Mad Dog Justice (25 page)

The crowd roars in his ears.

There’s no cut, no wound. He’s not bleeding.

He gasps with relief.

Jesus. You’re turning into a paranoid maniac
.

He closes his eyes as an image of Crystal again crosses his mind: the tarpaulin-covered body on the sidewalk, her telephone call—no doubt, someone had a gun to her head. Seeing her this morning as she sat at a table across from him, young, vibrant, beautiful, filled with plans for the future, thanks to a connection she made at McLaughlin’s. McLaughlin’s, even the fleeting
thought of the place turns his stomach. Images of Walt McKay dead in the garage and of Crystal’s toes protruding from beneath the tarp play in endless loops through his mind.

It’s all my doing, even without intending it. The fault lies with me
.

Roddy peers out the pub’s front window at the tide of humanity streaming by. Is anyone lingering? Anyone looking too casual, like he’s just killing time? His eye catches a young man leaning against a parked car, smoking a cigarette. He’s so Irish looking, it’s as though the map of Ireland is etched on his face. He’s soon joined by two friends—guys in their twenties. Beneath the conical light of a streetlamp, they swig beer from amber-colored bottles and smoke cigarettes, enjoying the immortality of youth. They’re obviously bar patrons who’ve stepped outside for a quick smoke. Probably from the outer boroughs, as are most of the patrons of the place. Young, working guys—maybe apprentices to plumbers, electricians, and carpenters—and most likely still living at home with their parents. The needle on Roddy’s danger meter hovers near the zero marker.

A guy in his late-thirties approaches them. He’s wearing a dark blue coat buttoned up to his neck in the winter air. He could be Eastern European. He has an unlit cigarette between his lips and says something to the others. One guy whips out matches and lights the guy’s cigarette. There’s a brief exchange of what appear to be friendly words and smiles all around.

The guy turns and eyes the pub in a way that appears far too casual. Cigarette smoke streams from his nostrils and dissipates in the wind. He nods to the other three and moves on. Roddy’s danger meter needle quivers in place.

He takes another swig of beer when, suddenly, someone slams into his back. The impact causes beer to slosh over the rim of his mug onto the bar top. Roddy whirls around and faces a young man with short hair and a Vandyke. The guy turns and
says, “Sorry, friend.”

“No problem.”

“Lemme buy you a beer.”

“That’s okay. I’m just leaving.”

It’s unlikely the kid had bad intentions: his back was toward Roddy when they made contact. But he begins to feel tingling in the small of his back. It occurs to Roddy it wasn’t a good idea to slip into the pub. Yes, it seemed a good place to lose anyone who might be following, but the crowd makes it easy for someone to slink up close and gut-shank him.

Shanked. Your blood dribbles your life away, and you die as blood pools and collects in your innards. Like father, like son
. All these years later and he’s still reciting the same mantra.

Roddy collects his change from the bar top, leaves a tip, and moves toward the front door. The tavern’s sound system blasts “I Gotta Feeling” by The Black Eyed Peas, which Roddy recognizes from Tom tuning in Z100 whenever he’s in the car. Tom, struggling with all the early adolescent shit his life can hand him and Sandy, wanting more than anything on earth to be like her father.

And Tracy. Who knows what she’s thinking or planning to do? God, how he misses all three of them and how lost and alone he feels in the vastness of Manhattan.

“We’re so over”
is what she said. His stomach clenches.

Nearing the door, Roddy looks through the tavern’s front window. The young men are gone. There’s no sign of the guy wearing the blue jacket.

He sees a taxi slow down and pull over to the curb in front of the place. Two young men are perched on the backseat. One guy pays the driver. When the right rear door opens, Roddy darts from the pub and waits beside the taxi’s open door for the two men to exit the cab.

He jumps into the taxi.

“Where to?” asks the driver.

“Head over to the FDR. We’re going to Brooklyn.”

A
t the Marriott, Roddy takes the escalator to the mezzanine level. He can’t know if he’s been followed, though he kept looking out the rear window of the taxi during the trip back to Brooklyn. He wonders where Crystal’s family is and tries to imagine them being notified of her horrific death. There won’t be a broker’s license; there won’t be a future for her.

