Monkey in the Middle (15 page)

Middle-aged and thick around the waist, the bartender wears a red bandanna and a t-shirt bearing the likeness of Linda Lovelace, the legendary porn star. His heavy cheeks are covered with stubble and his chest hair rides over the collar of his t-shirt. Two men and a woman play pool on a table laid before an inside wall. They swig their beer directly from the bottle and wear blue jeans torn at the knees, but Carter takes them for dressed-down yuppies. His judgment is instinctive, made before he registers their open expressions, or notes the woman's hand-tooled leather bag or the leather coat she's laid across a table, or a laptop computer tucked into a half-open backpack.

Beyond these four, the Tub of Blood is empty, no surprise because the dinner hour is long past and it's two days before Christmas. Carter finds a spot at the end of the bar furthest from the street and orders a hamburger with a slice of raw onion and a beer. He's come to the Tub of Blood for a barbecued brisket sandwich, the specialty of the house.

Carter's on his second beer, about to bite into his sandwich, when a woman enters. She nods to the bartender, who smiles and nods back, then takes off her coat and drapes it over the bar.

‘A mojito,' she announces.

A mojito? At the Tub of Blood? Carter smiles to himself. Like the rest of New York, the Queens neighborhood of Woodhaven is rapidly changing. The Italians and Irish who once dominated are either moving to Florida retirement homes, or are already dead. Their replacements are younger, better educated and far less likely to be native New Yorkers. They're richer, too. In the past decade, real estate values have exploded. Janie's two-bedroom apartment, originally purchased for $30,000 shortly before she came to get him, is now worth half a million. Carter knows this because he's had the apartment appraised at Janie's request. Maybe his sister accumulated a decent nest egg before she was struck down, but the ongoing price of nursing home care is taking its toll. Now there's a fair chance she'll go broke and have to apply for Medicaid. At which point, her assets will be up for grabs.

‘Quiet tonight.'

At first, Carter doesn't realize that he's being spoken to. He's focused on eating his brisket without soiling his fingers. Then he slowly turns.

‘Sorry?'

‘I said it's quiet tonight. Everybody's on the road. You know, home for the holidays.'

‘No place like it.' Carter meets her gaze, thinking he might as well get it over with. Most women flinch when they look into his eyes, but not all women. And not this woman. She's short and broad-shouldered, with a square face dominated by a head of wavy hair that hangs to her shoulders. Parted in the middle, her hair is a shade redder than auburn, echoing the spray of freckles beneath her eyes. Sprightly, Carter thinks. Perky. A ball of fire at the office.

‘Wait, I have an idea.'

She retreats to a battered jukebox, feeds it a dollar bill, then punches in a few numbers. A moment later, Bing Crosby's syrupy voice pours from the speakers.
White Christmas
, naturally.

‘There, how's that?' She winks at Carter and extends a hand. ‘My name's Maureen.'

‘Leonard.' Carter takes her slightly callused palm. ‘What do you do?' he asks.

Maureen hesitates and Carter knows he's been too abrupt. As usual. But he's not surprised when she finally answers. ‘I help produce videos for a public relations firm. You know, the glories of coal, how pharmaceutical companies are more interested in your health than making a profit, that kind of thing.'

Carter nods. Most likely, Maureen's earned her calluses lifting weights. Another yuppie trapping, the perfect gym.

Carter nibbles at his sandwich. It's not that he's uninterested, but he definitely has other things on his mind. Still, he plays along. ‘Does it bother you?' he asks. ‘Lying all day?'

‘Yeah.' Maureen accepts her drink, takes a gulp. She turns to Carter and her words tumble out, the syllables all but colliding. ‘I figure that's just the price I have to pay. If you want eventually to produce serious documentaries, which I do, you have to have experience. What I'm doing at CC&G is learning my trade. The way I see it, if I get a little better every day, one day I'll be good enough to give my boss – his name is Crocker, by the way, an asshole of the first magnitude – the middle digit on my way out. Until that time, I serve massa as best I can.'

Suddenly, Maureen grins. ‘Besides, what I do, it's just a game. The public knows we're full of shit. You see it in the polls. Most people would rather have a pedophile living next door than an oil executive.'

