The Hard Way (22 page)

“My dad told it to me, how each one felt a different part and thought the elephant was something else.”

“Right. Sometimes I think that's how we all see things.”

“You mean even people who can see?”

“Yeah.”

He picked up a fry, dipped it in ketchup, took a small bite. “At school they tell us not to say ‘blind.'”

“Really?”

“The teacher says it's more polite to say ‘visually impaired.'”

“And the deaf are hearing impaired?”

He nodded.

I shook my head, thinking no one was willing to call a spade a spade nowadays, thinking polite is one thing, sanitized beyond recognition is another.

“I have to remember,” I told him, “that we all see events like the visually impaired men checking out the elephant.”

He smiled. Good kid, I thought.

“We see everything through our experience and our emotions. We're not seeing things fresh. So every story I hear from witnesses is different.”

“My dad says you have to be careful about stuff like that. He says you have to try to get the whole picture, the whole elephant.”

“That's what I'm trying to do,” I told him, “but it's not easy.”

“Because one visually impaired person thought the elephant was a snake.”

“Exactly.”

“And that's why you're asking everyone who was there for every little detail.”

“Right—because I don't want to think there was a snake there if it was an elephant instead.” Thinking one way or another, there was a snake on the platform, a snake I was trying very hard to find.

We finished our burgers and our fries. Dustin told me about what he liked and didn't like at school. He liked to write stories, he said. He hated math. When we weren't talking, I could hear Dashiell snoring. I asked for a chocolate chip muffin to go and told Dustin to be sure to have a glass of milk with it. He smiled and said I sounded just like his mom sometimes. I thanked him and paid the bill. He said he'd ask for a glass of water at the counter and I could take Dashiell out when Marge's back was turned, a born con man. My kind of kid.

Dustin said he was going uptown. I waited while he walked away, waving when he turned back to see if I was still there. Speedy Messengers was right across the street. What the hell, I thought, I might get lucky again. But not wanting to press my luck too much, I walked to the corner to cross, leaning against a parked van across from the revolving door when I got to the middle of the block, just as I had done the last time.

Willy wouldn't only be leaving at the end of the day. He'd be in and out to pick up packages to deliver. I saw two other messengers leaving, their bags stuffed with large padded envelopes, one coming back in, his bag flat, lying against his back. But no Willy. It was three o'clock by then. I'd been there over an hour. But it wasn't snowing and I could still feel my feet, so I figured I'd give it another hour before leaving. And that's when I saw him. He was heading in from the north corner, head down, hands deep in his pockets, his empty messenger bag to the front, flat as an old lady's bosom. I waited until he was only a foot away and then stepped out in front of him.

“Oh, not again,” he said. “What? You going to tell me I be…”
He stopped and flashed me a grin. “No. Don't say it. I remember. No jive talk. Just the king's English, even though we don't got one, only a president who
thinks
he be one.”

I opened my mouth. Willy slipped a gloved hand out of his pocket and held it up.

“You came to tell me you caught me in another lie, correct?”

“No way.”

“In that case, you'll excuse me. There are three more deliveries with my name on them. If I stay here and chat with you, however appealing that might be, I'm not going to get them where they're supposed to go. I'm late, the office is closed, I don't make a dime. Not only that, I got the boss all over me like syrup on pancakes.”

“Get your packages,” I told him, “and I'll walk you to the subway. I only have one question, Willy. I only need a minute or two. Surely you can—”

“You're persistent. I'll give you that.”

I shrugged.

“And it's almost Christmas.”

I opened my mouth, but Willy shook his head.

“A relationship like ours, hey, I must owe you a present, wouldn't you say? So here it is. You get three minutes.” He checked his watch. “Go.”

“I've been talking to the witnesses again.”

“Don't think I don't look forward to seeing you for the rest of my life.”

“Don't use up my three minutes,” I said. “So this one woman says she saw something close to where you were standing after Mr. Redstone was pushed. She said everyone backed away from where he'd been and where Florida had been standing—that would be right next to you, correct?”

“I would have backed away, too, if there hadn't been a pillar behind me.”

