Where It Hurts (7 page)

(THURSDAY NIGHT)

I
was feeling half-past dead when I pulled into the parking lot at the Paragon. My head was throbbing; worse than that, my leg was throbbing pretty bad. I’d been shot at before, a few times, but never shot. Don’t let anyone tell you those are about the same thing. There’s kind of an unreality to getting shot at. No unreality to getting a piece of your flesh torn off and burned away by a hot piece of metal. I’d been lucky. I knew that. Compared to most of the gunshot trauma I’d seen, my wound was nothing: a future scar, a story to tell the boys over beers at Commack Lanes. But it was also something more than that.

I sat in the front seat of my car and switched off the radio, tired of hearing the same sketchy reports of Tommy Delcamino’s murder. Light travels faster than anything else in the universe. Bad news was a close second. I closed my eyes, rested my head, too beat to get out. At least part of my headache was frustration and maybe more than a little hurt. Al Roussis and I had been friends a long time. It was different than with Pete McCann. Like I said, Pete was always a guy with his own agenda, an ambitious man who wanted anything anyone else had. I’d always known that about him. So although I didn’t understand his warning me off Delcamino, I just figured there had to be something in
it for him. Brownie points with the brass? Who knows? But that wasn’t Al Roussis, at least it wasn’t who he used to be. Yet there he was, questioning my motives, warning me away from Delcamino.

I didn’t get it. I mean, Christ, Tommy D. had just had his brains blown out the back of his head and his son was four months in the grave. So why warn me off a murdered man and a case that was as cold as tomorrow’s forecast? I didn’t know the answer and I wasn’t going to work it out, not tonight. Things weren’t what they seemed. They never are. Any cop will tell you that. Any schmuck with eyes in his head can tell you as much. The official story is just that, a story, a convenient narrative in which the facts played only a supporting role. The thing Al Roussis neglected to comprehend was that my getting shot made it personal. Bullets will do that, make it personal. Still, without Tommy Delcamino around to help me out, to tell me what those guys who shot him and me were looking for, I was at a dead end. Literally.

I’m not sure how long I stayed in the car. I think I must’ve dozed off for a little while. Then there was a rapping at my window and a fresh rush of adrenaline snapped me out of whatever daze I’d settled into. It was Slava, the night doorman, smiling his gapped and gold-toothed smile at me. After getting my heart out of my throat, I rolled down the window.

“I was worrying for you,” Slava said in his broken English. “I see your car is pulling up here maybe forty minutes and you don’t come.”

“Thanks for caring.” I pushed my door open. “Slava, what time is it?”

He lifted his wrist up to his smiling face. “Is eleven ten.”

I don’t even know why I asked him. The time was flashing right in front of me on the dashboard.

“Good. I’ll be right in,” I said.

The smile slid off his face. It was a warm face, but not a handsome one. One like a favorite ugly uncle’s. He had a bulbous red nose that had been broken a few times, a big blunted jaw, and chapped, scarred lips.

“What is it, Slava?”

“For you in the lobby is waiting a strange little man.”

“Strange?”

Slava waved one of his huge, meaty hands in front of his face. “He has . . . in English, how do you say this . . . ?” Then Slava rubbed his thick right index finger over his top lip. “Funny lip . . . like . . . animal, like rabbit.”

“Harelip.”

Slava clapped his hands together. “Yes, but also something else. You will see.”

“Does he look like trouble?”

Slava went blank for a moment, trying to make sense of the idiom I had laughed at Felix for using about Tommy D. Then he smiled, shaking his hands. “No, no trouble. Is nervous little man. Scared, I think, not dangerous. No gun.”

I wanted to ask Slava how he knew that about the gun, then decided against it. We all had our secrets at the Paragon and I didn’t want to intrude on his.

I thanked him again and stepped out of my car. Slava’s eyes got big at the sight of me. He pointed at my left leg. The dried blood on my jeans shone bright under the parking lot light and the blood on my running shoe was pretty obvious. So was the slit the EMT had cut from the hem up to the top of my calf.

“Dog bite,” I said.

He snorted in disbelief, but didn’t push. The clicking of the courtesy van’s diesel engine interrupted our conversation.

“I must go now, Gus, to help Fredo. He has been picking up big party at airport.”

“Go ahead, Slava. I’ll be okay.”

He gave me a long, unsure look, but hustled to meet the van. He moved very athletically for such a barrel-chested and bellied man.