Waiting for the elevator, Roddy’s aware of an urge to keep moving, as though he wants the world to speed up. He looks up at the indicators; the elevators are taking forever to get to the mezzanine. A white-haired elderly woman waits with him. Finally, a soft
ding
sounds as the elevator stops at the mezzanine. The doors slide open. Roddy waits for the woman to enter before he does. She smiles at him and moves into the compartment.

Roddy hears footsteps: someone’s running for the elevator. The woman presses the “Open” button, and a man appears at the elevator door. He steps in without thanking the woman.

She presses a button for the eighth floor.

From the corner of his eye, Roddy watches the man—he’s in his thirties, wears a black, waterproof anorak, is nearly Roddy’s height, clean shaven, and has light brown hair. He stares up at the indicator. On the street, he’d be just another guy, but not now. Wariness seeps through Roddy as he waits; every muscle goes taut. He reaches into his pocket; his hand rests on the pistol.

Roddy casts another sidelong look at the guy. He’s not the one who was outside the tavern. That guy wore a blue jacket and had a very different look. This man could be nearly anyone you’d see on the street in wintertime. Roddy wonders if the guy is sizing him up, and his muscles tense as he feels ready to pounce. He leans forward and presses the button for the fifteenth floor, though his room is on the twentieth.

Roddy’s pressing the button seems to be a prompt of some kind; the man hits the button for the seventeenth floor.

Why’d he wait until I hit a button before he did? And why the seventeenth floor, two above the one I pressed?

Heat crawls into Roddy’s face. When the woman gets off on the eighth floor, will the guy pull out a gun and shoot? Then get off at the seventeenth floor? And press the elevator’s button for the twentieth story so it goes to the top of the building with Roddy dead on the elevator floor?

An electric storm forms in Roddy’s head as the doors slide shut. The elevator begins a gentle rise. Roddy tries—from the corner of his eye—to determine if there’s a bulge in the man’s jacket. He can’t tell. Roddy’s palm rests on the pistol grip and his index finger slides onto the trigger. With the gun inside his pocket, Roddy points it at the guy.

Does the guy look Russian, Italian, or Eastern European—Slavic? It’s impossible to know. Ethnic stereotyping can be misleading. The man leans against the elevator’s rear wall and looks casual. Maybe too casual. He seems barely aware of the woman or Roddy. Music—some nondescript instrumental—is piped into the car; it blends with the hissing in Roddy’s ears. As the elevator ascends, his vision sharpens and the elevator light seems to brighten, as though Roddy’s pupils have dilated. He feels adrenaline washing into his bloodstream. His nerve endings fire, and a jangling sensation courses through his chest. Gooseflesh crawls over his arms.

What will happen in the next few seconds? After the woman gets out of the elevator, will the guy pull a pistol? Should Roddy begin sliding the gun from his pocket or maybe angle himself so the pistol is pointing at the guy through his jacket?

It occurs to Roddy that these days, hotels and office building elevators have hidden cameras. Everything in the cubicle is digitally recorded. It would be a poor place for a hit man to strike. And this guy’s face is in full view. He wears no hat or sunglasses, and the anorak’s hood is down. Roddy looks up, tries to spot a camera, but sees only a laminate of cedar with decorative cornice work.

The elevator stops at the eighth floor. The woman nods at Roddy and gets out. He looks at the indicator and glances at the guy. Roddy’s pistol still points at the guy through his jacket pocket.

The doors slide shut. Roddy feels electrified. The guy is a blurred presence to his right. He seems so nonchalant; it makes Roddy think he’d be a perfect hit man. He plays it cool, pulls a pistol, and pops the target. Or maybe he’s just another guest in a hotel at night, going to his room. Maybe …

The elevator rises steadily. Ninth floor … tenth … eleventh …

Roddy is coiled for action. If the man blinks the wrong way, he’s ready to fire. Or maybe he’ll leap, shoot a knee into the guy’s groin, and pound him to the floor. Put a choke hold on the bastard and force him to talk.

The elevator stops at the fifteenth floor. It sits there for an eternity before the doors slide open. Roddy makes certain not to turn his back; he moves sideways, his hand in his pocket on the pistol grip, his finger on the trigger. Watching from the corner of his eye, Roddy’s ready to whirl and fire. He’ll blow the guy away before he can get his hand on his weapon, wherever it’s hidden.

Roddy darts from the elevator; he moves past the doors and to the right. He waits while the door stays open. His heart hammers
as his hand clutches the pistol. His breath is ragged. The elevator doors close.

