Ten Little New Yorkers (16 page)

T
he first thing I did the next morning, after feeding the cat, and preparing the espresso machine for launch, was to call Ratso. His voice was a little grating when it happened to be your first human contact of the day, but this time I really needed his help. For one thing, I didn't want to risk leaving the loft unless it was on fire. For another, Ratso had something I wanted.

“Kinkstah!” he shouted through the blower. “Heather seems to like the Kinkstah!”

“She seems like a nice person.”

“What do you mean, ‘She seems like a nice person'?” Ratso rattled on like a subway train. “She's hot, baby! She's hot!”

“Well, it was very nice of you to play the little Jewish match-maker—”

“Anytime, Kinkstah! Anytime! But I hope you're not straying too far from the investigation. I mean, a little R&R is fine, but according to my count we've now got eight vics and no perps! What're we planning to do about that, Sherlock?”

“I'm planning to meet with the perp tonight.”

“Great! When and where?”

“Up to the perp.”

“Just let me know, Sherlock, and I'll be there.”

“That won't be necessary, Watson. Tonight's encounter with the perp, for many reasons, of necessity, must be Sirhan-Sirhan-party-of-one.”

“Wait a minute, Sherlock! I've been with you every step of the way! I've done all the legwork with you! Now you're going to solve the case alone? What happened to your deep, latent homosexual attachment to your fucking wonderful, loyal Dr. Watson? What happened to my being the fixed point in a changing age?”

“There is a fixed point on top of your head, Watson.”

“I can't believe you'd lead Watson to water and not let him drink. I can't believe you'd show Watson the promised land and not let him go there.”

“Pinch yourself, Watson, this is all very unbecoming of you. Surely you know that a perp confesses to the good cop only after the bad cop has left the room. Surely you know that while some may preach to the choir, none
confess
to the choir. Surely you know that when a sinner confesses to a priest, it's always one on one.”

“Surely you know that when a priest bullfucks his best friend, then tells the pope he thought he was an altar boy—”

“Watson, this is all very unbecoming of you.”

Treat children like adults and adults like children, my father had always said. Ratso, indeed, had a temperament quite similar to that of a small child, or a playful puppy. He was passionate in his beliefs, but he was also quite easily distracted. I utilized my father's dictum with him now.

“There is one matter, Watson, of the utmost importance, that you and you alone are uniquely equipped to deal with. As you well know, for reasons other than malaria this time, I am a virtual prisoner of Vandam Street. I leave the loft only at great personal risk. But there is an object, Watson, that is currently in your possession, Watson, that I must have, Watson!”

“Sure, Sherlock. What is it?”

“That porn video.”

I could hear the wheels turning in Ratso's head. I could feel his mind moving to a different track. I took the opportunity to strike a kitchen match on my jeans and resurrect a dead Cuban soldier.

“All right, Kinkstah! She seems like a nice person, Kinkstah! Maybe she's naughty and nice, Kinkstah! Maybe she likes big, mean cowboys! Maybe you'll throw on the porn tape and then ride her hard and put her up wet, Kinkstah!”

“Ah, Watson, your mind, my friend, is so facile and intuitive! Is there any aspect of any relationship that can evade your prying, prurient gaze?”

“I guess not, Sherlock,” said Ratso, with a sadly misguided measure of pride. “I'll drop it by later this morning.”

“Good work, Watson! Of those to whom much has been given, much is expected.”

True to his word, Ratso dropped the porn video off later that morning. As the lesbian dance class had temporarily fallen silent, I encouraged him to speak in guarded tones. It was a challenge for him to whisper.

“Heather's going to love this!” he said. “Give her a few shots from the ol' bull's horn as a leg-opener, then put the video on and you'll probably ram the ol' avenger home on the first date!”

“Ah, Watson, even in this jaded Victorian age, it's comforting to know that chivalry is not dead.”

After Ratso had taken his leave, I made one more call. Without entirely tipping my hand, I revealed a few cards. They were enough to set up a rendezvous for later that night.