“Just to distance yourself from the…”

“Event,” he said, his lips a tight little line after he said it.

“Right. All pretty normal behavior.”

“If you can call what happened normal. I personally wouldn't.”

“I mean a normal reaction to the shock of seeing someone killed. Confusion, movement, dropping things, screaming, all of that.”

“So you want to know if I saw what was on the platform, something in addition to all the crap that's always there?”

“I do.”

Willy put one hand to his head. He was wearing the gloves he always wore, rain or shine, the ones where your fingertips stick out, you can count money, ring a doorbell, pick your nose. His eyes were closed and for an insane moment, I pictured Johnny Carson holding an envelope to his forehead, pretending to guess what was in it.

“It would have been right in front of you, Willy.”

“But when?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe something dropped. Maybe something fell. Maybe whoever dropped it, whoever let it fall, picked it up again. It could have been there for a split second,” he said, his eyes begging me to believe him, checking his watch again, looking toward those revolving doors.

“And your eyes were closed.”

“That's right.” Shaking his head now. “You got a memory like flypaper. Everything sticks.”

I smiled and thanked him. “You'll call if you remember?”

“We best friends. Why wouldn't I call?”

He headed to his office. Dashiell and I headed home, to mine.

Willy was right about my memory. Walking home, I was seeing another thing dropped, not the attaché case, not the purse. I was at the kitchen table. I couldn't have been more than four. My mother heard a noise, something that frightened her, and she dropped the dinner plate she was drying. I can't recall the noise that scared her, only the one that scared me, the sound of that plate and the sight of
all those shards of china, then the feeling that somehow, despite the fact that I was across the room, it would end up being my fault.

One person touched the knee and thought the elephant was a tree. Another touched his side and thought he was a wall. A wall. Perfect. Since we all saw the world through the fog of our own histories, prejudices and fears, how was I ever going to find the answers I was looking for?

I turned right
when we got to Fourteenth Street, staying on the north side of the street so that I wouldn't walk right past GR. Alexander McQueen's was jammed. You'd think the little silk dress on the mannequin in the window, the sheepskin coat over her shoulders, her face as expressive as some of the Botox-enhanced women who shopped were on sale from the number of people in the store. Stella McCartney's had a good share of the market as well, and I was sure if I walked farther, to Jeffrey, the store would be mobbed. Across the street, I saw three women walking into GR. A yellow Jackie bag had replaced the dog coat in the window. Without Dashiell there, they might sell only one or two. Besides, the Jackie bag was their claim to fame.

I crossed at the corner, and the shops there, the ones on Washington Street, looked forlorn compared to the ones of Fourteenth Street. I decided to check out one of them—Lula, the one Lucille DiNardo owned. I didn't look forward to seeing Lucille again, but that was nothing compared to how she felt about seeing me, if her sour expression when I walked in was telling the truth.

“Look,” she said, “retail. Right before Christmas. Duh. Does it occur to you I might be busy here, too busy for more questions?”

“Busy?” I said, drawing the word out as best I could. “I'm the
only one in here and I can't shop until I earn my money by solving this case.”

“Well, good luck to you, darling. I've already told you whatever I know, and if the rest of those poor schleps who were taking the subway that day remember it as well as I do, you're shit out of luck.”

“One question and I promise to come back and shop when I get paid.”

“Don't do me any favors, you and that, that…” She stopped and reached into her pocket for her cigarettes, pulling one out, putting it in her mouth but not lighting it.

“That what?” Thinking she was referring to Dashiell.

“You see this shop?” she asked. “Empty. Did you walk here by way of Fourteenth Street by any chance? You'd think they were selling the holy fucking grail, the crowds they get.”

“And?”

“And I had a bid on that building before he did.” She pulled out her matches and lit her cigarette, heading for the door. “I had a bid in early on.”

“So what happened?”

“What happened? What happened? Gardner Redstone happened. He drove the price up so that he could afford it but I couldn't, and then he turns around and gets a shitload of givebacks from the city, that's what happened. And this…” standing in the doorway and gesturing back at her empty store, the stock neatly hung and folded, no one in sight.

