The Canal (13 page)

It was an amazing moment. To go from rank and
hopeless, to bright and fresh and freedom. That gulp of air was the
sweetest he'd ever tasted, the breeze that strolled past his cheeks
was the kindest he'd ever known.

And then he saw the fire escape. It was a
starving, skeletal thing, all barbs and points. Hostile. Something
only a fool would entrust his life to. And Alan, by circumstance,
was exactly that fool.

All the way down, the fire escape begrudged
him. It harassed him. And then it marked him, soiling his skin, his
hair, and his clothes with a thousand-year-old pomade of pigeon
slime and brick dandruff (the stuff had been frosted inches deep on
the ladders). And then to further the humiliation, just as Alan
neared the end of his treacherous descent, the final ladder left
him kicking some eight feet above the Earth's surface. He could see
everything from up there -- precipitation brewing in the north,
wildfires to the west, and holy-moly look at that traffic. Alan
rolled his ankle upon re-entry and then suffered an awful few
seconds when it sounded as if the whole tragic, rickety mess was
going to come toppling down on top of him, bringing the entire
building with it.

Afterward, he took to the streets on foot.
What he should have done was scan all the back roads and the
dumpster dives for any sign of Joe or his friends. But instead Alan
did something else, something of which he was already deeply
ashamed.

He fled. He had to. Because being in that
room, being trapped there, it was indescribable. What if he hadn't
gotten out? What if that place had become his tomb?

And what in God's name was that smell? It was
no sweet honey, surely. More like a moldy nut (and to be entirely
precise, rather an old world kind of moldy, a mouldy). The odor had
followed him all the way here to the police station bathroom, where
he now stood eyeing the mirror above the sink, afraid of what it
might show him.

He nervously approached. The person he saw
reflected? It wasn't someone he recognized. It was a subway rat.
One that roots around the tracks and in the butts and the standing
water, down there in the pits. Dead in a year from...from...well,
it was obvious. Dead from dirt.

And then Alan had a realization. He sniffed
himself. Oh dear. He sniffed himself again. Oh my. The smell...the
smell was him.

This, this was some other Alan. Shadow Alan.
Skids Alan. Dropout D'Angelo. And dare he even think it...vagrant
Alan. He stank, and he wanted to weep, to kneel on the tile and let
his sobs echo throughout the cathedral-like toilet, crying for
himself. All his work and careful maintenance, all of it brought to
this, this frightening low. It was not what he deserved at all.

He quickly unbuttoned his shirt. The fabric
clung to him, so fond had it become of his oils and greases.
Peeling it off unleashed a shameful cloud of body fog, steaming the
mirror and prompting a recent arrival to cry out from his
stall.

From the dispenser Alan took as much soap as
he could hold, mixing it with scalding water. He drenched the arms
with soapy paste, especially his cut, scrubbing past the point of
pain, wiping off the tar of blood and grime. He did his armpits and
chest. His face was next, he massaged every pore, coating himself
in sterilizing lather.

Then came the best part, the rinse. As the
soap washed away, the old Alan slowly returned, clean and pink,
broken from the chrysalis, showing shyly like a fawn. This would
get him through the day at least, it would get him home at least,
to a real shower.

He eyed the loathsome shirt where it hung. It
eyed him back. It was clammy to the touch, limp and taboo, like
some scab blasted band-aid found floating in the public shower. He
put it on. Yes, a good sob was definitely in order.

Alan exited the bathroom. He was feeling
somewhat better, hypnotized as he was by the new smell of himself,
the fresh one, the light perfumes.

He came into the office and collapsed into
his chair. His reprieve, however, didn't last. There was a mess
here, on his desk -- a vexing pile of rectangular notes, stacked as
if some enormous paper condor had shat there. Just inches from his
face, practically confronting him. It was as if...it was as if the
horror of the squatter building had somehow proceeded him, had
somehow managed to infect all of his protected spaces and
sanctuaries.

Womack returned with the first aid-kit.
"Alan, buddy, what happened?"

Alan snatched the box from Womack and opened
it.

"I've been trying to get you on the radio,"
said Womack.

