Sacrifice Fly (18 page)

“That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“This morning,” I said, “when I was drinking my coffee with
The New York Times
spread out on the carpet?”

“Yeah?”

“It took me five minutes to get up off the floor.”

Muscles shook his head and offered his hand to help me out of the contraption. As
he did, his left bicep ballooned to the size of a cantaloupe. All he needed was a
tattoo of an anchor and a can of spinach to complete the image. “The surgery was not
the end of your problems,” he said. “You should have been coming here every week for
physical therapy.”

Here
was Muscles Marinaccio’s gym-slash-rehabilitation center on the top floor of an East
River–front factory building that housed mostly artist studios and a few illegal residences.
If you wanted to work out in a no-frills, no aerobics, let’s-not-do-some-carrot-juice-afterward
environment, this was the place. Since Muscles was also a licensed physical therapist,
you could use his facilities and expertise to recover from an injury. I had come to
him after my accident, just like the doctor had ordered. Then I didn’t feel like coming
anymore. The pain became a part of me, something I deserved.

“Why would you put yourself through that?” Muscles asked, sliding the palm of his
hand over his crew cut. “I’ll never understand it. It’s not like you’re stupid.”

He was looking at me like I was stupid.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy? Bullshit. Busy limping around Brooklyn making the damned thing worse, and feeling
sorry for yourself. So last night and this morning got to you, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Muscles looked at me for ten seconds and said, “What else, Raymond?”

I took a deep breath. “I guess I just got tired of the pain.”

“About fucking time.” He pointed over at the blue padded table by the window. “Go
over and do some stretching. I’m going to search the archives and see if I can unearth
your file.”

As Muscles walked away, I went over to the table, placed my leg on top, and reached
for my toes. I got about as far as the ankle when the burning started again. I settled
for placing my hand on the knee and leaning forward. I felt pain in muscles I had
forgotten were there.

There was only one other person in the place. A woman, about fifty or so, working
up a sweat on the stair machine. We acknowledged each other with brief smiles and
nods, and went back to our tasks. I looked out the window at the river in an attempt
to keep my mind off the fire behind my knees. It was calm out there today. A light
mix of smoke and clouds hung above the city, the sky once again not committing itself
to either rain or sun.

“Should I bore you—again—with the details of the MRIs and X-rays?”

Muscles’s voice brought me back inside.

“No.”

“Good. You wouldn’t be able to follow most of it anyway.” He pulled up a stool and
sat next to me. “The bottom line is—if you’re serious this time around—you need to
be coming to see me three times a week. There was a lot of damage to both knees. It’s
still there. Like I said, the surgery took care of some of it, but…”

“I’ve got to do the rest,” I finished for him.

He closed up the folder. “For someone as seemingly bright as yourself, you’re taking
a hell of a chance with your physical well-being. You looking forward to spending
the last half of your life not moving around too much?”

“No.”

“Then quit fucking around.”

“I am,” I said. “I will. That’s why I’m here.”

“All right then.” He took out a piece of paper and handed me what appeared to be a
spreadsheet. “That is your plan for the next six weeks.”

I took some time to look over the paper. He had me scheduled for three days a week,
including one on the weekend, Saturday or Sunday, my choice. Under each day was a
series of empty boxes, and next to them, initials.

“Translate this into English for me?” I asked.

“That’s more for me than you.” He touched his index finger to the initials. “These
are the exercises you’ll be doing. In these boxes, we’ll fill in your reps and weights.
When the six weeks are up, we’ll analyze your progress.”

“And after that?”

“We schedule another six weeks.” He saw the look on my face. “This isn’t a sprint,
Raymond. It’s a marathon. A lifelong marathon.”

I took another look at the sheet. “What’s this about abs and quads? I thought I was
working on getting my knees back.”

Muscles leaned into me and grabbed my stomach. He pinched the two inches or so of
flesh between his fingers. “Any other questions?”

“Jesus.”

“The Lord’s got nothing to do with this, Raymond. It’s just you, me, and all this
modern rehabilitation equipment.”