By the time I limped over to the front entrance, Slava and Fredo were busy unloading the luggage onto a baggage cart. The five guests were lined up at the front desk, Rita tapping at the keyboard. All of them were too busy to pay me any mind.

Slava was right about the strange little man in the lobby. He was sitting on one of the threadbare sofas that faced the main entrance. Even at twenty feet I could see that he’d had surgery done on his lip, and that it hadn’t been completely successful. But the botched surgery wasn’t the little man’s most prominent facial feature. Not nearly. He had a silver-dollar-sized muddy black birthmark on the right side of his face between his ear and cheek. He was a twitchy bastard, too, his head on a swivel. His arms were clutched against his body, hands clenched into fists. His arms and fists were shaking as if he was shivering in the cold. He must not have known what I looked like because his expression didn’t change when I came through the doors.

“You looking for me,” I said, standing over him.

“You Murphy?”

“I’m Gus Murphy.”

“You was Suffolk PD once, right?”

I nodded. He stood up. He was about five-foot-six at most and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred thirty pounds.

“They call me Smudge,” he said in a nasal voice, his nickname sounding like “Thmudge.”

The birthmark made it easy to see why they’d call him that.

“What’s this about, Smudge?”

He bent down and pulled something out from under the magazine-covered coffee table in front of the couch. When I saw what it was, I knew why he was there. It was the faded green canvas backpack Tommy Delcamino’d had with him when he came to see me on Tuesday morning.

Tears welled up in the little man’s dirt-brown eyes. “I seen on the news about Tommy, but I can’t believe it.”

Now the tears flowed and he was sobbing, his little chest heaved. I looked over my shoulder and saw that the guests who’d come in on Fredo’s van were taking notice.

“Come on with me, Smudge,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder and leading him to the coffee shop.

The coffee shop was closed for the night, but management kept
the lights on until midnight in case the guests wanted a more private place than the lobby or the bar to chat or do work. We sat at the same booth Tommy Delcamino and I shared on Tuesday morning. It took him a few minutes to settle down, which was fine with me. I was just happy to get my weight off my leg.

“What’s with the bag?” I asked, pointing at the backpack.

“Tommy asked me to bring this to you. He thought if I asked, you’d change your mind and help.”

“Why would your asking make a difference?”

Smudge shrugged his little sloped shoulders. “Maybe because people feel sorry for me.” He was crying again, quietly this time.

“I saw Tommy tonight after he was killed,” I said. “I was there. I went to the yard to apologize to him for the way I talked to him the other day.”

Smudge lifted his head and spoke in a choked, halting hush. “Tommy, he Googled you and saw what happened to your kid. That’s the other thing.”

“What?”

“He wanted me to tell you he swears he didn’t know. He told me to tell you he swears on TJ’s soul he didn’t know.”

“I believe you, Smudge. Did you guys talk about anything else when you went to see him?”

He shook his head.

“Why not?”

“I didn’t ask Tommy no questions. He was my friend. Only friend I ever had in my whole stinking, fucking life. When we was inside together, he watched out for me. You know what woulda happened to a guy like me inside without Tommy watching out for me?”

I nodded.

“I been kicked around and pissed on my whole life. Tommy D. was the only person I ever met who didn’t shit on me. He didn’t give a fuck that I was a freak. Who liked me before Tommy? Nobody liked me, not even my family. Me less than anybody. So when Tommy says for me to
do this thing, to bring this to you, to ask you to help him, I didn’t ask why. He said you would know the right thing to do. That you were the rightest cop he knew.”

I lifted the bag. “You know what’s in here?”

“Nope. All I know is that Tommy wanted you should have it.”

I looked across the table at the deformed little man and knew he was telling me the truth. He really didn’t know what was inside the backpack and he didn’t seem curious to know. His friend asked him to do a favor and he’d done it.

“Tommy didn’t say anything else?”

“Just that if you needed help, to talk to Zee.”

I didn’t understand. “Zee?”

“Richie Zito. Tommy said you would—”

I waved for him to stop. “Yeah, I know Zee.”

Smudge did what passed for a smile. We sat there in silence for a few more minutes. Me drifting off. Smudge grieving his friend.

“You can always call me here if you need me,” I said as he stood to leave.

He just kind of nodded. As he walked away, I called after him.

“Smudge.”

“What?”

“You said you and Tommy did a bid together. What were you in for?”

