The Jigsaw Man (3 page)

over the top of—nothing. Well, Blue J and Puckman

were down there, but I seriously doubted they were in

the city planner's mind when the bridge was designed.

Maybe at one time a road had been planned, but for

whatever reason, hadn't been built? I have no idea. Doesn't

matter.

I started out onto the bridge, only to remember the

brown envelope under my arm.
Idiot,
How could I

possibly forget something so important? It was vital I

drop my package in the mail before going through with

this. Luckily, that wouldn't take too long. There was a

postal box only half a block south of Carver on Dupont

Street,

The package was addressed to Gloria Churchill, the

sister-in-law I mentioned. Inside were the last three

things I would ever give to my daughter. There was

an envelope of cash—only a hundred and thirty dollars

from my last SI check—a letter, and an insurance pol

icy I'd taken out on myself. The cash was meaningless,

but it was all I had. The letter was short and sweet, tell

ing Arlene things you don't have the need or the right

to hear, but the insurance policy,
that
was the impor

tant thing. I'd been making the premiums through

Gloria for well over a year now, and if anything was to

happen to me, like say, being
accidentally
run over by a

freight train, I'd set it up so Arlene would be the recipi

ent of the death benefits. It wasn't a lot, just twenty-five

thousand dollars, but that would be more than enough

to get her first few years in college out of the way. Might

even pay for it all. Either way, it would give her some

breathing room to pursue whatever dreams she had

for life.

I'll admit, I selfishly hoped she'd think nice things

about me, maybe tear down the wall she'd built around

her heart to keep me out, but in the end none of that

would really matter. At least I'd finally be helping her

out, finally be her dad, instead of the forgotten loser who

always buggered things up.

At the mailbox, I checked and rechecked the address

and made sure the postage stamps were stuck on securely.

With a tear in my eye, I kissed the package good-bye

and prayed to whatever gods were listening for the en

velope to make it safely to Arlene's door. If my death

could give her the key to a happy life, it would be worth

it. I hoped she was old enough to understand that.

Hurrying back to the tracks, I paused to catch my

breath, gazing out across the bridge's rusty rails to a

spot on the horizon about three miles away. There, cut

ting a line across an elevated grassy knoll on the out

skirts of the city, was another set of railway tracks.

Twice a day, six days a week, a freight train out of Erie,

Pennsylvania, would roll down that hill, snake through

the bowels of the city, and then rocket across the Carver

Street Bridge on its way to Rochester, New York. Twelve

hours later, the same train—or more likely, one that

just looked a lot like it—would rumble back across this

bridge, reversing its route, heading home to Erie. After

all the times this train had roared over my pathetic ex

cuse for a home, I still had no idea what type of cargo it

carried.

I guess I never would.

Almost as if my thinking about it caused it to hap

pen, the train slowly chugged into view, temporarily

reducing its speed as it descended into the city. I watched

the train until it disappeared behind the tall build

ings and then immediately began walking out onto the

bridge. If the freight train didn't experience any un

usual delays, I had approximately eight minutes left

to live.

September in Buffalo was a great time of year. Beauti

ful. The trees were turning a million different colors,

the temperature had finally dropped back into the six

ties and seventies, and the stale city air felt clean again

after a long summer filled with sweat and smog. Fall

was by far my favorite time of year, but unfortunately

clean air and pretty leaves just weren't enough to post

pone today's plan.

There were many reasons why I wanted to kill my

self, but other than the insurance policy, none of them

were particularly important. I had the same sad sob

story most homeless people tell. Had the good job,

nice family, nice little house with the white picket

fence, blah, blah, bla"h. None of it mattered. I lost it all;

that's what counted. You know some of it already, and

can probably guess the rest. My wife, Jackie, and my

little boy, Daniel, were killed during a heavy rain

storm in an automobile accident. No other vehicles

were involved. Jackie was driving, but it was a hun

dred percent my fault. A few buddies had talked me

into going bowling of all damn things. We played a

few games, hit the bar, and before long I was drunk

out of my mind and called Jackie to come pick me up.

"It's only a few raindrops, honey, what could possibly

happen?"

Famous last words.

Anyway, I lost everything important to me that day—

my wife and son to death, my daughter to hatred—lost

my job and the house about seven months later, moved

into the whiskey bottle on a full-time basis, and ended

up here on this bridge ready to say, Fuck it, I'm out of

here. I don't need to explain myself. I don't need a rea

son to die. I'm doing it for Arlene, but to tell you the

truth I'm also fed up with the rest of life's bullshit.

Plain and simple—I've had enough.

I never heard the car pull up behind me, lost in my

sorry-for-myself thoughts, but when I made it to the

bridge's halfway mark and turned around, there it was.