Roddy struggles to catch his breath. His legs go weak and begin trembling. He’s soaked in sweat. It’s the depleted sensation after an adrenaline rush. He’s safe now, alone in the corridor. His arms feel leaden and hang at his sides. A chill overtakes him. He waits for the feeling to pass and stumbles to the nearest stairwell. On liquid legs, he climbs to the twentieth floor and makes his way to his room.

He fumbles with the keycard; his hands shake violently as he tries slipping it into the slot. On the third attempt, the door lock clicks. He enters the room, closes the door, double locks it, and tumbles onto the bed.

As he lies there, staring at the ceiling, the room spins. He closes his eyes. His mind swarms with a rush of images and thoughts: Crystal’s body on the sidewalk, Walt McKay dead in the garage, Danny near death in the hospital, Tracy and the kids in Nutley, Angela and her kids in Riverdale, Gargano, the Russians, Charlie on Arthur Avenue, the pistol, the guy in the Navigator, the men in the garage, Morgan. All of it: an insane series of events in a confusing jumble of time, places, and people. Roddy’s lost track of his life. He’s uprooted, and everything seems alien and senseless. He wonders if life is supposed to boil down to this: alone in a hotel room, isolated from all meaning, boxed in with nowhere to go. A strange thought comes to him.
No one gets out of this life alive
. While he’s always known that, it’s never been so clear and so drearily inescapable.

Time passes—it must be minutes, but it seems like hours—and finally, his breathing slows. He feels his mind and body downshift to a lower level of intensity. It’s the cooldown period after an adrenaline dump and a system overload.

He removes his jacket, sets the pistol on the end table, picks up the cell, and dials Danny.

“Yeah?”

“Can you talk?”

“I’m alone.”

“Crystal’s dead.”

“
What
?”

“She took a forty-story fall.”

“
Jesus
. Was it suicide?”

“I’ll bet she was helped out the window or, more likely, off the balcony.”

Roddy describes Crystal’s telephone call, his trip to Manhattan, and seeing Bluetooth Guy at the scene. “I’ll bet a gun was at her head when she called me.”

“I don’t get the connection to Crystal,” Dan says.

“Neither do I. But whoever’s after us knows her.”

“Knows her
how
?”

“It’s gotta be the restaurant.”

“Think you were followed to her place this morning?”

“I have no idea.”

“Roddy, do you think they followed you back to where you are
now
?”

“Could be. I’m getting out of here.”

“Roddy, you realize, of course, you never told me where you’re staying.”

“In case they pinpoint these cell phones.”

“Really? Is
that
why? Because I told you where I am, and the only one who came here was Morgan.”

Roddy detects a hint of doubt in Danny’s voice.

“Just playing it safe, Dan. But if you really need to know, I’m at the Marriott in Brooklyn.”

“Well, get the hell out of there.”

“You gonna be okay, Dan?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean the asthma.”

“It’s under control. Just get outta there.”

“I will.”

“This beats the shit outta me, Roddy. I don’t get the Crystal connection.”

“It’s gotta be the restaurant.”

“Maybe, but something’s nagging at me,” Dan says.

“What’s that?”

“I’m not sure. Lemme think about it. And call me when you find a new place.”

“Hey, Dan, when something nags at you that can be a good thing.”

“Yeah, well, it might be the first good thing that’s happened.”

I
n the bathroom, Roddy looks in the mirror. He sports a seedy-looking growth of beard. In the bright light, he notices many hairs are bristly and white. He’s never seen them before because, up until last week, he shaved every day. His eyes look glazed; dark, puffy pouches perch beneath them. His forehead is furrowed; deep creases show above his eyes. Worry lines. He never realized they were so prominent. He barely looks like the guy he was the day Danny got shot.

A pulling sensation begins in his lower back—where the guy in the bar crashed into him. Did he do anything to him?

Don’t be absurd. It’s muscle tension. I’m on edge, and when that happens, you can feel all kinds of sensations
.

He undresses and looks at himself in the full-length bathroom mirror. Twisting around, he looks for a mark or a bruise on his lower back but sees nothing.

He turns on the shower and waits until the water heats up. He steps into the stall and lets the stream pour down onto his back. It feels like needles prickling his skin. Steam rises around him as he lathers up. The muscle tension—corded knots—begins loosening
beneath the hot torrent.