Slipping Into Darkness (42 page)

 

He wrung the back of Nestor’s neck half playfully and felt the old man stiffen a bit.

 

“I knew my father would’ve told me just to use my head.”

 

“You’re still a better man than I am, Gunga Din,” Ms. A. said, turning back to Nestor. “But, Mr. Arroyo, I still don’t know about you. I’m glad we have your statement so we finally know the real story, but it’s a little late. You’d think someone who’d experienced that kind of pain in their lives might show a little more compassion for someone he knew. And don’t pretend you don’t understand. I think your English is a lot better than you let on.”

 

The porter smiled and tipped back his Panama.
“żQué quiere de mí, yo soy solo el pianista?”
he said.

 

“What does that mean?” Ms. A. looked to Hoolian for translation.

 

“He says, ‘What do you want from me, lady? I’m only the piano player.’”

 

 

53

 

 

 

AS THE NIGHT began to soften and a fine mist settled over Riverside Park, men in shirtsleeves alighted from the brownstones on 89th Street, noisily dragging trash cans to the curb for early-morning pickup. Tom Wallis was among the last of them, lugging his two barrels like there were bodies inside and then clapping his hands as he went back up the stoop and into the house, satisfied with a job well done.

 

“All right, that’s it.” Rashid, in the driver’s seat, lowered his binoculars. “He’s got it all out there.”

 

“Lights on in the house?” asked Francis, sitting beside him in the Le Sabre parked a half block away.

 

“Just on the third floor and first floor.”

 

“Then Eileen and him are both still awake. We better wait awhile. I don’t want to tip our hand and let ’em see what we’re up to.”

 

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the riotous wail of uilleann pipes and electric guitar on the CD player until Rashid couldn’t take it anymore.

 

“‘I was born to play the funky ceílí’?”
He ejected the disc and held it up to the dome light. “What kind of fucked-up shit is that?”

 

“Black 47 rule. And we just got through a half hour of Biggie Smalls and Dr. Dre bitch-slapping ho’s and smoking blunts.”

 

“All right then, let’s not listen to anything. Let’s just sit here.”

 

“Fine.”

 

They waited until the upstairs light went off, and then Francis took the binoculars.

 

“Say, man, you think it’s weird we don’t talk more?” Rashid finally asked.

 

“Why, what’s on your mind?”

 

“I’m just saying you’re pretty closemouthed, G. You mad at me or something?”

 

“No. Why do you say that? You one of those oversensitive guys watches Oprah and cries at card tricks?”

 

“That’s what my wife says, man. But she don’t know. She got a mouth like a MAC-10. But I was telling her the other night. ‘I don’t know what’s up with this guy I’m working with. He got a nasty attitude. He won’t even wave to me when I see him across the street.’”

 

“When was this?”

 

“It’s happened like three times. I was right there on Broadway outside the office and you acted like you didn’t see me.”

 

“Sorry.” Francis lowered the glasses, not able to see shit in this light. “No disrespect.”

 

“I’m just saying, I’m having a seriously hard time getting synched up with you. I feel like you got a whole house party going on in your head all the time, and I’m not invited. This is some lonesome-prairie shit, sitting here. If you’re still pissed about what happened at the crime scene, you should get it off your chest. I don’t deserve the silent treatment, son. I’m voluble. I like to talk.”

 

“Hey, Rashid, you know how you can tell you have a good relationship with your partner?” Francis interrupted. “It’s when you
don’t
have to say anything. You can just anticipate what the other guy is thinking. I mean, you and I, we could sit here and we could talk about whatever you talk about when you spend eight hours in a car with somebody. We could talk about the case or tax-deferred Treasury bonds or the Yankees or whatever. But in the end the way we’re gonna know we’re really getting along is when we can spend eight hours together and not say a word to each other.”

 

“Wow.” Rashid sighed. “Your poor fucking wife.”

 

“Brother, you don’t know the half of it.” Francis gave him back the glasses. “That woman’s a saint for staying with me. Every day I thank God for clouding her mind until I could get her up the aisle.”

