Walking the Perfect Square (14 page)

I found Katy still in the kitchen, staring off into space. I wanted to ask about Patrick’s strange behavior, but having failed once already at playing amateur shrink, I found myself asking
general, roundabout questions. They got me general, roundabout answers. Yes, Patrick was neat, a perfectionist about his appearance. What about the shorn hair, tattoo and earring? He was in college, she said, college was meant to be a time in one’s life to explore new things. I was politic enough not to mention Nancy Lustig.

“Why’d your dad give Patrick’s prom picture to the cops and not a more recent one?”

She seemed surprised I had to ask. “He hated Patrick’s new look.”

Talk about a superficial answer. I had a thick skull, but even I could tell Katy had given me all the meaningful information she was capable of giving for the day. I started to say my good-byes when Katy suggested we meet in the city for a drink.

“I’m going back to SoHo tomorrow night.”

“I’d like that a lot.” I could be so articulate.

She gave me her Manhattan number and took my arm as we walked to the door. I had just a few last questions for her. Of course I’d seen Patrick’s prom picture, but I didn’t know anything about his date that night. Did Katy know who the date was? Where she lived? I didn’t know that it would do any good, but I wanted to talk to her.

“Theresa Hickey,” she answered immediately. “She grew up around the corner on Dover. She cuts hair at The Head Shop on Harper Street. She’s probably there now. Maybe you can catch her.”

I recognized the locale. “Harper Street, that’s the road Molly’s Diner’s on, right?”

“Best meatloaf in the county,” Katy confirmed. “You know when you turn back toward the highway from Molly’s? Well, go past the entrance a few hundred feet. It’ll be on your right-hand side.”

I thanked her for everything and told her how much I was looking forward to that drink. I offered her my hand. This time it was she who held on too long.

“Did you really find that little girl like cousin Rose said?”

“Marina Conseco? Yeah, I did.”

“Find my brother, Moe. I’m worried about the little star.”

 

THE HEAD SHOP was just where Katy Maloney said it would be. Contrary to the salon’s name and promises of unisex coifs, The Head Shop looked more like a denizen for the blue-haired set than
a place Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars were apt to favor with their business. Though a red and white spinning pole was nowhere to be seen, the shop fixtures were strictly Grandpa’sshave-and-a-haircut barbershop. I could feel Norman Rockwell lurking just beneath the disco ball veneer and harvest gold paint.

I stood at the vacant front desk, a poster of Patrick Scotch-taped above it. Business was slow, but Gloria Gaynor was reassuring any doubters about ultimate survival. In perfect time, two women spun, wheeled, turning tight fast circles, weaving their hands together and apart in an elaborate hustle. Another woman, a black buzzer in her hand for a microphone, swayed, spinning too, sang with Gloria note for note. What her voice lacked in power it made up with enthusiasm. Not far from me, a chubby girl with envious eyes watched the show as she robotically washed a customer’s hair. Though prettier than Nancy Lustig, I figured the shampoo girl for Patrick’s prom queen. As the song wound down, I got her attention: “Theresa Hickey?”

“That’s Theresa over there,” she pointed with her chin at the singer, “but it’s not Hickey no more. She don’t have an appointment for an hour yet. Sit down and I’ll wash you in a minute.”

Theresa Not-Hickey-No-More was tall, flat-bellied and slender with stacks of blond hair, green eyes, a perfect nose and pillowy lips. Back in high school she’d probably been captain of the cheerleaders and girl most likely to star in every sophomore boy’s dream. Now, two years later, she was probably cheering for busy Saturdays and five-buck tips. More than likely married to a city cop—no, fireman—I guessed, and a year, maybe two, away from her first baby. I wondered if she’d be starring in anybody’s dreams come her twentieth reunion. Yeah, I had her all figured out. Sure. She probably spoke like William F. Buckley Jr. and transplanted kidneys in her spare time.

“Oh yeah,” she beamed when I introduced myself, “my husband’s on the job in the city; Midtown South.”

She didn’t sound anything like William F. Buckley, but she was studying to be a nurse. She was glad to talk about Patrick over a cup of coffee at Molly’s. Anything, she whispered, to get out of that dump. We walked to the diner.

