Walking the Perfect Square (20 page)

Jews know guilt. We can smell it on your breath. We can read it in the lines of your face because we’ve looked at it in mirrors for thousands of years. Guilt is like a witch’s spell. Once cast it cannot be reasoned away. No, Katy would have to let the guilt rattle around in her head and heart awhile before she could remove the curse.

“This is us,” I said, pulling the chord to let the driver know we wanted to get off.

She seemed relieved to hear we didn’t have to go back up to my apartment. I’d drive her straight home if that’s what she wanted. That was what she wanted, but, as it turned out, I couldn’t keep my word.

We snaked our way through the parking lot to my assigned spot. We found the charred carcass of what used to be my ’76 Plymouth Fury surrounded by a moat of filthy water and foam. The acrid vapors of burnt tires hung in the air, tearing at our throats. The stench really seemed to get to Katy, who was turning an ugly shade of green.

“Fuckeeng keeds!” Jose, the building’s head maintenance man, said, seeming to appear out of thin air. “Dee firemen have gone
fifteen minute ago, Meester Prager. Dey stop it before dee gas tank go. Cops leave a number inside for you.”

“A report number,” I mumbled, “for insurance.”

“
¿Que?
”

“Forget it.”

Reluctantly, Katy came upstairs to put herself back together. I offered to call her a cab and pay her fare home, but she insisted on taking the subway. She was a big girl, she said, and needed the time to think. Though still not completely relaxed, she had softened somewhat, even managing a smile and agreeing to let me walk her to the subway.

At the station, she hugged me, kissed me on the cheek. But when she dropped her token in the slot and pushed through the turnstile, she stopped and looked back.

“I’m sorry about this afternoon,” she said. “Last night was unbelievable. I like you, Moe, and—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I interrupted. “I know it’s hard for you. It must get in the way of everything, what’s going on with your brother. I’d hate for it to get between us.”

She walked back to the turnstile. “Me too,” she said and, bending over the turnstile arm, grabbed me by the collar and kissed my mouth. “Call me in a few days.”

In Jose’s office now, waiting for the maintenance man to find the police report number, he repeated his accusations about the neighborhood kids. Thanking him and taking the slip of paper from his hand, I didn’t bother arguing the point. It may have been kids like Jose thought, but I didn’t like it. My car was in an exposed spot. The kids I knew usually operated under cover of darkness. Why pick my car to torch in the middle of the afternoon?

But by the time I got to my apartment door, I’d calmed down. Jose was probably right. I was just being paranoid. I’d had too much to drink last night, didn’t get much sleep and Katy’s moods had left me a little punchy. I should be happy, I thought, slipping my key into the lock. It wasn’t a Porsche 911 they’d roasted their marshmallows over. It was a Plymouth Fury, for Christ sakes! Chrysler would probably be bankrupt in a year and the car would’ve been worthless. Take the insurance money and run.

The phone started ringing as I opened the latch. I wasn’t particularly in the mood to chat, so I let it ring. After ten rings, my wish was granted. But almost as soon as it had stopped, it started again. I surrendered and picked up.

“You’ve been warned,” an unfamiliar man’s voice droned in my ear. “The next time it won’t be your car.”

Click. He hung up before I could ask what I’d been warned about. So, Jose was wrong. Sometimes it’s no fun being right.

I STARED AT the phone, started to dial her number, stopped, put the receiver back in its cradle. I ached to hear her voice, but things were more complicated now. For the last two days, whether on the phone with the insurance company or at the car rental office or during dinner with Miriam and Ronnie, the threat gnawed at me: “You’ve been warned. Next time it won’t be your car.” Only fools laugh off threats and I wasn’t laughing. This threat wasn’t issued by some schmo in the schoolyard who was mad because I pitched him inside or some mutt I arrested for petty larceny. No, this guy wasn’t playing. He’d risked serious jail time and, if my gas tank had exploded, other people’s lives to make his point.

The fact he was willing to put innocent people in harm’s way is what really worried me. For even if I were inclined to call his bluff, there was no guarantee I’d be his target. As I sat across from Miriam and Ronnie at dinner on Monday night, I couldn’t get that thought out of my head. What about Aaron’s family? Would Cindy turn the ignition key one morning and blow herself and the kids all over Bay Parkway? The thing about it was, the guy on the phone had neglected to mention what it was I’d done or was doing or should stop doing to get the sword of Damocles put back in its sheath. Unfortunately, the only answers I came up with held very little appeal for me. That’s why I didn’t fear for Katy and why things were so complicated. The devil was on my shoulder and I didn’t know how to brush him off.