“Running a scam.”

“What kind?”

“A charity thing. Like I said, people feel sorry for me.”

“Did they give you money?”

“Some, not too much. It’s easy for people to feel sorry for me. Who wouldn’t, right? I wasn’t so good at the money part. I guess I never felt like I was worth a lot.”

“You got a real name, Smudge?”

“Yeah” was all he said.

He turned and walked away.

(FRIDAY, LATE MORNING)

H
arrigan’s Pub was a sad little bar in a run-down strip mall in Huntington Station, shouldered between a failed karate dojo and a taqueria. Even before the area’s demographics had taken on a distinctly south-of-the-border flavor, Huntington Station had been the poor relation to Huntington Village and the moneyed enclaves of Cold Spring Harbor and Lloyd Neck. Those were places where a million bucks was chump change and the paid help had paid help. Huntington Station was where the action was in the Second Precinct. Gang-related violence had gotten worse since the population had shifted from working-class white to working-class Hispanic. No matter the immigrant group, they bring their joys and sorrows with them, their pleasures and their parasites. In Huntington Station, the gangs had followed from Mexico, El Salvador, Honduras, the Dominican Republic, and every other country from which the new arrivals had come.

Long Island had its share of dive bars, and Harrigan’s was just another one of them. It was a classic losers’ bar. The kind of place where even the young men were old. Where the
Daily Racing Form
passed for the news of the world and where the light of day was the common enemy. Cops weren’t much favored either. Of course half the snitches
and scumbags in the Second Precinct passed through Harrigan’s doors during any given weekday. In other words, it was the kind of place Tommy Delcamino gravitated to.

When I pulled the door open, a shaft of light followed over my shoulders. That bought me a few steps of anonymity, if not much else. Maybe it’s a refinement of their senses or instinct, but whatever it is, losers can smell cop on you. And no amount of OxiClean or cheap cologne washes it away or masks the scent. I worked with a guy, Bob Ward, who claimed that cops were born stinking of it. The losers turned their heads and looked, not so much out of curiosity as self-preservation. It was fair to say that most of the mutts in Harrigan’s owed something to people on the street and they never knew if the next guy coming through the door was there to collect on their debts or to extract late fees. Late fees on the street were as much matters of skin and bone as dollars and cents. I sat down at the bar and ordered a Corona. When I did that, the losers exhaled and went back to waiting in the dark bar for the door to open again.

I waved the barman over. He was covered with so many tats that he looked like a ’70s subway car. So much so that it was impossible to discern where one tattoo ended and another began. As far as I could tell, all the tats were gang- and motorcycle-related. Made sense. Harrigan’s was owned by Richie “Zee” Zito, and Zee had once been the Long Island chapter leader of the Maniacs Motorcycle Club. Calling the Maniacs a club was like calling the Gestapo a club. They were thugs. Unlike his patrons, Zee generally liked cops. Why wouldn’t he? His place was a great resource for the Suffolk PD. We knew all sorts of shit went on here, but as long as none of it got too out of hand, we kind of looked the other way. And Zee paid us back in kind. He wasn’t averse to pointing us in the right direction when we needed a tip or a little help in finding a suspect.

“Four bucks,” the barman said, slamming the bottle down in front of me.

I put a ten-spot up. “Zee around?”

The barman asked, “Who wants to know?”

“You’re kidding me with that line, right? Tell him Gus Murphy wants a few minutes. It’s about Tommy D.”

That got his attention.

“Okay, wait here a minute,” he said, leaving my ten on the bar. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He ducked under the service bar and walked down the hallway that led to the bathrooms and the office. I sipped at my beer and waited. When the bartender reappeared, he told me that the beer was on the house and that Zee was waiting for me in the office. I told him to keep the ten for himself and left the mostly full bottle on the bar.

The office door was open and I stuck my head inside.

“Come on in, Gus.”

Zee’s voice was all sandpaper and smoke, for which his leathery face was perfectly matched. The years of biking and hard living had caught up to him. He was maybe fifty-five, but looked older . . . nearly ancient. Zee had once been a good-looking man in a rough kind of way, but not anymore. He sat hunched over in his chair, stroking his untrimmed goatee with a single bent finger. What was left of his hair was pulled back in a messy gray mop that hung limp over the back of his beat-to-shit black leather vest. He wore a faded black and orange Harley shirt that must’ve fit him five years and twenty pounds ago. The rest of him was concealed by his desk.

