Losers Live Longer (6 page)

Outside, I turned right and headed up Third, cut down the diagonal slice of Stuyvesant Street, back over to Second Avenue and Tenth.

A passenger airliner shrieked and moaned overhead. I looked up to see a peerless blue sky, not a single shred of cloud in any direction, absolutely clear.

It made me uneasy.

The gleaming white airplane seemed kind of low. It must’ve been in a holding pattern for JFK. I watched it slowly creep across the narrow column of airspace above me. I was the only one around who seemed to take any notice. I was like a housebroken dog forever shy of rolled-up newspapers.

When the plane finally passed out of sight beyond the edge of a roof, I moved again, breathing evenly.

The briefcase barked against my left knee twice. I switched hands and it barked against my right knee. I couldn’t get the hang of it, just wasn’t executive material, I guess.

I stopped on the corner a block from my building, by the end of the churchyard gate where for at least a dozen years the little black lady, Evelyn, used to station herself, bouncing change in her paper cup and exchanging friendly words with anyone who passed. She had died that January.

I rattled my pockets for coins, none. Fished in my watchpocket and came up with a quarter, Oregon back. I left it right where she used to sit.

Ahead, at the corner of East Twelfth, the commotion had died down, everything back to normal. People crossing the street, cars repeating that same sharp right onto Second, over and over where Owl’s body had been. As if nothing had happened.

I walked to my building and pushed the buzzer for T. Fitchet, Penthouse.

The intercom speaker clicked.

“
Who is it?”

“
It’s the plumber, I’ve come to fix the sink.”

Speaker click.

“
Who is it?”

“
It’s the plumber! I’ve come to fix the sink!”

Click.

“
Who is it?”

I hollered, “IT’S THE PLUMBER, I’VE COME TO FIX—”

The door buzzed and I pushed it open.

At the first landing, I stopped at my office door, tried the knob—yep, locked—and set down Owl’s briefcase, then went up the next flight to get my spare keys from Tigger.

Her door was open and I walked in.

She wasn’t in the front hallway. She wasn’t in the living room, either. Her array of computer monitors unmanned looked like an abandoned UFO console, hard copies of design projects draped over lamps and chairs like hastily discarded alien star charts. I went further in, calling out, “If you’re naked, I warn you—I brought my pastels.”

I turned the corner into the kitchen nook and Tigger was seated at the table with two men with shiny black hair dressed in shiny blue suits, a sheaf of legal documents spread out before them.

She stood up—a short trip, she’s only five-two— dressed in a belted blue-striped cotton dress and black regulation-issue army boots. She swept out her right arm, flashing her four-aces wristband tattoo.

“
Payton, this is my realtor Mr. Ecuador—”

“
It’s Acquidar, actual—” Mr. Ecuador tried to assert.

“—
and my accountant, Midge,” Tigger swept on.

“
How’ya doin’,” Midge said.

“
Hi.”

“
My downstairs neighbor, Payton Sherwood. A noted investigator, no doubt in disguise at the moment. We’re finalizing details on the closing. I’ll get your keys.” Her grin was so wide and cunning, her silver and turquoise septum-pierced nose-ring tapped her two front teeth.

She got me the keys and walked me to her door. I asked where the little bambina was. Her 18-month-old, Rue, was off with her father; Retz’s visiting parents—Rue’s grandparents—were off “taking in” the Museum of Modern Art.

“
I told them she’s too young for it. Better off plantingher under a tree in the park for an hour.”

“
She’d like the mobiles.”

Tigger grunted, non-committal.

“
What’s with the Charlie Chaplin shoes?” she asked.

“
You’re the second person today to tell me I look like a clown.”

She raised a pedantic finger and corrected.

“
So far. I’m the second person today
so far
—it’s not even noon yet. So what’s with the shoes?”

I told her how I found the shoes after locking myself out, but nothing about the accident, Owl’s death, or what I’d done after. Partly because it would take too long, mostly because I didn’t trust her reaction. The thing with Tigger Fitchet was: never did know which way that tree was going to fall. More often than not, right smack on top of you.

I said thanks for the keys, I’d bring them back.

She said, “Well…maybe you should…you know…”

“
What?” She gave me a look and I gave it right back to her.

“
Nothing,” she said. “Bring them back.”

I turned to go, but stopped and said as naively as I could, “Okay, who are those two guys
really
?”

Her fuzzy caterpillar eyebrows sank in a frown.

“
Payton. It’s really happening.”

“
O.K., don’t tell me. Be that way.”

I tried a hasty retreat, but she put the Vulcan neck-pinch on me before I took a step.

“
What’ve you been up to? You look…different.”

My subtle lycanthropy showing. It’d begun.

“
Nothing, let go. Release release.” She unclamped her hold on me. “Ow. I’ve gotta shrug these shoulders, you know. I’ll call you later.” I went downstairs, but didn’t hear her door shut until I was at mine.

Yeh, see what you’ll be missin’ out on, missy? The exotic air of mystery—won’t get that when you move out to Melonville.

I opened my door, nudged Owl’s briefcase in with my foot.

