Revolver (18 page)

“Stan—come the fuck on already!”

This is it. Finally. Stan knows it as sure as he knows how to spell his last name: this is the night his partner is going to get him killed.

“Go go go go!” Wildey whisper-screams. But Stan can barely hear him as he opens the front door and takes a step inside the chilly building while Wildey climbs up the fire escape.

After weeks of false leads, their snitch, Terrill Lee, said it was happening tonight. Big heroin deal on the top floor of a four-story apartment building at Twenty-Second and Diamond. Wildey got all excited. Here we come, white wolves. Let's finally see your faces.

Stan's not so sure. What reason do they have for heading up to this apartment building anyway? The word of a self-described agitator who says he likes to see stuff burn? Could be a trap waiting for them up on the fourth floor, for all he knows. Stuff the pigs, two-for-one special.

But despite his internal grousing, Stan huffs it up the stairs—there's no elevator in this place. Wildey proposed a two-front attack, to make sure nobody goes scurrying out the back door. Said his cop daddy John Quincy raided more speakeasies during Prohibition than anyone else on the force, and he learned one important lesson: cover all exits, always. Stan didn't say it out loud, but he's sure his own father would have something to say about that.

The stairs seem to go on forever. The paint on the walls is dirty and chipped, the rug worn down to a thin ghost of itself. He's sure nobody's bothered with maintenance in this place since the 1940s, when the neighborhood started going black. The halls smell like grease—foreign cooking full of exotic ingredients.

Finally Stan reaches the fourth floor, finds the apartment—4B. He pulls his service revolver, then puts his ear up against the door. Male voices, murmuring. Some sharp laughter,
hah hah hah
. You're not going to be laughing in a second. As he takes a step back, Stan tastes copper in his mouth. His own blood. This can't be a good sign. He steels himself for the job ahead. Just boot the door, point your gun, tell everyone to stick up their hands. You know, the kind of stuff Jimmy thinks you do all the time. Hero cop stuff.

Then comes a loud crash—glass breaking.

And a battle cry:

“Freeze, motherfuckers!”

Oh shit, Stan thinks. What the hell—Wildey agreed that Stan would take lead, catch 'em off guard, then Wildey would open a window and come in.

As Stan leans back, putting his weight on his back leg, ready to take down the door—

It opens.

Two white guys in dark suits holding guns stand in the open doorway, both just as surprised to see Stan as he is to see them.

“Well, shit,” one of the white guys says. He has a buzz cut, thick eyebrows, and beady eyes. “This is an awkward situation.”

Stan walks them back into the room at gunpoint. They've already lowered their weapons, telling him to take it easy. Stan ignores them, calls out to his partner. “Wildey, you all right?”

Wildey, meanwhile, has his revolver pointed at three Negro men dressed like they're headed out for a night on the town. One of them, a thick-necked bulldog of a man, has a shotgun pointed back at Wildey.

“You said you had this under control,” the bulldog says.

“Shut up, Sam,” says one of his colleagues. “Not another word!”

Wildey looks the bulldog in the eye. “How about it, Bey-Bey? You want to put down that gun, or do you want to do something stupid?”

Bey-Bey squints as he cocks his head slightly. “I know you?”

Stan doesn't like this at all. That bulldog's shotgun could cut Wildey in half and send both pieces of him flying back out the way he came.

“Yeah, I know you, Bey-Bey,” Wildey says. “How many times did I pinch you for robbing craps games back in West Philly? Surprised to see you uptown.”

“Wildey,” he says with a tone of recognition.

“Now why don't you put down that gun and let's talk about what we're gonna do next.”

But what Samuel “Bey-Bey” Baynes is going to do next is rack his shotgun with a loud
KA-CHAK
. His two partners tense up. Holy shit, is he really gonna kill this cop right here in this apartment?

Stan forgets about the white guys and turns his revolver on Bey-Bey. “Don't do it, motherfucker,” he says.

“We're okay, Stan!” Wildey says. “Bey-Bey isn't stupid.”

Bey-Bey is not stupid. But he's also not about to go down for this. There's a ton of heroin in this apartment and he knows it's enough to sink him. Which is why he suddenly aims his shotgun at the ceiling and pulls the trigger.
KA-BLAM
.

The plaster above their heads explodes—white shit rains down on their heads. Wildey recoils from the blast, which is what Bey-Bey wanted, because now he's charging forward, using his shotgun as a battering ram.