I
was feeding the cat some tuna and feeding myself a leftover bagel when the phones rang. It was the middle of the afternoon and things were pretty quiet; the lesbian dance class, apparently, having gone into remission. I walked over to the desk with a lit cigar in my mouth, a cup of hot coffee in one hand, and a lukewarm bagel in the other, and tried to pick up the phone. It was one of the more difficult things I've attempted to do in my life and it was not entirely met with success. As I sat down in the chair, a dollop of very hot coffee splashed onto my crotch, the receiver dropped to the floor, and my cigar fell into my half-full cup of coffee. I cursed loudly enough for the cat to stop eating her tuna and to jump onto the desk and shamelessly rubberneck for some moments. I reached to pick up the blower from off the floor, breathing hard and still cursing under my breath. Then the chair fell over.

“Start talkin',” I said gruffly, once I'd righted myself.

“If I knew you were going to be this excited to hear from me,” said Rambam, “I never would've left. What the hell's going on? A terrorist attack in the West Village? The Tourette Syndrome Olympics? A do-it-yourself hemorrectomy?”

“All of the above. Welcome back.”

“Was
that
the lesbian dance class?”

“No. I think they've taken five.”

“Five what? It sounded like the circus got to town just about the time the sky was falling.”

“No, it's nothing. I'm just a little jumpy I guess.”

“What's there to be jumpy about? Just because a psycho's croaked eight scumbags and the cops think you did it? Nothin' to be jumpy about. Hell, if it was me, I'd jump on the next plane back to Angkor Wat.”

“Wat? Can't hear you. I've got a lesbian dance class in my ear.”

To tell the truth, everything was pretty quiet now. No lesbian dance class. No terrorists. Just waiting for the anointed hour when I would drop the axe.

“What
are
you doing about the investigation?” asked Rambam pointedly. “Of course if the murder spree goes on much longer it might develop into a rather effective method of dealing with sex abuse. Not to mention population control.”

“Oh, the investigation. I think I've solved it. I'm meeting with my own person of interest at an undisclosed location tonight.”

“What undisclosed location?” shouted Rambam. “You mean you've got no backup? Other than Ratso, I mean.”

“Ratso wasn't invited.”

“Well, at least you'll have the cops.”

“No cops. My person of interest is too cagey for that. Besides, if the cops are along I'll never get the goods.”

“Surely they've had you under surveillance for some time. And your place is probably bugged as we speak. How do you plan to avoid them?”

“I'll use a trick an old friend of mine named Steve Rambam once told me about. It involves an X-rated video on loan from the Ratso Collection.”

“Fucking great. Suppose you're one on one with your person of interest and he
does
turn out to be the killer? Then what do you do? Call 911?”

“Can't say more. Little ears may be listening.”

“Okay. It's your funeral.”

After I'd cradled the blower with Rambam, I typed up some notes for a while, fed the cat some more tuna, and then the two of us took a peaceful power nap together on the davenport by the front fire escape. By the time we leapt sideways it was eight o'clock and dark outside. I took an espresso over to the window and looked down at Vandam Street. There seemed to be a lot of activity tonight and the sleeping garbage trucks tended to obscure some of the view, so it was hard to pick out any signs of surveillance. The cops were probably there, all right. In a strange way I suppose you could say we were both looking out for each other.

The cat jumped up on the windowsill and looked out into the dark, cold night. She was watching the place we call New York. An old lady moving ever-so-slowly with her aluminum Jerry Jeff Walker. A wino that looked like Walt Whitman whizzing on a wall. A young woman trying vainly to hail a cab, her hand held high like the Statue of Liberty. Lots of traffic going by. Lots of pedestrians moving like chess pieces from one square to another.

“So many people,” I said to the cat. “So few comets.”

I put Ratso's porn tape on the machine and turned up the volume. Just in case anybody was listening, they'd hear sounds of heated lovemaking, indicating I'd gotten lucky and would be in for the evening. At about eight-thirty I put on McGovern's old overcoat, grabbed three cigars from Sherlock's head, and walked to the door.

I left the cat in charge.