Carter takes a second before responding. ‘What about your co-workers? Are they cynical, too?'

‘I can't speak for them. I mean, for what they really think. But in the office, we're strictly orthodox. We don't go negative on the client. Massa wouldn't like that.'

Carter steals another look at Maureen before returning to his food, at her quick smile, at the even teeth she displays, the tip of her tongue. Flecks of amber and gold sparkle in her green eyes.

‘You going home for Christmas?' she asks.

Carter finishes his sandwich, wipes his fingers and drops a twenty on the bar. ‘That good?' he asks the bartender. When the bartender nods, he finally turns to Maureen.

‘I'm already home,' he explains. ‘I don't have to go anywhere.'

‘Lucky you. I'm from Big Butte.' She cocks her head and grins. ‘That's in Nevada.'

‘Big Butte?'

Maureen continues on, her words streaming forth like spray from a garden hose. ‘Big Butt. That's what we called it when I was in high school, me and the other kids who didn't fit in. Big Butt, Nevada, the butt-hole of America. What you think? What you say? Every syllable's mapped out in advance. Evil government desecrating your sacred liberties. The Jewish lobby running foreign policy. One-worlders persecuting white Christians. We don't take government handouts, but keep those farm subsidies coming. And by the way, if I want to let my steers crap in the creek, it's tough shit on my neighbors downstream. No pun intended.'

Maureen tosses her hair and she hesitates, perhaps waiting for Carter to respond. Then she says, ‘Not like New York, where you can say anything, the more outrageous the better.'

‘True enough, you can say anything in New York. It's just that nobody listens, or gives a damn. Conversation here is like the traffic. After a while you don't hear it.'

But Maureen shakes her head. ‘Take this to the bank, Leonard. If you've got a big mouth, like me, New York is the place to live.'

Carter smiles dutifully. ‘So, you're not going home?'

‘Just because I'm nostalgic enough to play
White Christmas
, doesn't mean I'm ready to put up with my relatives.' She scratches at her neck with the edge of a polished fingernail. ‘There are other things, besides . . .'

Carter wants to get back to Janie's apartment, but he thinks there's a point and that he needs to hear it. ‘Besides being a refugee from the butt-hole of America?' he prompts.

‘Yeah.' Maureen sips at her mojito. ‘Look, I know I'm being a little abrupt, but do you want to have dinner with me tomorrow?' That grin again, mischievous and challenging. ‘It's Christmas Eve and all my pals have taken off. I mean, if you're not doing the family thing . . .'

‘Give me your address and I'll pick you up.'

Carter's reply is prompt, maybe a little too prompt. Maureen's eyes darken. ‘My place is a complete mess,' she says, ‘which is what you'd expect, me having three room-mates. Also, I have to work tomorrow morning. Why don't we meet at the restaurant?'

‘You mean here?'

‘I was thinking Osteria del Sol. Do you know the place?'

‘Near Forest Park?'

‘That's the one.'

‘Seven o'clock OK?'

‘Sure.'

Carter climbs the nine flights of stairs leading to the roof of Janie's building. He's still breathing easily when he finally comes to a metal door, a matter of some satisfaction. The door opens when Carter pushes the bar release, but when he tries the handle on the outside, it won't turn. As expected, the door opens only from inside and Carter has to place a book between the door and the frame to keep it from closing behind him. Carter's purpose is simple reconnaissance. Know the terrain.

He steps on to the roof of the first of three attached apartment buildings. The buildings run north along Eighty-Ninth Avenue before giving way to a pair of two-family homes. Carter takes a minute to allow his senses to expand, then walks to the nearest building, where he again hesitates long enough to get his bearings. Though Carter's eight stories up and there's a steady breeze blowing out of the northwest, he's not aware of any discomfort.

Carter drops to the roof of the second building some eight feet below. He crosses to the door leading into the building, finds it locked, and continues on, to the third building. Here the drop is a mere yard and Carter steps down on to the roof without making a sound. Again, he approaches the door and tugs at the handle. This time the door opens.