Stan is about to squeeze the trigger when the two white guys seize the opportunity to tackle him, knocking him off his feet.

The length of Bey-Bey's shotgun smashes into Wildey's forearms and forces his body back through the shattered windows and onto the fire escape.

Stan doesn't see what happens next because the two white guys are punching and kicking the crap out of him. It feels like he's tumbling around in a clothes dryer along with a couple of bricks—there's no way to anticipate where the next painful blow will land. Yet Stan holds tight to his gun. You never, ever let go of your gun. The punches and kicks he can take. But if one of these bastards picks up one of their own guns, he's going to have to defend himself. And he doesn't want to have to shoot somebody tonight—not if he can help it.

After a few blows, however, it becomes clear that the white guys are more interested in hightailing it out of here. One of them scrambles out of the doorway, headed for the stairs. “Come on!” he shouts to his partner, Buzz-Cut Guy.

Oh no you don't. Stan reaches out and grabs a fistful of pant cuff, which is enough to catch Buzz-Cut off guard and bring the man down hard. He scratches against the worn carpet with his fingernails, trying to claw his way up to a standing position, but Stan's already climbing up the guy's legs, his revolver still in his right hand. If he can reach the guy's head, he can give him a good wallop and take the fight out of him.

But Buzz-Cut turns and swings a fist across the top of Stan's head. Which hurts. A lot. He tastes blood in his mouth again. Buzz-Cut wriggles loose, his knees and elbows knocking on the floor as he tries to get up.

“Let go, you stupid asshole!”

Then he's free. Stan, though, catches him again at the top of the stairs, grabbing his pant cuffs, but both of them go tumbling down, limbs flailing around in a mutual effort to slow their descent. The blows seem to come from all angles. After a while it's hard to tell what's a step and what's a fist or an elbow.

Stan, however, maintains a viselike grip on his revolver.

And by the time they both reach bottom, Buzz-Cut is twisted up in a ball with Stan pointing his weapon at him, telling him he's under arrest.

By the time Stan has Buzz-Cut in cuffs and is back on the ground floor, other red cars from the Twenty-Second have shown up—neighbors must have heard the shotgun blast and called it in. Stan pushes Buzz-Cut toward a pair of uniforms, then runs around the side of the building, yelling for his partner.

Wildey, though, is already on the ground, dragging an unconscious Bey-Bey along the alley floor, away from the fire escape. Wildey's shirt is untucked and his face and arms are bleeding but he's smiling anyway.

“That was fun,” he says. “Let's do it again.”

When Jim opens his eyes Sunday morning he's fully prepared for it to hurt. He knows this one's going to be especially bad because he doesn't clearly remember going to bed last night—not putting his glass in the sink, not undressing, not slipping under the covers, none of it. After a certain point, it's a complete blank, and it takes a ridiculous amount of booze for Jim to get there.

The last things Jim remembers are returning home with Sta
ś
, hands shaking with rage, praying nobody will notice. Claire telling him Michael Sarkissian of
Metropolitan
magazine left a message. (“Are they writing something about you?” she asked. “I hope not,” he replied.) And calling Sarkissian back.

Sarkissian giving him grief about meeting on a Sunday, but Jim insisting—telling him there's something important about Kelly Anne that he needs to run by him.

Sarkissian joking, asking, “Do I need a lawyer?”

Jim, enjoying the few seconds of panicked silence on the line while he hesitates before replying. “No, I don't think so. Just want to do a little fact-checking.”

And then going to his basement office to read through his murder scrapbook and fantasize about what he'll say to Terrill Lee Stanton face to face the next time they meet up. Because there will
absolutely
be a next time.

You fucking coward.

You didn't even tell him your name.

“Detective Jim Walczak, fuckhead—you murdered my father.”

Well, no more pussyfooting around. You've been keeping this cold little ball of hate in your guts for thirty years now. Time to let some of it out. Murdering son of a bitch owes you that much, at least. The courtesy of an explanation. An apology.

Something.

Jim remembers pouring vodka over ice and reading through the clippings, the familiar headlines all over again.
TWO COPS SLAIN IN FAIRMOUNT BAR
. And
NO ANSWERS IN DOUBLE COP MURDER MYSTERY.
Jim put on the Rolling Stones and poured another vodka rocks—the first one seemed to have simply vanished—and traveled back to that Friday in May 1965 all over again. What would his twelve-year-old self tell him to do, now that he knows his father's killer is just a few miles away?