I finished dialing this time and was more than a little relieved to get her machine. The relief was short lived. Katy picked up when she heard my voice.

“Hey,” she said, a smile in her voice, “I was hoping it was you. I missed you yesterday.”

“Me too. What are you doing tonight?”

“Meeting you for dinner, I hope. Is everything okay? You sound—”

“I’m still in mourning for my car,” I deflected. “You okay?”

“I don’t know. I feel a little weird about how things went Sunday.”

“We can talk about it later. Listen . . .” I hesitated, “there’s some other stuff we have to talk about, too. It might be a little unpleasant, but I didn’t want to hit you with it cold.”

“Is it Patrick? You heard something from Nicky and it’s not good. Tell me now, Moe. Don’t make me—”

“I heard from someone,” I said. “It wasn’t Nicky and I’m not sure it’s got anything to do with where your brother is. I swear.”

She didn’t believe me, but guessed correctly I wasn’t going to discuss it over the phone. We set a time and a place and quickly ended the conversation. Given my warning about the evening’s agenda, making small talk would have been like misting plants before a storm.

Patrick Maloney had disappeared again, only this time it was from the pages of the daily papers. Nothing came of his being spotted in Hoboken, so he was out, sent back to the bench until someone else saw him strolling with Elvis. Even then it was unlikely Patrick would get another shot. There were just too many murders, oil embargoes, terrorists and dirty wars to go around. So much blood and so little space! Only the sports section seemed to have unlimited growth potential.

The phone rang.

“Yeah,” I said tentatively, worried about who might be on the other end.

“Geez! You always this cheery?” It was Pete Parson. “You must be real popular at wakes.”

“Sorry, Pete, I’ve had a rough few days. What’s up?”

“On behalf a me and my partners, I just wanted to say thanks. They called off the hounds.”

I was surprised: “So fast?”

“That Kupf guy must pull alotta weight. I called him first thing yesterday mornin’ and boom, today the State Liquor Authority terminates the investigation. We gotta deal with some little shit. The fire department hit us with a few code violations and the health department says you shouldn’t eat offa our floors—”

“That’s a shocker,” I cut him off. “Well that’s great news. I’m happy for you.”

“Listen, Moe,” his tone turned serious, “we know you didn’t have to do this for us and—”

“Forget—”

“Will you shut up and let a man finish? We’re havin’ a party here on Friday night to celebrate and you and your girl—I forgot her name . . .”

“Katy.”

“You and Katy are the guests of honor. Your boyfriend Jack’s out right now buyin’ your gifts, so don’t even think about sayin’ no.”

“No.”

“Fuck you, bud. Ten o’clock Friday. And thanks again.”

He hung up. I wondered if he’d be so happy to include Katy if he knew she was Patrick’s sister. I wasn’t going to call him back to check.

 

DOWNSTAIRS ON MY way out, I spotted the mailman pushing his silly saddle-bagged cart toward my building. I hung back for a second and watched as the old men filtered into the lobby to watch the mailman fill up the hundreds of boxes lining the wall opposite the elevators. There was nothing sad or desperate in their eyes. It wasn’t a Depression bread line and most of them had long ago given up the fantasy of the mailman as a messenger of their deliverance. No one was waiting for his million-dollar check. It was just a boyhood habit, revisited, perhaps, in the service during mail call, rediscovered in old age. Sometimes I liked staying with the old men, but not today. My million-dollar check would have to wait.

Rodriguez was at the desk of the Six-O precinct when I limped in. Although I’d been moved out of the Six-O for years before my forced retirement, my apartment building still fell within its patrol area.

“¿Que pasa, viejo?
” I rapped my cane on the floor.

“Old man, pffff.” He waved dismissively. “Who you calling old man? I bet your knee ain’t the only thing on you that limps.”

He asked someone I didn’t recognize to take over for him for a few minutes while we got a cup of coffee. We spent some time catching up, bullshitting about the guys we’d worked with. I asked about his family. He asked about Rico and that cute sister of mine. Eventually we got down to business.