“Sanka for me,” I told the waitress. “Any more caffeine today and I’ll fly home.”

“Don’t forget to file a flight plan, honey.” She winked. “Coffee for you. Right, Theresa?”

“So what can I tell you about Patrick?” she puzzled as the waitress walked away, but didn’t wait for me to ask. “We grew up around the corner from each other. We played together when we were kids. Our parents were kinda friendly and my big sister dated Frank Jr. for about five minutes before he went into the service.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it! Why, you wanna know if he was better at Hit the Penny than me?”

“You were his prom date, weren’t you?”

“Oh that! It wasn’t like we were going out or anything,” she snickered dismissively. “We were covering for each other. You know how it is. I was dating Billy, he’s my husband now. But I was only eighteen then and he was twenty-five. My parents would have flipped out. And to tell you the truth, being older and everything, Billy wasn’t crazy about a high school prom.”

“I can see his point.”

“Patrick was the perfect solution,” she went on. “My parents knew and trusted him. And even though we hadn’t been close in forever, we were old friends. Billy knew that.”

I agreed that was all to the good for her, but what, I was curious, did Patrick get out of the deal? Here, Theresa was less forthcoming, giving a wide range of answers. She didn’t really know. Patrick hadn’t said. Maybe he had just broken up with someone. His original date backed out.

“Come on, Theresa,” I coaxed, “out with it.”

“I think he was seeing somebody he didn’t want his family to know about.”

“Who?”

“A tramp.”

“She got a name?”

“Just thinking about her makes me want to take a shower.”

“I’ll give you two bucks for a bar of soap,” I said. “What’s her name?”

“Tina Martell. Tits was what the boys used to call her. She hangs out at Henry’s Hog,” Theresa said, standing up to leave. “I’ll tell the waitress to forget our order. A cup a coffee’ll get you more than information from Tina.”

 

UNTIL I MADE friends outside New York City, I never understood the phrase “wrong side of the tracks.” In Brooklyn, subways often run right through the middle of neighborhoods where the median
income and apartment size is identical whether you live on this side of the BMT Line or that, so the phrase is meaningless. When I was about eleven and saw a guy fall off the platform in front of the D train, I figured wrong side of the tracks meant on top of the rails. But if I’d only seen Henry’s Hog at a younger age, any confusion would have vanished in an instant.

An old wood frame house converted into a biker’s bar and clubhouse, Henry’s Hog was wedged between an abandoned paint factory and auto body shop. The view out Henry’s front window—if you could have seen through the yellowed glass—was of train tracks that got about as much use as the paint factory. I patted the bulge in the small of my back where I kept my .38 holstered. Gary Cooper with a cane, preparing for battle with Henry and the Hell’s Angels.

When I walked in even the flies yawned. So much for
High Noon
. A trio of pot-bellied guys with scraggly beards played poker in a booth. Dressed in the filthiest jeans and jean jackets I think I’d ever seen, the three of them stopped blowing cigarette smoke in each others’ faces long enough to smirk at me. One saluted my arrival by raising his can of Carling Black Label. The bartender, a tattoo of a blood-dripping rose below his right ear, interrupted his
General Hospital
viewing to ask what I wanted.

“A Black Label and a word with Tina.”

If them was fighting words, the barman didn’t let on. “Have a seat over there. Tina!” he shouted. “Blind date’s here.”

I ferried my beer over to a table by the jukebox. After a minute, I realized Henry’s Hog was the first place I’d been in in days where Patrick Maloney wasn’t staring down at me from his omnipresent poster. It was a pleasant change of scenery.

A woman ducked under the service bar and came toward me. She wore dusty, black leather chaps over jeans, square-toed boots and a Harley T-shirt, her huge breasts straining against the tight shirt. She was short with square shoulders and a thick neck. It too sported the bloody rose. Her bottle-black hair was cropped. Several silvery studs adorned each ear. In spite of it all, she had a sweet, doughy face.

My eyes darted from her tattoo, to her earrings, to her severe hair. I got a crazy idea in my head: “Is he here?”

“Is who here?”

“Patrick.”

“Patrick who?”

“Patrick Maloney,” I said.

“Hey, Hank,” she called over her shoulder to the bartender. “You know a Patrick Maloney?”