You know the answer, you coward. It's what you've wanted all along. To pull the revolver out of its holster and kick in the front door and stick the barrel in his mouth and make him beg for his life and in exchange for his life you're going to make him tell you what happened.

The only person on this earth who knows what happened in that bar that day is only a couple of miles away. You missed your chance this morning and this evening. Tomorrow morning, you do it right.

But a few vodka rocks later the same voice says
why not do it now.

Jim remembers walking around the sleeping form of his oldest son on the couch, the house being quiet when he steps outside, climbing behind the wheel, putting it in reverse, dinging the car parked behind him, cursing. And after that…

No fucking idea.

“Can we keep this off the record?”

This is the first time Jim's heard a
journalist
speak these words. Noon Sunday at
Metropolitan
magazine and the offices are deserted. Lights out. Desks unmanned. Except for Sarkissian's desk, of course. He's dressed in Sunday casual—a long-sleeved polo shirt, khakis, and sneakers. Just a family guy who had to dart back to the office to pick up some notes he forgot. At least, that's what he probably told his wife back in Narberth.

“This is a murder investigation,” Jim says.

“This is also my marriage.”

“That's between you and your wife,” Jim says. “'I'm here for Kelly Anne Farrace. So tell me, how long did you two have a relationship?”

Sarkissian leans back in his chair, exasperated.

“And like I said, can this please stay off the record?”

Jim spreads his hands as if to indicate his agreement. But things like
on and off the record
matter to journalists, not cops. “I just want the truth.”

Michael Sarkissian is thirty-nine, handsome, a Penn grad, and happens to hold the keys to Kelly Anne Farrace's career.

“We started out as a mentor-and-mentee thing, you understand? She wanted to break into writing for the magazine, and I oversee the department and feature wells. She would pitch me stories, and I'd tell her how to improve them, turn them around to make them surprising…that sort of thing.”

Jim nods. Sure. His head has stopped throbbing, but he could easily vomit at any moment. He keeps both feet flat on the floor and his movements to a minimum. Sarkissian probably reads this as Jim being Stern Cop.

“We became friends, and…well, after a while, we lapsed into something else. Something I regret now, looking back on it.”

“Lapsed?”

“I didn't mean for it to happen. Neither of us did.”

Outer Jim nods like he understands, projecting total empathy. Inner Jim knows better. Come the fuck off it.
You didn't lapse. You wanted to know what it would feel like to stick your cock in her mouth. Or up her ass.

“We weren't exclusive,” he adds.

“Well, sure. You're married.”

“No, I mean, she dated other guys.”

“I don't suppose,” Jim says, “she told you any names? Because I'm trying to put together a list of people who were closest to Kelly Anne.”

“No, she never mentioned names—just that she saw other people. She didn't want there to be any misunderstandings.”

“Were there?”

Sarkissian shakes his head and squints. Of course not.

“Did you have sex with Kelly Anne the night before her death?”

Horrified look. “No.”

Jim knows he's lying. Tells all over his face. Was it a quickie in the coat room at Circa, or was it back at her place?

“Well, someone did,” Jim says, then proceeds to share with the editor the findings of the coroner. Jim hates himself for enjoying the conflicted expression that washes over the editor's face.

Is this on or off the record, Mr. Sarkissian?

Jim drives back home because Claire wants him home. No, not wants; she pretty much
demanded
it. Despite the fact that he's got to bring Aisha up to speed, and he's eager to run with this Sarkissian thing, and he'd really love to see how Terrill Lee Stanton is enjoying the Lord's Day…

(Don't you remember, Jimbo?)

Sundays, however, are sacred to Claire. “You're Jewish,” he once joked. “Shouldn't it be Saturday?” But Claire didn't think that was very funny. Bad enough he had to go downtown to interview the editor at noon. And yes, she understands that homicide cops work around the clock. The job is never really over. But Claire made him promise that whenever possible—if such a thing was in his power—he'd leave Sundays open.

“One day you're going to wake up and this house will be empty. And you'll be sorry for all you missed.”

It's not that he doesn't want to be home. It's just that he doesn't know how to just
be
at home, with nothing else tugging at his brain.

