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Authors: Peter Blauner

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Hard-Boiled

Slipping Into Darkness (33 page)

BOOK: Slipping Into Darkness
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“Goddamn it.”

 

He could almost hear her chewing on a number two pencil over the phone line. He pictured the brass end dented between her tiny teeth.

 

“I just want to say that if I don’t hear from you by the weekend, I’m running it anyway,” she warned him.

 

“Knock yourself out.”

 

As soon as she hung up, Yunior turned to Francis with his palms flat on the desktop, like the champion of the Dartmouth debating club. “Saint Augustine,” he said.

 

“What?”

 

Black specks floated before his eyes. He tried to blink them away.

 

“That’s who said, ‘Since these mysteries are beyond me, let’s pretend we’re organizing them.’”

 

“Jean Cocteau, the surrealist.” Francis picked up his
Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations
and heaved it at him. “Know who your sources are, asshole.”

 

 

37

 

 

 

HOOLIAN CREPT OUT of Zana’s bedroom that morning and found Eddie sitting cross-legged on the plank-wood floor, watching
SuperFriends
with a kind of wide-eyed wonder that most regular American-born kids probably wouldn’t have had for such a cheesy cartoon. “Thanks for saving me, Aquaman!” A slimy gray creature swam out of a giant clam just as it slammed shut on the orange-shirted blond-haired Protector of the Seas. “Too bad I couldn’t do the same for you!”

 

He sat down beside the boy. “Can’t be out of the water for too long, right?” He tried to remember the character’s ground rules. “But he’s got that special telepathy lets him talk to fish.”

 

Without a word, the kid crawled into his lap again and curled up against him for warmth. “He’s gonna get away, you know.” Hoolian put his arms around him, like they’d been doing this for years. “Can’t hold a slippery man for long.”

 

When the show ended, he went into the kitchen, sorted through the pots and pans, and made oatmeal for all three of them with too much brown sugar and Log Cabin syrup on top, and served it to Zana in bed. She sat up and fixed him with a grave stare. “You’re not going to do this all the time, are you?” Did that mean she was afraid he would do it again, or he wouldn’t? He shrugged, caught a shower without getting his bandage wet, and then changed back into the clothes he’d been wearing. He walked with mother and child to Eddie’s day care program on Van Brunt Street and then accompanied Zana to the elevated station at Smith and Ninth Street. How long could Aquaman stay out of the water anyway? Was it an hour, a day? After a while, everything had to return to its natural habitat.

 

He rode the train with her into the city, the two of them holding the same metal pole, surrounded by the crush of bodies, catching each other’s eye for just a moment here and there, remembering things from the night in the flicker of track lights going by, sharing a secret while the rest of the crowd read their morning papers, buttoned up their leather coats, and listened to their headphones.

 

So this was how normal people did it. They touched each other, put their clothes back on, and blended into the rest of the world. But in their heads, they kept that little hum going, and every now and then maybe they smiled to themselves. Somewhere under the river, he realized how badly he wanted this.

 

How long could he go on pretending he could breathe on land? Soon she’d find out who he really was, his secret identity. She’d want to get away and protect the boy from him. And that would kill him. He wouldn’t be able to take it. Something had changed between his fixing the bathroom door last night and watching Aquaman this morning and it frightened him terribly, because it meant he had that much more to lose. He’d begun to fall in love not just with her but with
them,
with the thought he could be someone hanging around their kitchen at night, someone who knew where the lightbulbs were, someone who could figure out how to get the heat working on a frigid February evening and buy the boy his first bike. Someone who would take them to Orchard Beach on the Fourth of July and handle the barbecue. He wanted it all and more. He wanted sex and gratitude and late nights watching reruns together. He wanted everything he’d missed. And he was afraid of what he’d do if he didn’t get it.

 

They got off at Union Square and paused at the top of the stairs. Zana raised her chin and stood on her toes, so their brows touched.

 

“How come I never met no one like you before?” she said.

 

“I don’t know. Just lucky, I guess.”

 

 

38

 

 

 

THE RADIO AT the evidence warehouse was blasting, and Brian Mullhearn was singing along at the top of his lungs when Francis showed up with Rashid, Yunior, and Jimmy Ryan in tow.