 

Rashid stewed a few more seconds. “I just want to say one more thing, all right? I’m not going to be the one getting out of this car and going through that garbage can. I’m telling you that straight-out. This is your show.”

 

“Okay, chill. I’ll do it. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

 

A little man with a large German shepherd strolled into the well of light before the Wallises’ house and dropped a weighted bag into one of the barrels Tom had brought out.

 

“Dang.”
Rashid hissed in disgust. “You sure this shit is even protected under the Fourth Amendment, going through people’s trash?”

 

“What’re you trying to be, a constitutional lawyer?”

 

“Matter of fact, I am. While y’all are out drinking at Coogan’s or whatever, I been taking night classes at Fordham Law. So I’m not looking to get jammed up for doing a search without probable cause.”

 

“Don’t worry about probable cause. They got their garbage cans right there on the sidewalk for morning pickup. That’s abandoned property, my man, on public space. Totally legitimate source for DNA evidence. The Founding Fathers would say, ‘Go ’head, pick it up and get the recycling while you’re at it.’”

 

He shot a sideways glance at Rashid, not having realized he was sharing such close quarters with a future member of the defense bar.

 

“Yo, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.” Rashid’s fingers wrapped around the steering wheel.

 

“Okay.”

 

“So don’t bug out on me, a-ight?”

 

“All right.” Francis braced himself, realizing everything else had been a preamble.

 

Under the dome light, the smooth brown skin of Rashid’s shaved head seemed to expand and shrink down as he tried to figure out how to begin.

 

“The kid,” he said. “Julian.”

 

“Yeah.” Francis gave him a sullen look. “What about him?”

 

“If you’re right about what we’re doing here tonight, he didn’t have nothing to do with either of these murders.”

 

Francis made a show of running his tongue under his lip, to convey his displeasure.

 

“So, what’s up with that?” Rashid asked. “You sent a motherfucker to jail for twenty years for something he didn’t do? And then you hound him for another homicide soon as he gets out? You made that boy’s life a living hell on earth.”

 

“You talking to me as another cop or as a guy who’s going to be a fucking defense lawyer in a couple of years?” Francis asked, making no effort to hide his impatience.

 

“I’m talking to you
as a man.
All right?”

 

“All right.”

 

He went quiet, contemplating the flaws in the windshield and the places in the mid-distance where his vision began to drop away.

 

“What is it you want me to say exactly? Give me a hint.”

 

“I’m just curious. How are you going to live that down?”

 

“Hey, I was just part of the process,” Francis said, automatically going into the same rap he’d given Patti. “The jury decided on the evidence and the judge determined the sentence —”

 

“Bullshit, man. What kind of fucking idiot you think you’re talking to? I know what time it is. I’ve put niggers away for dealing weight
and
I’ve got cousins locked up. So don’t be talking shit to me about ‘the process.’ I know about
the process.
”

 

“What are you, my wife? I would’ve never partnered with you if I knew you were going to be such a self-righteous pain in the ass.”

 

“Well, you didn’t have any choice and now you’ve got me in the car with you. And we are going to
discuss
this shit. If you’re my partner, I want to know where you’re coming from on this.”

 

The streetlamp before the Wallis house blinked off, plunging that part of the block into sepulchral darkness for a few seconds.

 

“If I made a mistake, all I can do is go back and try to make it right,” Francis said slowly. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

 

“‘Make it
right?
’” Rashid’s voice cracked. “Man, how the hell you gonna make it
right?
You put that kid away when he was seventeen and he came out when he was thirty-seven.”

 

“And so what the fuck do you want me to do about it now? Shoot myself in the head?
I’m here, aren’t I?
” He paused to collect himself. “Look, I’m working the case hard as I can. All I can do is try to get it right this time. If anyone wants to come take my badge and gun after I’ve done that,
fine.
I’ll take whatever I’ve got coming. I’ll fall on the sword if I have to. I’m not afraid. Bring it on. All’s I’m asking is, just let me be the one who does this. If you’re going to make me responsible, let me fucking
be
responsible.”

 

He realized he was starting to perspire.

 

“You ever thought about what it must’ve been like?” Rashid asked, smooth as a drawer sliding open.