“Shut up! I’m watchin’.” Then a commercial came on. “What was his name?”

“Patrick Maloney,” she repeated.

“Nah, I went to school with a Frank Maloney, but he got his ass shot off in Nam.”

And as Hank mouthed the name Frank Maloney, a light clicked on behind Tina’s cow eyes. “Why don’tcha buy me a beer, mister?”

When I brought her beer back to the table, we clinked cans and exchanged proper introductions.

“You really didn’t know he was missing?” I was skeptical.

“We ain’t big on current events around here, are we Hank?”

“Shut up, I’m watchin’.”

“So,” she asked, “what happened to him?”

I explained about the night he disappeared and gave her a brief summary of the events that had led me to Henry’s Hog. I was a little more detailed about the conversation I’d had with Theresa.

“That cunt! What’d she tell ya, that they used to call me Twat?”

“Tits.”

“I guess she was in a good mood. But I bet she wouldn’t be if she knew her sainted fuckin’ husband and his buddy double-teamed me a few summers ago in a car around the corner from that stupid hair place she works in. Bitch can have him,” she sneered, waving her pinky at me. “Guy’s hung like a hamster.”

I let Tina vent her spleen some more before asking about her and Patrick.

“Tell me about you and—”

“There wasn’t no me and Patrick. Shit, he was good lookin’. He took me to the movies and we balled a coupl’a times. I mean, he was sweet and everything, but kinda goofy.”

“Goofy?”

“Yeah, he got me pregnant and he—”

“—asked you to marry him.”

Her jaw dropped. “How the fuck did you know that?”

“Call it an educated guess.”

She didn’t persist. “It wasn’t like he was the first guy who knocked me up or nothin’. Lookin’ back at it now, I guess it was nice that he wanted to take responsibility. No one else ever does.”

“When he asked you to marry him, what happened?”

“I thought he was puttin’ me on.”

I pressed her: “But what did you say?”

“Not much. First I sorta laughed at him,” she said guiltily. “When he kept botherin’ me, I told him to take a freakin’ hike. Lunatic kept tellin’ me he loved me, he loved me. He was gonna prove it to me and take me to the prom. Like I wanted to go to the prom, right? I told him to get the fuck outta here.”

Tina said she had the abortion pretty soon after that, making a revealing joke about the clinic naming a room after her. Only one of us laughed. She was determined never to give literal meaning to being a motorcycle mama. Patrick had tried to see her in the interim, but she managed to warn him off. Once she had the abortion, he lost interest. That didn’t exactly come as a big surprise to me.

I thanked her for her time. She didn’t thank me for the beer. She started to give me a message to pass on to Theresa the next time I saw her. I told her not to bother. I wasn’t likely to be seeing Theresa any time soon.

“Well fuck her and fuck you, too.” She snorted and headed back under the bar.

Hank shrugged his shoulders at me. I shrugged mine at him. The three card players laughed and shook their heads. When I left, the flies yawned again.

DISTRACTED BY THE shadows and the dance of the little flame, I realized moths were not unique in being drawn to the fire.

Not even Aaron, great scholar of the Beth David Jewish Center, had a firm grasp on the arcane workings of the Hebrew calendar. Me, I had enough troubles with the “Thirty days has September . . .” rhyme. So it was with continued skepticism that I regarded the notice from the temple of when to light my father’s memorial candle. I couldn’t get the image out of my head of blindfolded rabbis throwing darts at a calendar. This year the dart had landed on the fifth of February.

Of course I was supposed to have lighted the candle at sundown. However, as I was somewhere between Henry’s Hog and the highway home when the sun dropped down, I’d missed the appointed hour. I was not overcome by guilt. My father was five years dead. I didn’t have a
Twilight Zone
view of the metaphysical. I didn’t picture my dad with angel’s wings, busily keeping memorial candle lists. I pictured him in his coffin. Lists were for Santa Claus. When I visited his grave, I didn’t chat with the headstone.

The phone rang. I knew it would be Aaron. Twice a year, on the mornings following the scheduled lighting of the memorial candles for our parents, Aaron would call to chastise me for forgetting. God forbid he should call me the day before so I wouldn’t forget.

“Yes,” I said without waiting, “I lit the fucking candle.”