I handed the paper back to him. “About the cost of all this…”

“You got insurance, don’t you?” he said.

“Yeah, but I don’t think they’ll cover this. Working out?”

“It’s called
rehabilitation therapy,
” he said. “You got an orthopedist?”

“No.”

“I do.” He produced a business card between his fingers like a magician turning a
trick. “He’ll write you a scrip for six weeks of therapy, three days a week. I will
bill your insurance. You won’t have to fork over a dime.”

“Copayment?”

“Please.”

“I appreciate that. What if I can’t make it three days a week?”

“I still bill the insurance. Three a week is standard. They have any qualms, they’ll
request copies of your X-rays and MRIs. Believe me, after they see the damage you
did to your knees…”

“So you get paid whether I show up or not?”

“That’s the way it works, yeah.”

“That doesn’t sound…”

“It’s the way it is. But it doesn’t really matter, does it?” He placed a hand just
above my knee and squeezed. “Because you will show up. Right?”

“Absolutely,” I answered.

“Good.” He stood up. “Now give me ten minutes on the stationary bike. I’ll hit you
with the ice and electric stim on the knees, and you’re done for the day.”

“Electric stim?”

“Relax. It’ll feel like pins and needles. Speeds up the recovery.”

“The insurance covers that, too?”

“Hell, Raymond. I’m going to charge them for the ice and bill them just for this conversation.
Sorry. ‘Consultation.’”

I waited for him to smile or wink. When he didn’t, I held out my hand. “Thanks.”

“Welcome back, Raymond. Now hit the bike.” He walked toward his office, turned back,
and said, “And stop picking fights with drunk cops twice your size. I can only do
so much.”

Less than an hour later, I was showered and still in pain. “Good pain,” Muscles had
called it. “Replacing the bad.” Either way, I was buzzing with endorphins—or whatever
it is that gives you the high after working out—and felt myself deserving of a treat.
I stepped out into the heat thinking of chicken with garlic sauce from the place by
my apartment. Not watching where I was going, I just about knocked Detective Royce
off the top step.

“Mr. Donne,” he said.

“Detective,” I said, not hiding my surprise. “You looking for me?”

He gave me a what-do-you-think? look. “I found you, didn’t I?”

“How did you—?”

“Part of the job description, last I checked.” He moved the gym bag he was carrying
from his left hand to his right. “Speaking of which, I had a little talk with your
uncle yesterday.”

“I figured you might have,” I said.

“Actually, he had a talk. I had a listen.”

“Sorry about that. I just—”

“Sorry about what?” Detective Royce asked. “Messing with my case even after I told
you not to? Or sorry about screwing up my weekend, which I just would have wasted
on time with my family anyways?” He swung the bag over his shoulder. “Nothing I like
more than coming into work on my day off. By the way, Mr. Donne,” he took a step closer,
“you look like shit.”

I ran my fingers through my hair and said, “I just had a workout. And I’m getting
over a little something.”

“Smells like”—he leaned in—“you’re getting over a little vodka.”

“Did you have a question for me, Detective? If not, I’d really like to go home and
eat.”

“Matter of fact, I do have a couple of questions. Tell me why you went up to Highland.”

“I wanted to talk to Frankie’s cousin and her husband.”

“Even after I told you to stay out of my way?”

“I had the funny feeling we wouldn’t be running into each other up there.”

Royce looked as if he wanted to take a bite out of my face. After a few seconds and
a deep breath, he said, “And…?”

“And what?”

“What kind of feel did you get off of them?”

I smiled. “I only spoke with her. The husband was down here.”

“Yeah?”

“She told me he was planning on talking to you.”

“News to me,” he said.

“And … she didn’t like the idea of the—of me—coming to her house. She kept telling
me her husband was handling everything.”

“Mr. Donne,” Royce said, “you didn’t tell her that you were police, did you?”

“I didn’t tell her anything. Until she asked. When she found out I was Frankie’s teacher,
she lightened up a bit.” I thought back to the spacious backyard and the light breeze
moving through the maples. “Then I found the hundred and I was asked to leave.”

