Lush Life (55 page)

"OK." Billy shrugged. "How about tomorrow?"

"Depends what happens tonight," Berkowitz said patiently, "I don't have a crystal ball."

"So, what are you talking about, laying in the cut? You've got nothing, and cool gets cold gets frozen. I want a news conference."

"You're not hearing what I'm saying."

"I'm hearing every word." Billy seemed exhilarated by his newfound lucidity

"We're on the same side here."

"You know what?" Dry laughing. "The very fact that you think it's necessary to reassure me of that tells me we're not."

Berkowitz took a moment, studying the traffic building behind them on the northbound FDR.

"Look." He put his hands together in an attitude of entreaty. "You seem like a hands-on guy I respect that. I'd be the same way if I didn't know better, but I do. And what you're asking for isn't going to happen. We'll do this conference when we can get maximum bang for the buck. When thirty years' experience says, 'Now.' "

"No." Billy brushed lint from his pants legs. "That's when you'll do your conference. I'll have mine when I want to. You don't want to be part of it? Fine. But I swear, I have been praising you people every step of the way, and, well, that's going to end right here, right now, so when they ask me, and they will, where the hell are the cops? I'm answering as honestly as I can. I'm going to say I had a sit-down with a Deputy Inspector Berkowitz, who I have to assume spoke to me on behalf of Manhattan Chief of Detectives Upshaw on behalf of Chief of Detectives Mangold, on behalf of Police Commissioner Patterson, and according to this Deputy Inspector Berkowitz, the official attitude towards disseminating news of this increased reward here, the official position-"

"All right, all right." Berkowitz briefly lowered his head as if taking a quick nap, then came up shrugging. "I get it."

From his slouched roost across the street Matty saw the whole thing unfold in pantomine.

You had to give it to him, Matty thought, the DI was a pro; played his hand, got trumped, switched teams, moved on.

A moment later they both got out and shook hands, Billy then walking off, Matty suddenly knotty about his making a beeline back to his car under the DI's gaze, feeling like a jerk as he put a hand to the side of his face and averted his eyes, Billy heading right back to the fucking car, Matty dying until Billy abruptly took the last possible turn before reaching for the door, down Attorney, and with enough presence of mind that he never once looked directly at Matty or the car, Matty wondering if there was any kind of payback in the choreography of that very close call.

A few minutes later, Berkowitz reached him on his cell.

"Yeah, so listen, were gonna do it. I need to make a few calls, set things up, today's shot, let's say tomorrow afternoon, one o'clock?"

"I greatly appreciate this," Matty said as he trolled Attorney looking for Billy. "As you could probably tell, that guy means business."

"Yeah, I sensed that."

"Anyways, thank you."

"He almost walked right back to your car, didn't he?" Berkowitz said mildly.

Matty froze.

"Just make sure the paperwork's all in."

"Thanks, boss."

"Fuck it," Berkowitz said, "I would've done the same."

When he finally found Billy at the corner of Attorney and Rivington, the blind bearish tilt of his stride made it painfully apparent how much this showdown with Berkowitz had taken out of him, and so Matty held off on calling out his name, just rolled parallel to give him some time to deal.

From working the press to raising the cash to facing down the brass, Billy had come through like a champ, but Matty knew that the victory was a setup; that what Billy was to discover now, if he hadn't already, was that even though the best of all possible outcomes had been achieved here, there would be no relief for him from that grinding sense of anticipation he'd carried in his gut for the last few days, that no matter what came down the line, what measures of justice were ultimately portioned out, what memorials or scholarship funds established, whatever new children would come into his life, he would always carry in himself that grueling sensation of waiting: for a tranquil heart, for his son to stop messing around and reappear, for his own death.

Matty trailed him until Billy made it to the corner of Broome, then finally tapped his horn, Billy turning to the noise but not seeing the car, five feet away.

"Billy"

At the sound of his name he stepped to the passenger door, leaned into the open window.

"Whatever you said to him, brother, you did good."

"Yeah?" Billy looked right through him.

"Seriously" Matty leaned across and carefully pushed open, the door. "You did great."

When Matty got home, a message on the answering machine from his ex told him that the Other One was coming down to him in just another day or so and that she'd ring him back as to the exact time and bus line tomorrow. Lindsay called the house only when she didn't want to talk to him, otherwise she called his cell. He understood why this news was reaching him like this: she didn't want to afford him the opportunity to back out.

He stood in his living room staring at his couch as if it were a puzzle, then pulled it out into a bed. Opened up, it took over the entire room, took over the apartment.

On the other hand, what did he really need? The kitchen for making coffee, the terrace for drinking it, and the bedroom. He didn't even watch the TV.

At eleven that evening, Gerard "Mush" Mashburn, three weeks out of Rikers, sat cuffed in the back of the Quality of Life taxi, Geohagan riding next to him, Daley and Lugo up front.

When Daley slipped on the baseball glove wedged between the dashboard and the window and absently started pounding its pocket, Mush piped up, "You got to put some tung oil in that thing."

"Put what?" Daley twisted around.

"Oh, fuck me." Lugo grinned through the rearview. "We got Field of Dreams back there."

"Knew a shortstop in high school used bacon grease," Mush said. "Now that was a glove with some flex to it."

"You a ballplayer, Mush?" Geohagan asked.

"Was. Left field, right, first base, you name it I played it. Junior year? Made all-county honorable mention."

"No kidding. What county?"

"Chemung, in upstate? And we had us some ballplayers 'round there."

"So how'd you go from that to this." Daley mimed shooting up.

Mush looked out the window, shrugging, Why ask why

"You want to come play for Quality of Life?" Lugo asked. "We're light some big bats this year."

