guy. Friendly. Young guy.

Young guy, McCoy thought. He wasn't a young guy anymore. He was as old as you could get.

She was staring up at the roof of the building. It wasn't for any particular reason, it was just a lot easier than looking down at the crushed and shattered body a foot away from her.

"I'm gonna go up to his apartment," she told her partner, another goddamn rookie. She always got stuck with the white rookies.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Wait for the ambulance. Should be here any minute." She couldn't help but notice that he looked a little green. "And try not to puke, will you."

The super took her up in the elevator to the penthouse apartment. She couldn't help herself, she whistled when she stepped inside. She was not a whistler, normally; usually she thought people whistled strictly for effect, but this was impressive. Quite a view, too. She stepped out onto the small balcony; room for maybe a tiny table and two midget chairs. The sliding door that led to it had been closed, she noticed. Well, that made sense. This boy hadn't planned on coming back in.

There was no sign of any disturbance. The apartment was neat and in order. A half-empty bottle of beer, Pete's Wicked Ale, on the kitchen counter. An empty Diet Coke can on the coffee table. She poked her head into the other rooms. The bed was unmade, sheets were rumpled. Other than that, neat as a pin.

On the round dining table was a cell phone. It was already on, so she pressed "Menu" and clicked the arrow button forward until the word "Messages," followed by a question mark, showed up in the display window. She pressed "Okay" and then saw a new line appear. It said: One message. Jack Keller. And it gave a phone number. After that, it said, Play?

Sergeant McCoy clicked the "okay" button one more time and held the phone up to her ear. She heard: "It's Jack, Kid, and you are in deep shit. You'd better have a damn good excuse for not showing up. Damn good… Great celebration. Thanks."

Another line popped up on the screen. It said: Save message? Sergeant McCoy pressed "okay" again. She put the phone back on the table, then pulled out her own cell phone and dialed. When the person on the other end answered, Sergeant McCoy identified herself, gave her badge number, and said, "Yeah, you can help me. I need an address. Right away."

Exactly thirty-seven minutes later, McCoy was in another part of town completely, East Seventy-seventh Street between Madison and Fifth. She was in another penthouse apartment, sitting in a leather swivel chair in an impeccably decorated living room, staring at an original Edward Hopper that adorned the wall.

She was in the midst of having to perform her least favorite part of her job.

She was telling Jack Keller that his young friend George "Kid" Demeter had a very good reason for missing the basketball game that night. He was dead. He'd jumped off the roof of his eighteen-story apartment building.

A suicide.

It was 3 a.m. and the city was as dark as it can get. The moon was hidden behind mist and thick, swirling clouds and there was not a star to be seen in the sky. On the streets there were few cars; almost no illumination came from piercing headlights. Inside the buildings, inhabitants slept. Windows were covered with shades. Even the usual flickering light that came from televisions left on all night seemed nonexistent. The city was black. And quiet.

Jack slid open the glass door that led to his terrace. Naked save for a light blue-and-white cotton robe, a long-ago gift from Caroline, he hesitated before stepping outside. He knew that what he was about to do was crazy but he was compelled nonetheless to do it. The magnet was there and it was drawing him outside.

Sleep was impossible, and he felt he had to try to understand, to see for himself.

One foot inched out onto the terrace and, although this was usually no problem for him, this night – or morning – his stomach immediately drew itself into a tight knot and his throat went dry. Another step and then another and then he was maybe six feet from the end of the terrace. His legs were rapidly losing strength; they felt as if they would barely keep him erect. But two more steps and he was closer yet. He reached out for the wall, tried to force himself to touch it, and he thought, yes, I can do this, I can do this, but then he started to shake and he could feel the magnet draw him closer and closer. He could see the fall. He could see them all falling. His mother, her mouth twisted, her eyes pleading, disappearing. Caroline, limp and lifeless, dropping. Kid…

What did he see when he saw Kid fall? Anger. Desperation. Clawing and fighting and resistance against something that could not be resisted.