Carter moves to the wall furthest from the street, drops to his knees and looks over the edge, exposing as little of his body as possible. As expected, he discovers an alley bounded by a tall, chain-link fence. The alley runs behind all three buildings to a narrow driveway that leads out to Eighty-Ninth Avenue. On the other side of the fence, the back yards of seven unattached homes span the entire block. Even in winter, the trees and shrubs will provide excellent cover to a man on the move.

Several minutes pass as Carter maps a series of exit routes. He counts seven altogether, through the front and rear of this and Janie's buildings, and down the fire escape of any of the three. The possibilities expand from there and Carter doesn't rush the process, knowing there may come a time when he needs to leave in a big hurry, when he'll have to rely on instinct. Nevertheless, he can't possibly memorize every possibility and he finally drops to his hands and knees before approaching the edge of the building overlooking Eighty-Ninth Avenue. He's on his belly by the time he exposes his head, which is a good thing, because his new friend, Maureen, is sitting behind the wheel of a black Chevy on the far side of the street.

Carter's neither surprised nor disappointed. All along, he's known that he could be tracked to Janie's apartment. But he does have a problem. Long term, he can't just disappear. Even should he desert Janie's apartment, Thorpe will eventually discover the Cabrini Nursing Center. Carter's not ready to desert his sister. Not even close.

Carter steps out of Maureen's line of vision, then begins the last of the tasks he's come to perform. Taking his time, he creates a mental map, noting the location of every rooftop that offers a line-of-sight to the front door of Janie's apartment house. Montgomery Thorpe is a manipulator and a schemer, not a fighter. Should he summon up the courage to deal with Carter personally, he won't confront his protégé. He'll lie in wait.

Back in Janie's apartment, Carter reconsiders a project he's been turning around in his mind for the past month. Carter's dissatisfied with his workout. The Sinawali system is fine for an empty room. But most environments are filled with objects. To be aware of them, to move smoothly between and around them, would be as advantageous as tripping over them would be disadvantageous. How many times had Thorpe lectured him about using terrain to lure your enemy into a trap? Environment is environment, whether it involves armies maneuvering on the battlefield, or two drunks in a back alley.

Carter's wants to remake the larger bedroom, Janie's room, into an obstacle course by arranging tables and chairs in random patterns that he can change every time he works out. But there's a problem. The room is already packed with furniture. There's a queen-sized bed, a triple dresser, an armoire, two nightstands, a vanity, even a chaise lounge.

The furniture is halfway decent, if unexciting, especially to Carter who's committed to the concept of traveling light. But this is Janie's furniture, accumulated over a lifetime. These are her treasures, from the porcelain ballerina on the vanity to an arrangement of photos on the dresser. Carter's in those photos. Carter and Janie at Jones Beach, in Disneyland, standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon.

Carter opens a closet to find it stuffed with suits, slacks, blouses and sweaters. He knows that Janie will never wear them again. Janie knows it, too. If he means to live in the apartment, he needs to get rid of her clothing and whatever furniture he doesn't want.

But Janie's still alive. She's still alive and she's not about to die any time soon. In Africa, Carter knew men who claimed that spirits resided in the most ordinary objects, in canteens, in binoculars, in the odd bit of jewelry. Carter never bought into their beliefs, as he never bought into the beliefs of the Episcopalian church Janie dragged him to every Sunday. Still, he feels Janie's presence in the apartment, as he smells, faintly, the scent of her perfume on her clothing.

Maybe tomorrow, he thinks. Maybe tomorrow I'll give her clothes to the Salvation Army. Maybe tomorrow I'll be dead.

Twenty

S
olly Epstein's day begins on a bright note. He's in the Crime Scene Unit's lab, in the video room, he and Billy Boyle, conferring with Tina Metzenbaum. CSU's techs have been working on the Orchid Hotel video all night and Epstein's anxious to view the results. He's afraid they've gotten Carter right. That would force his hand.

‘We went to the computer first,' Tina explains. ‘You know, when in doubt, beseech the technology god. The video was analyzed pixel by pixel and a supposedly enhanced image generated. Worthless image is more like it.'

Epstein stares at the glowing face on Tina's computer. The shape of the head is right, and so is the curve of the nose, but the eyes, mouth and chin are little more than vague shadows.