Alan tossed aside the gauze, the bandages,
the tape, then found the iodine, oh sweet iodine, and began dousing
the cut on his arm, laying it in heavy. Under the withering effect
of chemicals, the gash looked more or less harmless. Was there
iodine for the eyes? Iodine for the memories? He needed to cleanse
those too, the dirt had gone deeper than just the surface.

The arm at least, it appeared he'd survived
that. The problem though was Alan's hurting ribs. And his shoulder.
Also his neck. Other parts too. It was all interconnected really,
they weren't separate hurts, more like a single large one, a whole
peninsula of pain running down the left side of his body.

They had done this to him, those parasites:
Joe and his fucking pals.

"You need to follow up on something," said
Alan, tersely. "A building south of the bridge. It's the tallest
thing there, with a gate. You'll know it when you see it. I want
you to go there and wait. See who comes around." He had to remind
himself to stay calm. To relax. He was safe now. Even if his
desk...if his desk was...it was best not to think about it.
Relax.

"Something with the case?"

"Anyone turns up, you bring them in."

"Yeah?"

"Listen to me. What I'm about to tell you,
it's just talk. Words. We are two colleagues having a conversation.
And it would be foolish for you to think I was implying anything
specific. Or giving you an order. Words, Womack. That is all that's
coming out of my mouth. And words don't hurt people, correct?"

"Well. I... No? No. ...Or if it's yes, just
say, because-- Just, whatever you want, Alan, whatever you
want."

"I'm saying that if you found these guys, it
would be terrible if they resisted. If that happened, they could
end up in some pain. In many ways, I think that would be very fair.
A certain balance would be restored, by resisting."

"Sometimes, that's the best part," said
Womack, rather wistfully. For a moment he seemed taken with a past
memory, a well-delivered black eye, or economically snapped
arm.

Alan continued. "In our line of work, it's up
to us to judge whether or not someone is resisting. And on the
assignment I just gave you, at the building, no one would question
your judgment if such a situation arose..."

Finally, recognition bloomed. "Ah," said
Womack. He winked, his eye folding home like a catcher's mitt. "Say
no more."

Alan didn't respond. His eyes, inevitably,
kept returning to his desk -- usually so tranquil, now ruthlessly
abused. And why today, of all days?

"Because lots of guys resist," said Womack.
"That's just the way it goes."

"Yes. Two guys in particular," said Alan.
"One guy, he's wearing a white cap, has a beard. Be careful -- he's
loose with a knife. Some kind of ringleader. The other one's older,
musician-looking, my height, soiled. You see them, you call me
immediately. ...And Joe. Joe too."

"Joe?"

"If he shows. Swear to God. If he
shows..."

"The second I know, you'll know."

Alan nodded.

"Hey, so also," said Womack, "been needing to
tell you, Vincent's gonna get in touch soon. He's over at the
morgue -- they're slicing and dicing as we speak."

"Good. And what about our Rose?"

"Threw her in the hospital. Turns out she
actually was sick pretty bad."

"Any connections on her name? Address?
History?"

"Haven't had time. All morning Bleecker's
been riding me like some plebe. Orders, errands, this, that -- the
guy just doesn't stop."

"I'll take over from here, then. You get on
that thing, like I said."

"Amen to that." That wink again. "I ain't
resisted a guy in a while."

Alan watched him leave. He was uncomfortably
aware that his peninsula of pain was taking on more territory,
including an outlying island near his buttock. And further under,
beneath the tectonic plates, there was a deeper suffering, like
he'd hyper extended something, a spleen maybe.

Alone, Alan could now begin to consider and
organize all of the problems currently arrayed against him. They
were as follows: 1) The murder. It was the underline, the context
for everything else, its rushing pulse. 2) Joe. Always Joe. 3)
Vagrants. In their various roles as suspects and savages and
aggressors. 4) His body. The peninsula, the outlying Balkans, and
the overall interruption of the current program, as in The Clean
Show, followed by The Neat and Fresh Hour. 5) His desk. Yes, his
fucking desk. A problem that shouldn't even be.

"This should be clean," said Alan, aloud, to
himself.