The office stank of cigarette smoke, marijuana, and beer. Zee stuck out his arthritis-fucked right hand and I shook it. I didn’t want to disrespect him by being too gentle with my grip, but I held back a little. Even so, I could see that put him in all kinds of pain. “Sit.” He gestured at the chair across from his desk.

I sat.

“Gus Murphy,” he said. “Been a few years.”

“A few.”

“Tough about your boy. Sorry.”

“Thanks, Zee.”

“You mind?” he asked, filling a small pipe’s bowl full of pot. “It helps with the arthritis. Can you believe it, I got a script for this shit? When I was with the Maniacs, you guys used to send us away for bringing it into the state. And that shit wasn’t half as good. This weed’ll knock you on your ass and count you out.” He shook his head as he fumbled with the lighter.

He was right about that. Even unlit, the scent of the bright green bud was intense. And when he finally managed to light up, the earthy sweet aroma filled up every corner of the little room. Zee took in a big lungful, held it, then blew it out, his breath lifting up the ragged edges of his floppy gray mustache. After a few seconds, he put the pipe down in an ashtray and stretched the fingers on both his hands.

“So, you’re here about Tommy, huh? Fuck.”

“I found his body.”

“I heard that,” he said.

I didn’t bother asking how he knew. He was a guy who would know. He had a direct line to the street and the street to him. I guess that was part of the reason I was sitting there.

“Somebody blew most of his brain out the back of his head. Wasn’t pretty.”

“Usually isn’t. You know, I don’t think people would fuck with guns so much if they saw what bullets did to the human body.”

“Christ, Zee, you should run for governor.”

He laughed. “Not me, man. A month from now, I’ll be out west somewheres living my life away from the crowds and the bullshit. I need me some dry warm weather for my old bones.”

He saw the stunned look on my face.

“Yep, I’m outta here. Sold the place to the rice and beaners who own the food joint next door. Next year, this place’ll be Jose’s or Julio’s or some other fucking wetback name.”

I wasn’t in the mood to debate race relations with a guy who was once the head honcho of a motorcycle gang that wasn’t exactly known for their peace-and-love platform.

“What’ll you live on?” I asked as if I cared.

“I made some scratch off the sale, not much, but some. I’ll manage. I always have. But you came here about Tommy, not to hear about my IRA or 401(k), right?”

“Right. So how is it that you and Tommy were pals? He was a big guy, but he wasn’t biker material, not by a long shot.”

Zee grunted. “Nah, not Tommy. He was a lover, not a brawler. Though I seen what he could do to people if they crossed him. How we became friends?” He shrugged. “He used to come around the bar when I first bought the place and drink. I knew he was fencing shit in here, but so was everyone else. Tommy wasn’t like all the other pricks. He would always give me a taste of what he made on a deal because he was using my place to do business. He didn’t have to get told. He never tried to lie about it. He had respect, Tommy did. Then we just took to each other is all. I helped him out when I could. You mind if I ask you a question, Gus?”

“Fair’s fair.”

“How’d you know to come looking for me about Tommy?”

“He told me to.”

Zee tilted his head at me and opened his mouth to ask a follow-up question.

I cut him off.

“Long story, Zee. Maybe some other time, okay?”

He nodded, then said, “So how can I help?”

I hadn’t brought the green backpack with me. There was no need. I found in it what I thought I would. There was the roll of three thousand bucks cash he had offered to pay me. A black-and-white composition book like the ones I used in elementary school that was filled with notes, names, and addresses. There were photos, too. Some of the photos were pasted into the notebook. Tommy D. had been pretty thorough. I had to give him that. Many of the photos were of TJ Delcamino, whose face I recognized from the newspaper article Tommy had left behind at the coffee shop. The only other face I recognized in any of
the photos was Tommy D. himself. There was a woman in many of them that I figured was TJ’s mom. She was beautiful in a dark and sad kind of way.

The night before, looking over the photos before passing out, I’d marveled at the fact that even a low-level jerk-off like Tommy Delcamino had the same sort of silly family photographs as everyone else had. The ones you could get at the mall or the local photography studio. TJ as an infant looking cool in his Ninja Turtle Halloween onesie. Tommy smiling proudly yet looking uneasy dressed in a collared shirt, tie, and sports jacket, his arm over the darkly beautiful woman’s shoulder, the three-year-old TJ in her lap. TJ in his Mets Little League uniform. TJ and that woman at a school graduation.