“Tax breaks? Changes in the building code?”

“You name it, he got it. He even got the price down after he signed the contract. Something about the heating system, the electricity, some bullshit. I don't remember. He's around the corner and I'm here in no-man's-land, night and day. And if you think I got this place for a song, you got another think coming. There. It's out. Arrest me.”

“Is this a confession, Lucille? Are you telling me you're the one who pushed him in front of the train?”

“Don't be ridiculous.” She inhaled and blew the smoke out toward the street. Dashiell sneezed. “Not that I wouldn't have liked to.”

They were pulling down the building across the street and one block south, planning a hotel, shops, more restaurants. If she could hang on for another year, she might be rolling in dough, but that wasn't why I was there, and I didn't share my opinion.

I waited. Lucille smoked.

“What?” she said after another moment. “No cuffs? Oh, right, you're not a cop. You just play one. Well, hon, you need a better memory than you have to do the work. I already told you I walked away
before
the bastard got pushed. I didn't do it and I didn't see it done.”

“If you say so.” It was the line one of my old dog-training clients had used whenever I told her why her dog wasn't doing what she wanted him to, a line that always made me want to spit blood.

“Look, hon, what fucking good does it do me to have him dead? It doesn't give me the space I wanted around the corner, does it? What would be the point? And if I had the cojones to kill someone, you think I'd waste it on him when there's Larry sitting at home watching pay for view or whatever the fuck he does all day long? So, is that it? I got an ad to place.” She looked me up and down. “You about an eight?” she asked. “Everyone's letting people go. Me? I need a salesgirl. Long hours, low pay, a bitch for a boss. You interested?”

I shook my head.

“You change your mind after you screw up your present gig, don't be shy. Give me a call. Otherwise,” tossing the cigarette into the street, then pointing a finger at me as if it were a gun, “if I never see you again, it'll be too soon.”

“I never asked my question,” I told her, “but since you weren't there…” I looked her in the eye. Hers were fuming, if eyes can do that. “What the hell, let's give it a shot. Was there anything on the ground near where you were standing at any point?”

“Yes,” she said, “and I'm delighted to answer your question so I can get back to my empty store. Spit, chewing gum, soda cans, several pages of newspaper, candy wrappers and what might have been blood. One can't be sure by just eyeballing it after it dries. You'd need the crime scene boys and girls in order to be positive.”

She turned and let the door shut. Dashiell and I headed home. “That was refreshing,” I told him as we were passing Hogs & Heifers, only one Harley parked against the curb at this time of day.

I'd turned the corner already but then stopped and headed back to Washington Street, crossing when there was a break in traffic, walking around to the side of the construction site. There was a homeless man sitting on some steps, what was left of the building just beyond the fenced-off site.

“Hey,” I said, not letting Dashiell get too close.

He looked up, his face the history of his unlucky life, his eyes bloodshot, small and squinting on top of that. “He bite?” he asked.

I shook my head. He obviously didn't believe me, moving to a higher step, drawing his knees up to protect his vulnerable middle. I told Dashiell to sit and kept my distance.

“I'm looking for a friend,” I said. “He's a bit down on his luck.”

He nodded. Who wasn't? he may have been thinking.

“He was in Iraq,” I said, “but I don't know if he would have told you that. I think he had a bad time there. I mean, worse than usual.” I waited for him to comment but he had nothing to say. “He goes by the name Eddie, Eddie Perkins.”

“Eddie Perkins,” he repeated, touching his matted hair. “Don't know him.”

“He might be using another name. He's very young, twenty something, light hair. He sometimes carries a khaki backpack with him. One of the straps on it is torn. And he might be wearing a blue watch cap.” I felt my chest tighten at the image of Eddie putting on my hat.

He shook his head. “Never saw him,” he said. “There's a guy
works here,” pointing to the wall that shielded the construction site from view, “comes and sweeps up after they knock off for the day. They give him a few bucks, he gets us food.”

“Shares his food with you?”