When it came to his workspace Alan favored a
simple amphitheater-style approach. The trays, binders, the
typewriter, the photo of Susan and Eugene in the backyard (a sort
of ballet pose with Susan holding their son high in the air, as if
handing him off to a rescue copter) -- were positioned around the
edges. Closer in was the phone, phone numbers, pens, and paper.
That left center stage, a modest desk calendar purposely kept free
of appointments since they unbalanced the white clarity of daily
squares. And right now, taking up four weeks worth of Tuesday's
through Saturday's were these official looking, annoying bits of
paper.

There was a familiar urge within Alan, a
soul's desire to delete these scraps of paper. It was the same urge
that arose whenever Alan was accosted with Susan's leftovers...or
skinned bodies or roving bands of squatters or filth in general. A
message taped to Alan's phone read: "I have an engagement. Handle
these." Signed, Bob Bleecker. Alan pulled a note from the pile.
They were all phone messages, some from the higher ups, some from
the papers, the TV. Marked 'urgent,' marked 'priority,' marked
'important.'

Oh, these problems and their itinerant,
nagging sub-problems. The longer they went unaddressed, the bigger
a problem they were as a whole (this warranted a whole new entry,
#6 -- the problem of all the problems). They were suffocating him,
besetting him on all unhappy sides like little mash faced
Lilliputians. What he needed was to take decisive action. And he
needed to start where it would do the most good.

The messages could wait. Relax. He pried
Kozar's home number from the rolodex and dialed. He hoped the man
hadn't up and wandered into the great beyond by now. Kozar picked
up after the third ring.

"Alan," he chuckled. "You know I'm going on
vacation, right? Marjorie is putting air in the tires as we speak.
She's lubed the bearings, Alan." On the phone Kozar always sounded
exactly how he looked, the image in your mind fitting absolutely
with the image he presented in person -- hammy, fair, and coolly
Protestant.

"I know, sorry," said Alan. "I'll be brief.
If it helps, this is partly personal. And business. Half and
half."

"...Business. Alan, my enthusiasm for this
conversation is rapidly declining."

"Then I'll get to it. To the point. See, we
were wondering, the woman we had here earlier. Any chance you
looked at her?"

"Absolutely, not. I was not then and am not
now going to lift a goddamn finger on this case as long as
those--"

"Lieutenant, Lieutenant. I hear you. Just
that, the reason I ask is that she might have something to do with
Joe."

"Oh, who'd he piss of now?"

"Did he ever mention the name Rose?"

There was silence. The longer it went, the
more acutely Alan listened, parsing the background hum for hints
and meanings. He felt alert, attuned to the moves of the universe.
Eventually Kozar cleared his throat and exhaled, "I haven't heard
that name in a lot of years."

Alan sat up. "We, we think she might be
involved in this."

"…Ah, it was her you say? She's
involved?"

"We need a definite ID. And Joe is, he's in
the field. If you could drop by the station--"

"Out of the question," said Kozar, gruffly.
"I swear to God, I hope Bleecker chokes on this thing. And I'm
sorry Alan, but that's the way it is."

"Then at least give me a last name or a
description..."

"Where'd you say Joe was?"

"He's on his way, but the urgency of this--
That's why I'm calling you. It's...this thing is hinging,
Lieutenant. We're on the verge. Without action, well... We need
action, sir, that's what I'm trying to say. It's a crucial time."
He lied, carefully, "It was Joe who suggested we talk."

It got quiet again on Kozar's end. "I guess
if it's that way," he sighed, adding, "well, its Lombardi."

"Excuse me?"

"Her last name. Lombardi. Rose Lombardi."

Alan squinted. "As in..."

"As in husband and wife. I mean, they've been
separated. But I don't even know for sure if that's who you've got.
And really, you'll have to get this from Joe."

Gasp. Joe was married to a...to a
vagrant?

"You know, Alan, you're actually a bit like
Joe, in a way. Like when he was younger. I had always hoped-- Oh.
Oh, excuse me, Alan... Marjorie is honking the horn, Alan... I
don't like to make her mad, not when we're going to be in the car.
It's a very small, very enclosed space, that car."

"Wait, Lieutenant. I need to know more."

"Is everything okay there, Alan? Is there
anything I need to be concerned with? Joe, he's handling this?"