 

“Some stupid with a flare gun . . .”

 

Francis stepped up to Mauler’s desk and put a hand on either side as if he was about to flip it over.

 

“Are you acute, Brian?” Francis asked.

 

“Wha?”

 

“I’m saying, do you consider yourself an
acute
observer of human nature?”

 

“I’m not following you.” The eraser-colored eyes moved under a dull watery film.

 

“I mean, when we were both working Narcotics, we had a chance to do a lot of observing, right? All those hours in the surveillance van with the binoculars, you learn a lot about people. You see how they roll up on each other. How they pretend to be friends when they’re holding on to grudges and how they wait for a chance to get over —”

 

“What’s your point, Francis?” Mauler turned down the radio.

 

“I got a call from a reporter yesterday. She had a story about our cases that came from you.”

 

“
Bull
-shit.” Mauler tried to look past him. “Jimmy, will you tell this asshole to start taking his meds again?”

 

But Ryan shook his head, not willing to get between them. The two civilian employees in the office—an Indian guy with a silver crescent moon around his neck and a pregnant black lady—busied themselves at the file cabinets.

 

“You’re the one who knew we were trying to pull all the old Allison Wallis evidence.”

 

“So what? Your friend Detective Ali over here has been showing up like every other day for a week and a half. Why aren’t you grilling him?”

 

Rashid gave him a mellow sated smile, knowing the words had fallen about a yard and a half short of their target.

 

“No, Brian, he’s actually got a career to look forward to,” Francis explained. “You, on the other hand, are sitting on your ass here, vouchering newspapers from the Christine Rogers crime scene and you’re the one who’s got a girlfriend he knocked up, works filing at the crime lab.”

 

Mauler took off his glasses and looked down as he wiped them with the fat end of his tie, having no ready reply.

 

“You’re gonna be a resentful little bitch because you and me had some garbage in the past, either speak up like a man or shut your fucking mouth. All right? You don’t go leaking to the press, to settle someone’s hash. That’s two homicide investigations you fucked up. Is that how you show respect to the people you work with?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Look at me, Brian.”

 

Mauler’s chair creaked as he leaned back.

 

“I said,
look at me.
”

 

Francis pushed aside an old mechanical Rock ’em Sock ’em Robots toy set that had been sitting on the desk between them.

 

“You see me looking right or left? You see me doing
anything
except staring at what’s right in front of me?”

 

“It’s got nothing to do with me, Francis.”

 

“You just keep saying that, Brian. Because it makes me good and mad. Because I don’t give a shit about anything else right now. I’m not eating, I’m not sleeping, I’m not spending time with my wife. And I
really
love my wife. So when I put that much work into my cases and someone trashes them I tend to get a little intolerant.”

 

“You’re way out of line here.” Mauler met his eye with some effort. “This is just a witch hunt.”

 

“No, since you’re so concerned about definitions, a ‘witch hunt’ would be when IAB investigates you for those washer-dryers that went missing from the warehouse last month and then pulls your cell phone records to prove you called that girl at the paper.” Francis pushed a form at him across the desk. “A
punishment
would be when they go after your pension. Big difference.”

 

“I’m calling my rep,” said Mauler.

 

“Do it from the pay phone on the corner.” Francis looked past him and signaled for the civilians to come take over the file. “Just get the fuck out of my sight.”

 

 

39

 

 

 

IN HIS DREAM, he was on a beach with Zana and Eddie, who’d somehow been transformed into a pair of colorful kites flying low above some telephone lines. He looked over his shoulder and ran toward the sea, trying to keep them aloft and untangled with a ball of twine in his hand. But then he realized he’d forgotten how to swim. He charged into the surf anyway, knowing it was the only way to keep them airborne. And as the water started to rise up over his chin, starting to drown him, he let go of the string and saw them sail off into the sun.

 

———

 

The superintendent, a bony old guy in a graying Afro and a “Live at Lincoln Center” T-shirt, came out onto the landing and squinted at Francis pounding up the stairs with Rashid and five guys from the Warrant Squad.

 

“What’s up, gentlemen?”