"Yeah, that would be good. Make a team out of your collars," Mush said. i(You put your snatch-and-grabbers around the horn, you know, good hands, quick on they feet, strong-arm boys in the outfield, and, yeah, a killer behind the plate, get the batters all distracted and shit."

The cops beamed at each other, chucking thumbs at the joker in the backseat.

Seeing this, Mush warmed to his audience, just a trace of anxiety in the unconscious and repetitive flick of his tongue.

"Just make sure none a your sideline coaches are sustance abusers, you know, base runners tryin' to read all that scratchin' and noddin', don't know whether to shit, piss, or wind they watch."

The cops were straight-out howling now, bucking in their seats with glee.

"Now the pitcher, he could be problematical. Give me a minute here ..."

"Nah nah nah, I got that one," Lugo said, seeking Mush's eyes through the rearview again. "You know who'd be perfect? Anybody you call tonight could bring us a gun."

The briefing for the presser was set up in the captains office at the Eighth, twenty or so reporters crammed into the room an hour before showtime to get the ground rules.

The police commissioner had wanted no part of this dog and so passed it down to the chief of detectives, who passed it down to the Manhattan chief of d's, who fobbed it off on Deputy Inspector Berkowitz, who, to Matty's surprise, said he'd do it, claiming that this one had gotten under his skin and he had a personal interest in a successful closed-by-arrest.

Neither Billy nor Minette had shown up yet.

"OK, basically,'' Berkowitz speaking from his perch on the corner of the captain's desk, "we're going to review the details of the homicide, announce an increase in the reward, and have Ike Marcus's father read a statement." He looked out at the cramped room, ignoring the already raised hands.

"Given that it s an ongoing investigation, we're not going to speak to the progress we've made or give out any details about the investigation itself. Mayer."

"Are you going to talk at all about the catch-and-release of Eric Cash?" Beck asked.

"No, don't go there with that. We're not doing this to get hammered. We're trying to get results."

"But basically, you have no leads, right?"

Berkowitz stared at Beck. "See the above."

As the hands continued to rise, Matty quietly left the room and called Billy's cell from the hallway It went to the recording, Billy's greeting voice, taped in the pre-apocalyptic days, jarringly buoyant.

Then he called the Howard Johnson's, Billy apparently still there but the line to his room either off the hook or busy

Which left Minette's cell, but when he called, Nina picked up, her "Hello" tentative and frightened.

"Hey, Nina, this is Matty Clark, is your dad there?"

In the background he could hear Minette: "Billy ..."

"My dad?"

"Are you, you're at the hotel?"

"Yes."

"Billy, get wp."

"Look." Matty started to pace. "Should I come over there?"

"Should what?" the kid sounding as if she were speaking to him from a foxhole under heavy fire.

"Should-" Matty cut himself off; asking the kid of all people. "Can you put your mom on the line?"

"Mom . . ." Nina's voice fainter as she turned to the room. "It's Matty the cop."

Matty the cop.

"Yeah, hey," Minette speaking in a rush. "We're coming, we're coming."

"Do you want me to-"

"No, were OK."

"You can make it-"

"I said yes."

"-on time?"

"Yes. If I can get off the goddamn phone now," then hung up.

Eric woke up to the sound of a newscaster on NY1 coming from the TV suspended above the bed of his new neighbor, an enormous man of indeterminate age and race, his hands, wrist to knuckles, dope-swollen to the size of catchers mitts, the fingers lost in the lower ballooning like pigs in a blanket.

On Eric's bedside table there was a wicker basket from Berkmann s, from Harry Steele, holding an assortment of Carr's biscuits, some milky Burrata cheese wrapped in cloth, an Asian pear, and a bottle of Sancerre but no corkscrew. The note read, Anything I can do. H. S.

He couldn't find the remote for the TV above his own bed, so as he waited to be discharged, he watched his neighbor's.

A pulpit had been set up on Pitt Street, directly outside the precinct, feeder cables for the various mikes and cameras trailing back into the building like the tendrils of a jellyfish.

Matty stood there now with DI Berkowitz, a full inspector from DCPI, and a raised easel displaying Eric Cash's generic-predator sketch.

It was one-twenty, and still, Billy was nowhere in sight, Matty back to dialing everyone's cell number.

Berkowitz made a small show of scowling at his watch, then reared back in reproachful scrutiny "Is this guy for real?"

The shooters and reporters, all neck-wedged cell phones and drooping cigarettes, were getting deeply restless, a crop of empty coffee cups sprouting on the roofs and hoods of the patrol cars and unmarked sedans slant-parked at the curb.

"Unbelievable," Berkowitz muttered. 'You guys cook this headfuck up together or was it just you?"

Matty didn't think he was supposed to answer.

A handcuffed perp being hustled into the house behind the pulpit tripped over the cables at the door and fell flat on his face. When hoisted upright by the cop who'd collared him, he had a scraped cheek.

"Y'all got that on film," he bawled to the press. "Y'all material witnesses!"

The arresting officer stooped to the curb, retrieved the guy's hat, and popped it back on his head before hauling him inside.

"The hell with this guy," Berkowitz said, then leaned into the beard of mikes on the pulpit.

"Unfortunately, William Marcus, the father of Isaac Marcus, has been called away on urgent family business, but we spoke to him earlier and his family in conjunction with the New York City Police Department . . ."

And then Matty spotted them, the Davidson-Marcus clan, on the far side of Pitt and Delancey, as they emerged from the shadows beneath the Williamsburg Bridge, wild-eyed and unstrung like some multiheaded creature out of the desert.

Billy stood before the microphones, squinting at the white carnation of crumpled paper in his hands, his mouth working but the words un
-
hatched.