There were other shots, too, just like the ones Annie and I had of us and the kids: Christmas morning opening gifts in front of the tree. Confirmations. First communions. Proud grandmas and grandpas in front of their houses. Funny, seeing Tommy D.’s pictures brought Annie back to me in a way I hadn’t felt about her since we’d begun to deconstruct. I remembered happy, funny Annie, loving Annie. The Annie who threw surprise parties and who waited up for me to come home after a bad shift. Annie who had swept me off my feet because I had never met another woman who was so much a mix of sexy and sweet. That was the Annie these photos brought back to me, not the angry, defeated Annie. But I’m sure that’s not what Tommy D. had in mind when he stuffed them into the backpack.

I handed one of the photos of the dark-haired woman over to Zee.

“Is that Tommy D.’s wife, TJ’s mom?”

He grunted again. “Marie, that twat. She was TJ’s mom and Tommy’s old lady but they never got hitched. She was something else to look at, man. That black hair, those black eyes, legs up to your chin, tits that wouldn’t quit . . . But she was a whore and user. Had Tommy twisted around her pussy. Half the shit he got jammed up for was to feed her habit.”

“You know where I can find her?”

“Sucking cock in purgatory.”

“What?”

“Ding dong, the bitch is dead. OD-ed a few years ago.” Zee lit up another bowlful. When he exhaled, he said, “That’s one of the reasons Tommy was able to keep straight these last few years. He didn’t have to support her appetite for drugs anymore. Good fucking riddance.”

I left that discussion there. I felt bad for the crap Tommy had had to deal with, but for the moment I had other more important questions. Zee, on the other hand, wasn’t quite as ready to move on as I was.

He waved the picture of Marie between two of his twisted fingers, offering it back to me.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked.

“Tommy gave it to me.”

Zee didn’t like that answer, but it was, strictly speaking, the truth. Besides, I didn’t want to drift away from the reason I was there by bringing Smudge into the conversation. I was there to get information, not give it.

I took the photo out of his hand and said, “You got any idea who might’ve wanted to kill Tommy D.?”

Zee leaned forward. “C’mon, Gus. Tommy did time. Everybody makes enemies inside. I mean, I loved the guy, but he was a thief and not a very good one. I don’t know anyone in particular who’d want to do him bad.” He made a sweeping gesture with his balled left fist. “For all I know, it was one of those douchebags outside at the bar.”

“I don’t think so,” I said aloud to myself.

But Zee heard it. “You don’t think so what?”

“The guys who killed Tommy were looking for something specific. They ripped his trailer apart. You were close to Tommy, Zee. You have any idea what they could’ve been looking for?”

He shrugged again, looking pained. I couldn’t tell if the pained look was about the arthritis or the loss of his friend.

“No idea, Gus. Sorry.”

“How about TJ?”

“Same answer as with Tommy. TJ was a good kid. I was like an uncle to the kid, but he had both his folks’ worst habits. He was a thief and a user. He was a better thief than his father, mostly cars and car parts, or so I’m told. And he was a bigger junkie than his whore mother. Heard that at the end his habit was getting pretty expensive. Coulda been anyone killed the kid.”

“You think the murders are related?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Could be . . . maybe. Your guess is as good as mine.”

I stood up, offering him a fist bump instead of repeating the painful handshake. “Thanks for the time.”

He didn’t move. “You thinking about getting involved in this, Gus?”

“Christ, Zee, I don’t know. It’s not like I owed Tommy anything more than an apology. If the pricks who killed Tommy hadn’t shot me, too, I’m not sure I would even be here talking to you.”

I lifted up my pant leg and showed him the bandage.

He ignored that. “An apology. For what?”

I explained about how Tommy had come to me in the first place and how I’d treated him.

“Walk away, Gus. Leave it alone. Like you say, you don’t owe Tommy nothing that you can give him now.”

“You’re the third person to tell me to walk away,” I said.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Could be, Zee. Could be.”

“Why?”

Now it was my turn to shrug.

“One guy tells you something, fuck him. A second guy tells you the same thing, fuck him, too. A third guy . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s just good advice. Nobody ever got hurt walking away.” His eyes got a distant look in them not unlike Father Bill’s. “I shoulda walked away a long time before I did. You’re smart, you’ll close that office door behind you, Gus, and forget you ever heard of Tommy Delcamino.”