“You guessed right,” he whispered. “The call about your car came directly here, to the desk, not through 911. Same thing next
door.” Rodriguez pointed to the firehouse which adjoined the precinct. “They got a call. Then the 911 calls came in through channels.”

“Anonymous?”

“You know it, but I did like you asked and talked to the guys who handled the calls. Male voice, probably Caucasian, flat, unemotional—”

“—and unrecorded,” I finished the thought. “Smart boy. Thanks, old man.” I hugged him. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me two. So what’s the story here? You know who torched your car?”

“Maybe, but I hope I’m wrong.”

I shook his hand and got out of there before he started asking questions I didn’t want to answer.

 

THE BUFFALO ROADHOUSE was on 7th Avenue in the Village. In spite of the moniker, barbequed ribs and pecan pie was as country as the place got. The waitresses didn’t wear Stetsons or lizard-skin boots and anyone who said shucks or howdy got the cold shoulder. Mike, the steady night bartender, was famous for knowing more trivia than any man alive.

“Second largest city in Upper Volta?” I asked as I came through the door.

“Bobo-Dioulasso. The capital’s Ouagadougou,” he rattled off. “Next time ask me a tough one, Prager.”

“Okay, when are you going to get a life?”

“He said tough, not impossible, mister,” the hostess winked, scolding me loudly enough for the barman to hear.

“Screw ya both,” Mike shot back.

I spotted Katy at a corner table toward the rear and whispered an order for a bottle of Chianti Classico into the hostess’s ear. Fruity, accessible, versatile and a good value, Aaron had tried to school me. No matter how old a man gets, it still makes him smile to think he’s done something, even a very small thing, that would please his big brother. But by the time I got to Katy all the glow and good humor had run out of me.

Now all the awkwardness that had seemed so endearing during our first kiss just seemed awkward. She smiled. I didn’t. I knelt down. She stood up. I went for her cheek. She offered me her lips. I said hello. She said nothing. Some of the thickness of the atmosphere was her fault. Some was mine. Still, as
uncomfortable as it was, being near her made my heart race. That was a good thing, no matter what.

“About Sunday, Moe, I’m—” she started to say when the waitress came with the wine. I think both of us appreciated the interruption. Prepared speeches never quite work out the way you plan. After two glasses, Katy looked ready to start again.

“What, no notes?” I teased.

“Oh, God,” she exhaled for what seemed a minute, “I was a real jerk.”

“Sunday? Yeah, you were, but I forgive you.”

“Fuck you.” She smiled in spite of herself.

I stood up, walked around the table and kissed her hard on the mouth. Sitting back down, I asked her if what happened Sunday afternoon was, as I assumed, about guilt. Mostly, she said, but it was also about fear. There’d been men, too many, she thought, since her divorce. But there was an ocean of difference between being with and being close to a man.

We ordered dinner: salad and ribs. Eating ribs on a second date takes nerve. It’s difficult to look suave gnawing on dead pig bones and licking red goo off your fingers. And scraping sinew out from between your teeth always drives ’em wild. I avoided dropping any bombshells while we ate, choosing instead to discuss Friday night at Pooty’s. I repeated Pete’s admonition about not attending and we speculated about what goodies Jack was out procuring. We agreed it wouldn’t be a Springsteen album.

“Okay,” she said, putting down her Irish coffee, “let’s hear it.”

I didn’t play games. I told her about the threat, about how the arsonist had been careful not to leave a voice trail behind. She asked what I expected her to ask.

“Any enemies from the job?” I repeated the end of her question. “First thing I thought of, first thing any cop would think of. I swear, Katy, I sat at my kitchen table for hours going over every arrest I could remember. Did I ever really piss somebody off, you know, beyond the usual? I mean, deserving or not, nobody likes getting arrested. Hell, nobody likes getting a speeding ticket even when you catch ’em breaking the sound barrier.”

“Well . . .”

“Sure I pissed people off,” I admitted. “But in nearly ten years on the job, I never had a civilian complaint filed against me. I never took out my weapon in anger. For the life of me, I can’t remember anybody threatening to get me. I mean, come on, this isn’t an Agatha Christie novel where the cop, judge, prosecutor and
jurors get it one by one. And yes, before you ask, there were some crazies. Did one just happen to take a special disliking to me? Maybe, but the guy on the phone didn’t sound crazy.”