“She didn’t ask for the bill back?”

“She seemed to want me and it off her property as soon as physically possible.”

Royce pondered that for a few seconds before saying, “And he was down here?”

“That’s what she said. Why?”

“I called his place of business,” Royce explained. “Around the Horn Travel. They said
he hadn’t been in for a few days.”

“He owns some apartment buildings, right?”

“Yeah. I guess he coulda been busy with them, but they made it seem like they hadn’t
heard from him in a while.”

“Covering for the boss?”

“Maybe.”

I wiped some sweat from my forehead. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” he said, changing his tone to remind me who was the cop here. “Next time you
take a field trip, you better have a bunch of kids with you. Because of you, I may
have to take a two-hour ride up to the Hudson Valley tomorrow.”

“Hour and a half if you go seventy,” I joked. If Royce found me funny, he was hiding
it well. “I brought you a clue, Detective.”

“Fuck your clue. You stepped on my toes, Mr. Donne. Even though your uncle is not
my direct superior, I don’t like being made to look like I dropped the ball.”

“Don’t worry. My uncle read me the riot act on this one.”

“Good.”

I looked up and down the block. Before going down the steps I asked, “You wouldn’t
want to give me a ride home, would you?”

“Actually,” Royce said, tapping the side of his bag, “I’m here to work out.”

“So … you weren’t looking for me?”

“I come here on the odd weekend when I’m called in … unexpectedly … and can’t get
home to my own gym. By my house.”

“I hear you. And again, I’m sorry.” I took the first few steps toward the sidewalk
and then remembered something. “You get anything off that bill?”

He smirked. “Not gonna bother running it for prints if that’s what you mean. I’ll
just get a mix of the kid’s, the cousin’s, yours, P.O. Jackson’s, and Inspector Donne’s.
Called in the serial number to the feds. Waiting to see if it rings a bell with them,
but I’m not waiting by the phone.”

“Good luck to you, Detective.”

“And to you, Mr. Donne. And, no offense, but the next time you get an idea about this
case, give me a heads-up, okay?”

“No offense,” I answered, “but I thought I did.”

If he said something after I went down the steps, I didn’t hear it.

As I waited for the light to turn, my biggest concern was whether I was feeling well
enough to have a cold beer with lunch. That changed when I started to cross the street
and almost walked head-on into a van that screeched to a stop in front of me. Asshole.

I took a few steps to walk around the front. Its windows were tinted, so I didn’t
have the pleasure of making eye contact with the driver. The van pulled up three feet,
blocking my path. What the fuck? I counted to five and then tried again. Again I was
blocked, and this time the side door slid open. I looked inside and saw the driver,
his huge hands on the wheel and the eyes in his very large head looking forward. There
was nobody in the passenger seat.

“You got a problem?” I asked the driver.

No reaction from him, but from behind me came a low voice. “Get in, Mr. Donne.” Something
sharp touched my lower back, telling me it would be a bad idea to get overexcited
at that moment.

“Just get in,” the voice repeated. “Before your detective friend comes back and your
time at the gym becomes a complete waste.”

There was nothing but metal floor in the back of the van, and the only light came
from the small, rear-door window. A solid partition separated the back from the front,
so I couldn’t see the driver. The guy with the knife got in the back with me and held
on to a leather strap connected to the side door. I couldn’t tell where we were going,
only that the driver was making a lot of lefts and rights, and making them harder
than he needed to. I had to make my way to the rear of the van and grab the door handle
to have something to hold on to, or I would have rolled all over the back. My knees
were screaming. The guy with the knife watched me as I tried the door handle. Locked.
He gave me a smile that sent a wave of fear down to my toes.

“You want to tell me what this is about?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

He put his index finger to his lips. “Shhhh.”

Another sharp turn, and my head hit the metal door. The guy kept on grinning, enjoying
the ride. He closed up the knife and slipped it inside his jacket. Now that my eyes
were adjusting to the lack of light, I could see he was wearing a dark blue business
suit. I tried studying his face, looking for any distinguishing marks. Nothing.