 

“What?”

 

“For the guy. Julian. You ever thought what it must have been like, getting put away for something he didn’t do?”

 

Francis rolled the window down, wondering how it got so stuffy all of a sudden.

 

“You ever thought about that long-ass bus ride he must have taken with all these hardened criminal motherfuckers? This little kid not even out of parochial school, walking through the cellblocks. Can you imagine how scared he must have been? They threw him in the shark tank, man, before he even knew how to swim.”

 

“All right, I got the point.” Francis hung his arm out the window, taking deep breaths.

 

“I wonder if you do. I wonder if you ever really thought about what it would be like to miss the last twenty years of your life. . . .”

 

“Knock it off, already. I heard you.”

 

He stuck his head out the window, trying to get some air. Not wanting to be looked at. He watched the silhouettes of more men putting their garbage out. Twenty years. He found his mind going backward, like a film rewinding, reversing every moment of joy he’d experienced from the age of thirty-seven to seventeen. He found himself giving back promotions, leaving the hospital without his babies, retreating from the church where he got married alone.

 

“Hey, those lights just went off.” Rashid nudged him.

 

“Where?”

 

“Downstairs and upstairs. They’re both going to sleep.”

 

“All right.” Francis sat up and slipped his latex gloves on, glad to be moving. “Ease up on the brake and go about halfway down the block. I’ll hop out.”

 

The car rolled about forty feet, crunching leaves and twigs under its tires, and then stopped.

 

“I went a little bit past the house so they wouldn’t see you getting out, case one of them looks out the window,” Rashid said.

 

Francis hesitated, seeing the streetlamp was still out.

 

“What’re you waiting for?” Rashid fixed the rearview. “I thought you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty.”

 

“Dirti
er.
” Francis opened the door and got out of the car like he was leaving an airplane mid-flight.

 

He instantly realized he’d made a mistake, not bringing a small flashlight, after getting lost in Red Hook. Rashid had cut the headlights, so he didn’t even have those to guide him. He heard a gust of wind riffling garbage bags, a flutter of pigeon wings, and a window sliding open. Every sound sharpened and accentuated by the enveloping darkness.

 

He heard his pulse thumping in his ears.
Don’t panic. It’s just a temporary thing.
He felt his way between parked cars and tried to judge his distance from the sidewalk by the sound of his footsteps.
Come on, ya bastard, tell me where I am already.
He stumbled over the curb and heard a group of passing teenagers, skunky from smoking weed in Riverside Park, laugh raucously at his expense, thinking he was nothing more than an old drunk trying to find his way home.

 

Shut up.
His fear shaded into anger and humiliation. He bumped into a barrel full of empty cans and the sound of jostled aluminum echoed loud enough to wake half the Upper West Side.

 

Get a grip.
He took a deep breath and smelled the odors of rotting vegetables, sour milk, and coffee grounds in one of the nearby barrels. The blackness around him relented a little, giving him a slim diagonal of light from a window across the street. It fell on two garbage cans with the numbers 655 spray-painted on their sides. Somehow he’d found himself directly in front of the Wallis house. Rashid, double-parked close by, revved the Buick’s motor impatiently.

 

He started rummaging through the barrels, pulling out a small bag and knowing from its weight that it was the one just left by the German shepherd’s walker. He tossed it aside and started to reach in for a larger bag just as he realized someone was standing right beside him.

 

“What’re you doing, Francis?”

 

He lurched back as Tom’s milky white face swam out of the darkness.

 

“
Aaay,
Tom . . .” Francis stuck his gloved hands in his pockets.

 

“What’s going on?” Tom asked. “Why are you out here?”

 

“Tommy, Tommy. The years. The fuckin’ years. Sometimes you just have to come remind yourself what it’s all about.”

 

“Are you drunk, Francis?”

 

“I might’ve had a couple of smarteners.” Francis played along as he tried to ease the gloves off without taking his hands out of his pockets.

 

“Keep your voice down. My mom’s sleeping on the first floor.”

 

“Yeah, I just wanted to talk to her, Tom. Tell her how bad I feel about the way things are turning out. . . .”