As soon as I sat down behind my desk, I found my sneakers I hadn’t been able to find before, right where I’d kicked them off. Some detective.

I undid the laces on the black shoes, removed them and the socks. I washed my feet in the bathroom, toweled them, then put on a pair of clean white socks, sat back at my desk and put on my sneakers.

Two messages flashing on the machine. I played them.

But only one of them was new, the first message was Owl’s call. I listened while pouring loose tobacco into a cigarette paper, rolling it, licking it, letting it dry a second before setting it on fire. I lit up, so eager I even took in the match sulfur. I drew deeply and held it. The smoke tasted delicious and foul streaming out my nose and falling from my lips.

“…
at Metro. I’m calling to see if you’re available today to hel—” End of Owl’s message, cut off where I’d picked up.

The new message was from my mom, received at noon, calling to ask if that was near me where that young actor who played that doctor on that comedy series set in the hospital died—they say he shot up drugs? You know who I mean, the one on that series that used to be on, who played the doctor? Where is the Meat Packing District? Is that near you? How close— Time expired.

I picked up the phone, but not to call my mom.

No use putting it off any longer. I dialed the number of Metro Security, got the switchboard, and asked for Matt Chadinsky, giving my name.

He didn’t keep me waiting, but his first words were, “What is it? I’m busy here.”

“
Owl’s dead.”

“
What?”

“
George Rowell, he’s dead.”

“
Bullshit, who told you that bullshit?”

“
No one told me. I’m telling you. He died this morning, here in the city. Hit by a car on the corner outside my building.”

“
Are you shitting me? What was he doing there?”

“
Coming to see me?”

“
What for?”

“
To hire me.”

“
You’re shitting me. You sure it was—”

“
I’m sure. I’ve got his toolcase here in my office.”

“
He left it there?”

“
No, it’s…I took charge of it,” I bobbed.

“
What did the blues say?”

“
What do they always say?” I weaved.

“
Was it a hit and run?”

“
No. Driver remained at the scene. Livery cab. Looks like an accident.”

“
Where’d they fucking take him?”

“
I didn’t, uh…”

“
No shit, I can imagine.” He coughed and spat in my ear, I was glad it was over the phone. He sighed a powerful gust of disgust. “Hohhh, I’ve got calls to make. Stay put!”

He hung up.

I switched on the radio and tuned in local news. Nothing about Owl’s death, but I hardly expected it. An advertisement came on for an institute specializing in wounds that won’t heal located in Sleepy Hollow. I switched off thinking of that poor Headless Horseman and his wound that never healed properly.

I went over and turned on the TV. Didn’t have a cable box, but I’d attached the old line directly to the back of the set and still picked up the feed for NY1, New York City’s 24-hour cable news channel. I also got a few other stations and listened to the audio of scrambled signals whenever a movie channel aired
Murder, My Sweet
or
The Big Sleep
. I’ve seen them so many times, I didn’t even need the pictures to watch ’em anymore.

Nothing about an old man’s death in a traffic incident on NY1. Their top local story was the ex-sitcom star that’d died the night before of a heroin overdose. It was a big story, had to be if my mom saw it aired nationally.

Craig Wales had overdosed in a back room at the club hosting the after-party for a premiere of his first feature film. What made it even more sensational was that, on behalf of a fan website devoted to the TV show he used to star on when he was still in his early teens,
Healthy Assets
, he’d been blogging the entire event via text message, right up until the hour he died. The TV screen was flashing excerpts alongside an old photo of him wearing a doctor’s white lab coat. His last blog entry began, OFF 2 *^* w/ MC!!!

I tried to suss it out. OFF 2 *^*. Well, but of course, it was so simple a five-year-old could make it out. Quick, run and get me a five-year-old. It made me wonder what direction our language was headed in. Rebuses and charades, grunting and pointing?

At the left-hand corner of the TV screen was the current time and temperature. 11:11 and 81 degrees.

I emptied my pockets on the desk. The photograph of Owl and the girl, Elena; the pink parking garage ticket; the three handbills, Owl’s hotel receipt, my business card…what else had there been? The money. She had taken that, but anything besides? Couldn’t put my finger on it. I looked at the wristband I’d found in the hotel wastebasket. Nothing new came to me.

Everything but the photo, I sealed in an envelope. The photo I folded into my wallet.

I took off my shirt and put on two new ones, one a bright lime-green t-shirt with a white collar, and, over that, a button-down long-sleeve blue dress shirt, which I buttoned all the way, except for the collar. It wasn’t a fashion statement, these were my work clothes. In case I was spotted, I could shed the dress shirt and, at least superficially, become another person.

From a desk drawer, I got a folded paper painter’s hat and stuck it in my back pocket for the same reason.

Finally, I slipped on my battered old camper’s watch.

Checked the time against NY1 before switching it off, just as the handsome young face of Craig Wales flashed once more on the screen. The news loop reporting his O.D. was coming round the bend again, round and round all day long, same on every network, until it was no longer sensational or shocking, merely predictable, monotonous as a carnival wheel’s odyssey.