Audrey wants to play Sorry! and happily sets up the game pieces on the dining room table. Jim takes a seat next to her, his stomach still roiling. Claire smiles at them as she passes, headed for the kitchen. She loves seeing her husband and children play.

The pawns move around the board and Audrey takes peculiar delight in sending Jim's pieces all the way back to the beginning. “Sor-RY, Daddy!”

Most board games drive Jim insane. He doesn't see the point. You're just going through the motions. This one especially. But Audrey loves it so he shuts up and plays. He considers this his penance for the heavy boozing of the night before.

He wishes he could ask his father how he did it. The whole family thing. Granted, his pop was a career patrolman. He wasn't obsessing over homicides. But even toward the end of his career, when they assigned him to the worst district in the city, Stan Walczak was there. He was present. Drinking tomato juice and laughing with Jim before school in the morning. Waking up before he got home from school to fix him a snack. Taking his boy to Phillies games.
(When was the last time you took your kids to a ball game?)
His pop never talked about cases. Somehow, he left it all in the squad car.

“Your turn, Dad,” Audrey says.

Jim flips the next card. The whole time, he's only half-paying attention, which is probably why she's kicking his ass. But he can't help it. He tries to dig up the shattered memories of the night before but it's painful, difficult.

He's starting to wonder if he did something horrible like go outside and climb behind the wheel of his car and then drive to the halfway house on Erie Avenue.

(You made him beg, didn't you, Jimbo?)

The phone rings once and boom—Audrey darts away from the dining room table and runs to the wall to pick up the receiver. She loves being the first to answer the phone. Or push an elevator button. Or reach the front door. She'll elbow you in the face to get there before you.

“Daddy, it's some lady for you.”

Jim tries hard not to smile. “Is it Detective Mothers, sugarpop?”

Audrey shrugs. How is she supposed to know? It's just some lady.

“Thanks, Aud.” Jim puts the phone to his ear. “Detective Walczak.”

“I can't believe you.
This
is your suspect?”

Jim's guts turn cold as he recognizes the voice.

“Hi, Sonya.”

Claire raises an eyebrow, swirls the spoon in her coffee impatiently. Jim mouths the word
work
.

“Why are you hassling Mike Sarkissian?” Sonya is saying. “Do you really want those two scumbags who raped and murdered Kelly Anne to go free? And are you prepared for
Metropolitan
to crucify you in their feature well?”

Jim supposes the mayor has assigned Sonya to this case full-time now. Round-the-clock care and feeding of the homicide unit on the weekend before Election Day. Hound every movement, question every decision.

“Is Sarkissian a friend of yours?”

Sta
ś
is pretending to play with the last of his spaghetti, but he's listening, too. Jim realizes he probably should be taking this call in another room.

“Please,” Sonya says. “He's a spoiled little brat. Believe me, if he had
anything
to do with this murder, I'd be doing naked cartwheels in Rittenhouse Square. But he didn't. You're wasting your time. And pissing off someone who can give us a lot of grief.”

Outer Jim's been patient so far. The mayor can be an important ally. God knows Jim's superiors would want him to play along like a good little soldier. But clearly, Outer Jim isn't working with Sonya. So it's time to give her a little Inner Jim. He takes the cordless phone and walks into the kitchen with it, out of his family's earshot.

“Sonya,” Jim says in the sternest whisper he can manage, “I need you to back off.”

She doesn't fuss or protest. Jim gets the sense that she likes this. She just made him flinch.

Deep breath now. You let Inner Jim show his face for a second, but that's okay. Tuck him back in bed and let Outer Jim handle it from here. “Sarkissian was with Kelly Anne eight hours before she died,” Jim says. “Far as we know, he's the last person to see her alive. I can't ignore that.”

Sonya sighs. “You really know how to fuck a girl up the ass, don't you, Detective Walczak.” Interesting choice of words, there.“Look, I know Mike—he had nothing to do with this. He isn't the type. Only reason he didn't step forward is because he didn't want to become the news and wreck his marriage.”

“I'm not investigating his marriage. I'm trying to find out what happened to Kelly Anne.”

“Can I give you a piece of advice, then?”

“What's that?”

“Tread lightly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there was someone else I know who was in close proximity to Ms. Farrace eight hours before she died. By chance, did you ask Michael where he took his fact-checker for drinks? It's a really popular spot in town right now—perhaps you've gone there yourself recently. Say, Wednesday night?”

And then all of a sudden Jim understands what this phone call is really about.