It was one of those big stretch limousines—sparkling

white with golden trim and matching gold wire spoke

rims. Christ, it looked about thirty feet long. A car like

that stuck out almost as much as a dancing elephant

would've, in this neighborhood. I was momentarily taken

aback at the sight of it, but not because of how out of

place this fancy car was. What surprised me most was

how
familiar
it looked. I couldn't remember where or

when, but I was positive I'd seen this limo before.

The rear driver's-side door suddenly opened and a

tall muscular man in an expensive gray pinstripe suit

stepped out onto Carver Street. He looked at me, bent

down to say something to the driver, and then started

walking out onto the bridge. He was white, bald-headed

with a neatly trimmed goatee, stood maybe six foot four,

and guessing, Fd say he weighed at least two hundred

and sixty pounds. My surprise was quickly turning

into shock because as he approached, I realized that he

too looked familiar. Where the hell had I seen this

guy and his car before? I tried, but just couldn't re

member.

What does he want}

Now there was a good question. All kinds of nasty

scenarios spun through my head. Did I owe somebody

money and this monster had been sent to collect it?

That would be just my luck—I'm out here ready to com

mit suicide, and some big ape was going to break my

legs before I got the chance. I seriously considered run

ning for the far side of the bridge but what he said

stopped me dead in my tracks.

"Wait, Mr. Fox. I need to speak with you about some

thing important. Really important."

How did he know my name? I was scared, but I didn't

run. I waited until he came within fifteen feet.

"That's close enough," I said. "What do you want?"

"Nothin'. Just to talk for a minute. Trust me, it'll be

worth your while."

I laughed at that one. If I had a nickel for every time

someone on the street told me I could trust them, well,

I guess I wouldn't be a homeless bum anymore. But I

was
homeless, and I wasn't falling for it.

"You may not believe this," I said, "but I think I've

heard that line before. If my so-called friends screwed

me, why should I trust a complete stranger like you?"

"Because I'm not really a stranger, am I? Don't you

remember me, Mr. Fox? We met briefly last night. You

were pretty out of it. Maybe you've forgotten?"

His words triggered a memory of me being punched

in the face and tossed roughly to a threadbare green-

carpeted floor. Not a very nice recollection and I'd heard

enough. I decided to run from this mysterious man af

ter alii Before I'd taken my first step, though, my jum

bled memories of last night cleared and I did remember

meeting him. It hadn't been him who'd hit me. It had

been someone else. This man had tried to help.

Yeah, now I remembered. I wanted to go out with a

bang, try one last time to fit into this crazy world before

calling it a life. After leaving Blue J and the young

woman behind, I picked out some new clothes at the

local Catholic Church. They weren't anything fancy

but they were clean, dry, and best of all, free. I cleaned

myself up and went to one of the local bars to have a

drink. It was a stupid mistake. I'd been drinking with

Puckman before leaving the Dumpster—grape Kool-

Aid and cheap gin—and had smuggled a flask of it into

the bar. I was almost too drunk to stand up, but nobody

seemed to care about that. It wasn't until the bartender

caught me sipping out of the flask instead of buying my

drinks that all hell broke loose. He sent a bouncer over

to toss me, but I was too stupid to go quietly on my merry

way. Not me. I picked a fight with this man-mountain

and soon I'm eating his considerably large fist and pick

ing myself up off the floor.

"You helped me, didn't you? That bouncer was ready

to mop the floor with me and you stepped in to drag

him away. Everybody started fighting, but I ducked out

the side entrance and took off. Your car, your white

limo there, it was parked outside by the curb. I knew I'd

seen it before."

"That's right. Now let's get off this bridge and go

have a drink. The train will be wandering by in about-

what, three, four minutes?"

" H o w . . . how—" I tried but he cut me off.

"We've been watching you. You've been timing the

train all week but this is the first time you've wandered

out onto the tracks. Suicide's not the answer, Mr. Fox."

Had I been that obvious? It terrified me that this

muscle head had been following me around without me

having the slightest clue, but it also pissed me off at the

same time. What right did he have to talk to me like

that? I'd kill myself if I damn well pleased—thank you

very much. To hell with this clown if he didn't approve.

Let him try to survive on the street like I had. Take

away his fancy car and expensive clothes and he proba

bly wouldn't last six months.

"Suicide's not the answer?" I asked sarcastically. "But

I suppose you are, right?"

"Not me, Mr. Fox, the man I work for."

He walked over to me, removed his billfold from his

pants pocket and pulled out two crisp hundred-dollar

bills. He handed them over and started walking away

toward the safety of Carver Street. I glanced down at

the money in my hand—the most money I'd possessed

at one time in three years—and had to ask.

"What's this for?"

Looking back over his shoulder, he paused to say,

"Chump change, Mr. Fox. You get that for simply com

ing down off the bridge. There's two hundred more if

you'll come into the limo and listen to my proposition.

You're under no obligation to accept, but I'm pretty

sure you'll like what you hear. We've been looking for a