The terror swept over Jack and took his body, his mind, his soul, and as his fingers strained to touch the brick he stumbled. His body half turned and he could feel himself shivering uncontrollably. Disoriented now, he didn't know how close he was to the wall, then he felt his shoulder scrape against it and he screamed. The scream was strangled in his throat, it didn't last long, but now Jack felt himself going. His hand was on the top of the wall and he saw exactly what was going to happen. His other hand would touch there and he'd force himself closer, and then his leg would magically rise up, and then his other leg, and then he'd be gone. He'd be flying above the city. All-seeing and -powerful. But then he'd be falling, too. Just like all the others. It would come with no warning; his flight would just stop and there he'd be, out there – out there – with nothing to grab on to, nothing to save him. He'd be dropping. Faster. Faster still. And even faster. And there would be the city, rushing up to envelop him, swooping over him and through him. The blackness would take him and make him its own.

The pain. The noise. The roar and then the stillness.

And then it would be over…

When Jack's eyes opened, he was on the floor of his terrace. His right hand was stretched above his head, his left was resting tight against his body. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, didn't know it had been less than a minute. He got his bearings, saw the table and his usual chair, saw the barbell and the stack of weights. He shifted his head to look back through the glass door into his living room. All was still dark and silent.

Jack never turned back to look at the wall. He crawled the several feet he needed until his hand could touch the solid glass of the sliding door. When his palm was pressed against it, could feel its coolness soak into his hot flesh, his dizziness began to subside. His stomach slowly settled and his robe, damp from his sweat, began to drop away from his body and loosen. He took a deep breath and stood, slowly, in stages, as if unfurling himself from inside a trunk. Or a coffin.

Jack put one foot inside his apartment. For a moment he straddled the doorway, one foot in, one foot out. Then his back foot slid forward and he was in his living room. Without turning around, he fumbled for the handle of the door, found it, and slid the glass shut.

He wiped the moisture from his forehead, ran his hand through his sopping-wet hair, went into his bedroom and sat on the bed. When he lay down, he pulled the light, summer quilt up to his shoulders and then over his chin. Soon, almost all that was visible were his eyes. They stayed open for several more hours, staring straight ahead, and then, close to seven in the morning, they finally closed and Jack slept a fitful but dreamless sleep.

Even for a funeral, Kid's burial was an extraordinarily dreary and sobering event. Dom accompanied Jack and the first thing he said when Jack's car came by to pick him up was "Christ, Jackie, we're goin' to too many fuckin' funerals." When Jack nodded grimly, Dom then added, "Do you remember the last time we been to this goddamn place?" There was no need for Jack to respond to the question. They both knew exactly when they'd last been there. It was eleven years earlier. The day they'd gone to Sal Demeter's funeral. Sal was not quite forty-five when he died. His son had not lived to see his twenty-sixth birthday.

The car dropped them off at the loading station for the Staten Island Ferry. Both men bought tickets and ambled onto the boat. Jack and Dom were the only ones in suits and ties. Most of the crowd wore shorts or jeans and T-shirts. Most were tourists or adventurous Manhattanites, happy to be escaping the island for a few hours, anxious to see new sights. Some of the men on the boat, Jack was sure, were policemen or firemen sitting through part of their normal commute. A lot of city workers lived on Staten Island. It had a comfortable blue-collar neighborhood: houses had yards, which was great for raising lots of kids and having pets. And because of those workers, living on Staten Island had its practical advantages. Snow was always shoveled off the streets first. Blackouts were attended to immediately. Garbage was always picked up on time.

During the short ride across the water, Dom stayed down below but Jack was feeling antsy and went up on top. He'd never been a smoker but now was one of the few times in his life he wished he had a cigarette. He just wanted something in his hand, something to keep himself busy. Instead of tobacco, he went to a vending machine and bought a Baby Ruth bar. It was enough of an activity that it relaxed him. Chewing on the too-sweet candy, he leaned against the railing, looking down at the churning waves. Even though the sun was shining and the air was warm, the water looked cold and forbidding.