“Gets me my own. A samwich. A soda. Don't have to share it.”

“What's his name?”

“He never said. Them in there,” pointing again, “they calls him Sweep.”

Witty, I thought. But what did it have to do with Eddie?

He backed up to the top of the stoop. Was he afraid of me, too?

“What time did you say he comes by?”

He pointed to his wrist this time. “Don't got a watch. I just waits here. He comes by after he sweeps. He says, ‘What'll you have today, George?' I tell him, ‘I'd like the chicken salad.' Or, ‘Make it ham and cheese.' He remembers, too. Always gets it right. Slice of tomato. A pickle. White bread. Just the way I like it. Never had a black friend before. Where I grew up, the 'talians and the blacks, they feuded. But he's as nice as they come. He takes good care of me.” He licked his dry lips, the way Dashiell does at the thought of food.

“Nice talking to you,” I told him, taking five dollars out of my pocket, holding it out toward him, but he only scooted farther away. “I thought maybe you and Sweep could get some dessert with this,” I told him. I turned around, found a full soda can lying near the curb, put the five on one of the steps, the soda can on top so the five wouldn't blow away.

I stayed another moment, but I didn't ask George if he'd been in the war, too. He seemed too old, but I'd heard some of the reservists were in their forties or even older and besides, living on the street was perhaps the best way to lose your youthful glow. I wished him good luck and turned to go, thinking about what was less than two blocks away, the Jackie bag, an eight-thousand-dollar sheepskin coat, shoes that cost six or seven hundred dollars and would fall apart if you wore them in the rain.

I thought about Gardner Redstone, too, that he did have at least one enemy. Then I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Eleanor's private line.

“It's Rachel,” I said when she picked up.

“How are you?”

“I'm fine.”

“But you said you were sick. I…”

“I'm on the job, Eleanor. I needed to work away from GR and I didn't know who besides you might be picking up your messages.”

“Oh.”

“Lucille DiNardo. Does the name ring a bell?”

“One of the witnesses.”

“More than that,” I said.

“You mean because she has a shop around the corner?”

“I mean because she wanted the building your father bought.”

I heard Eleanor sigh. “Is she still singing that old song?”

“She is. Why didn't you—”

“There were eleven bidders for the building. There are nine other people besides Lucille who lost out on this site. You mean we should—”

“But only one who was on the platform with your father.”

“You're saying
she
pushed the homeless man into my father?”

“No. I'm saying she had reason to.”

“Just because she had to pick another location? That's ridiculous.”

“Have you seen her shop? Yours is jammed. Hers is empty.”

“Did you look at her merchandise? That's why her shop is empty, not the location. She doesn't belong on Fourteenth Street, the shit she's selling.”

“I'll talk to you later,” I said, closing the phone before she had a chance to say anything else.

Walking home, I went over the things Lucille DiNardo had said. Would she have vented her spleen like that if she'd been the one to push Florida into Gardner? It just didn't make any sense, not
when she knew I was working on the case, no matter how pissed off she still was.

Unless, of course, she'd figured out that this was exactly how I'd think, that I'd conclude she hadn't done it, precisely because she'd been so venomous, so open about her rage.

I turned to look toward the river, the sky already tinged with orange. It would be dark in an hour or so. And when I turned around, ready to head home, ready for a break, a little time to think, there he was, there was Eddie, coming toward me. He was wearing a long tweed coat that was at least two sizes too big for him. Beggars can't be choosers. There was a strap over one shoulder. He still had the backpack. He was looking down, so I couldn't see much of his face, but there was one other thing he'd held on to. He was wearing my hat.

I waited a minute to be absolutely sure and then I called out his name. He looked up when he heard my voice and stopped walking, a square-jawed man with tiny eyes, a nose that had been broken but not set, a wide mouth, a dirty face. Not Eddie. Not even close. Just some other soul, down on his luck, wearing a cap like the one Eddie had taken from me the last time I saw him.

Even before I got the chance to shake my head, the man turned and crossed the street, heading in the opposite direction. I stood still, feeling the sting of the cold, then I continued on home.