 

“We’re looking for a Julian Vega.” Francis caught his breath and showed him the papers that Paul had somehow induced a judge to sign at midnight.

 

“Never heard of him.” The super winced at a flashlight beam pointing in his face. “He a singer?”

 

“The director of his halfway house says he’s got a girlfriend, name of Zana, lives in this building. We got probable cause to search any of his things that he has here.”

 

“Oh, that Ukranian girl. She drew my picture.”

 

“That’s the one.” Francis adjusted the radio and gun on his equipment belt. “He’s supposed to be staying with her.”

 

“Third floor, in the back.” The super yawned. “You lock him up, let me know. I’m kind of sweet on her myself.”

 

———

 

The sound of the front door flying open woke Hoolian from his dream. He yanked back the covers, disoriented, and saw that Eddie had climbed into bed between them during the night.

 

“Come on, Hoolian, let’s do this the easy way.” He recognized Francis Loughlin’s voice and thought for a half-second that it might be part of his nightmare. But then the cop stepped into the bedroom doorway and aimed a piercing flashlight beam at his face.

 

Out of instinct, Hoolian grabbed a book that had been lying on the bed and winged it across the room.

 

It seemed to fly in slow motion, its pages flapping like a seagull’s wings, giving him just enough time to register not only the size of his mistake but the fact that Loughlin wasn’t getting out of the way.

 

The book clocked the detective on the side of the head and fell open on the floor. It was as if he never saw it coming.

 

“I’m hit!” Laughlin yelled as he ducked out of view. “Look out!”

 

It triggered instant hysteria. Hoolian heard a stampede of boots on the hardwood floor and another officer yelling, “Gun! He’s got a gun in there!”

 

“Don’t shoot!”

 

But they couldn’t hear him amid the shouts of
“Ten-thirteen!”
and blasts of static as they radioed for backup.

 

The boy sat up next to him, confused and frightened. In a panic, Hoolian pushed him off the mattress and then shoved him under the bed, for his own protection. Then he snatched up his clothes and duffel bag and lunged for the half-open window.

 

It was a crisp night and the metal bars of the fire escape felt like dry ice sticking to the soles of his feet. His heart pounded. Now that he’d committed himself to running, there’d be no turning back. If he stopped, Loughlin would surely shoot him in the back and plant a gun on him to prove it was self-defense.

 

———

 

“You’re telling me you don’t know any Julian?” Francis touched his head and saw he wasn’t bleeding. A child’s illustrated book about steam engines lay open at his feet.

 

“Kush eschte?”
Hoolian’s girlfriend pulled down the little T-shirt to cover herself and then put her arm around the bug-eyed child who’d just scurried from the bedroom. “I only know Christopher.”

 

“Right.” He headed for the window Hoolian had just gone out. “You see him before us, he’s got some explaining to do.”

 

———

 

The moon swathed in gray clouds was as dim as a dead fish’s eye. Hoolian waded waist-deep into the weed-choked lot, still in his bare feet. He heard the police somewhere above and behind him coming out on the fire escape and talking on their radios. The nearest subway was about a mile off, he realized. A chill wind came in off the water, carrying the faint scent of old barges, industrial waste, and seaweed. He turned right with the duffel bag and clothes under his arm and saw the lights of the Red Hook Houses, the famous sprawling projects with forty or fifty buildings, in the distance. It gleamed like a forbidden city, with laws of its own. If he could get there ahead of the police, they’d never catch him.

 

———

 

Everything was submerged in pea-soup darkness to Francis. He might as well have been in the middle of the jungle at midnight.

 

“You all right?” Rashid came out to join him on the fire escape.

 

“Yeah, I’m good.” Francis stared, trying to get a fix on things. “We getting any backup?”

 

“Might be a while. Housing’s got a caper going over at the Red Hook Houses, looking for a rapist with a chopper and everything.” Rashid pointed in the general direction of the projects. “You wanna wait?”

 

“And lose him now that we finally got something on him? Fuck that.” Francis started to feel his way toward the ladder. “Get a couple of the other guys back here and stay in touch on the radio. I’m on channel three.”
BOOK: Slipping Into Darkness
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