Clockers (83 page)

Rocco tried to collect himself. He stared at the endless stream of trucks and taxis floating down Broadway like sailing ships and motorboats, making their way downstream to the tip of the island, where the city opened up wide, fanning out into the endless and irretrievable world at large.

“Hang on, hang on.” Rocco squeezed her arms but she twisted out of his grip and trotted blindly across the street, calling out Erin’s name loudly but not quite shouting, as if her shock was cut with self-consciousness.

Rocco ran to the building and pulled on the locked front doors, his keys like glittery fish in his hands. He let himself inside and stood in the empty lobby trying to think. A package from the Book-of-the-Month Club was propped on the marble shelf below the mailboxes, and in his dazed state he found himself checking the address to see if it was intended for him or Patty.

Rocco tried the door to the stairwell: locked. Then the elevator: all the buttons locked as well. Without a key for the floor you wanted, the elevator wouldn’t go anywhere. It was the building’s security—cheaper than a doorman, everybody said, the entire building a locked box.

Where was she? Rocco stood in the grounded elevator, uselessly pushing the dead buttons, the door finally closing but the elevator going nowhere, a monstrous joke.

Rocco ran outside again, hearing Patty somewhere down the street calling out Erin’s name, hearing the hoarse panic in her voice. Running back into the vestibule, he started pushing all the buttons on the building’s intercom, palming three, four floors at a time, the box coming to life, crackling with static and challenges, a number of people saying

“Who is it?” at the same time, then more voices coming in over the first inquiries, at least two foreign languages mixing in.

“Is my daughter on your landing?”

“Who is it?”

“This is eleven.” For some reason he couldn’t bring himself to use his own name. “Is there a child lost on your landing?” “Who is it?”

Some people, in their confusion, buzzed him inside the already open door, but no one gave him any answers.

“Is there a
child
walking around on your
floor?
“ Rocco bellowed, his lips brushing the speaker perforations.

Mumbling, feeling a damp line forming under the hair covering his neck, he went into the lobby and dumbly picked up the Book-of-the-Month Club package again. It was addressed to José Arenas. Who the fuck was José Arenas? He knew nobody in the building. He pushed for the elevator, thinking, So we’ll have another kid; thinking, What cops do I know in New York? Do I know any good cops in New York?

He got in the elevator and unlocked the button for eleven, his only way in, and as the car began its ascent, he could hear Patty out on the street, her voice rising in the elevator shaft, getting progressively more broken and ragged, Rocco thinking, She’ll get over it, she’ll get over it.

The elevator stopped on eight and the door opened on a worried-looking Japanese woman.

“You lose a child?”

Rocco’s knees sagged with relief. “Thank God, you don’t know—”

“She’s not on
this
floor.”

His misery broke through, making him lose his balance inside the small space of the elevator car.

“Maybe you should call the police,” the woman said.

As the ride continued to eleven, Rocco felt more and more useless, and when the doors opened again he refused to step out, panicked at the thought of laying eyes on her empty stroller in the hallway, certain he would fall to pieces.

The doors closed, and as the elevator sank toward the street he ran down a list of New York cops he knew, inside connections who could help him out here. He began to hear Patty’s voice again as the elevator got closer to the lobby, that frantic disembodied cawing of the baby’s name over and over as his wife raced up and down the street. Rocco glided down to meet her anguish, his mind returning to that oceangoing fleet of vehicles sailing down Broadway, away from Manhattan, into eternity.

The elevator jerked to a stop on the second floor and the door slid back to reveal a group of people questioning each other about the crazy voice on the intercom.

Rocco stepped out onto the landing. When everybody turned, he asked the group, “Somebody lose a kid?” as if he wasn’t the one.

“Yeah.” A tall woman wearing a running suit stepped forward. “Was that you?”

“Uh-huh, yeah.” Rocco bobbed his head. “So nobody…”

Of all the people assembled on the landing, he was standing the farthest from the fire door that opened onto the stairway, so it astonished him that he was the only one who seemed to hear his daughter’s drifty moans. They were obviously coming from right behind the goddamn door.

“Can’t you
hear
her?” he snapped as he strode past the others. He pushed the door’s heavy bar and didn’t stop, running up seven flights to where Erin stood on the stairwell. She was holding her zebra and her bottle and softly banging her forehead on the locked fire door that led to the ninth-floor landing.

All Rocco could say upon seeing her was “Oh,” as if she was nothing more than a misplaced set of car keys. His relief hammered at him but his manner was strangely casual, wildly out of line with the joy he felt. Erin, for her part, barely glanced at him, apparently too numb to understand that she’d been found.

Rocco and his daughter walked downstairs and saw Patty by the mailboxes, holding court before a half-dozen anxious neighbors, yammering away and hugging herself.

“I had my back turned and she got on the elevator, so I ran to the elevator and instead of holding the door open with my hand I pushed the button, because I thought if you push the button it keeps the door from closing…”

Rocco stepped across the lobby with Erin in his arms, Patty oblivious to their presence, Rocco savoring this moment, speaking in a high feathery voice, “Mommy’s here, Daddy’s here, Mommy’s here, Daddy’s here.”

Patty was so dislocated that she couldn’t stop babbling. She continued to chatter on about the elevator buttons as she absently reached out to take Erin from Rocco’s arms, her eyes still on her audience, the neighbors all sighing with relief, Rocco bouncing on his toes but Patty still big-eyed and yakking, bringing Erin to her chest as if gently crushing a bolt of silk, the baby curling her forehead into the hollow beneath her mother’s jaw, Rocco loving them both so much that he knew he’d never tell a soul about this moment, just take it to bed with him every night for years, like a miser’s secret stash of gold.

“OK, listen.” Rocco put out his hand, let it hover over Erin’s head, Patty’s arm, without making contact. “Let me move the car before I get towed.”

Strike sat in the fourth row of the arraignment courtroom, the closest they let visitors get to the defendants. He’d been sitting here for two hours, watching the previous night’s bounty shuffle one by one from the holding cell to the defendant’s table. It was a cavalcade of broken men, crazy men, mostly drug possessions and disorderlies, a few B&Es, a stickup man or two, some people barefoot, some bloody, one guy coming out in his underpants, everybody laughing at that. They paraded before the judge in cuffs, and Strike listened as a public defender or a pay lawyer automatically entered not-guilty pleas, the bail panel then giving its recommendations, the panel’s supervisor talking in a monotone about income, family, property, criminal pedigree. Now and then mothers, fathers and grown children sprang up from the benches and waved their bail money to get the attention of some court officer, even though they had to pay the bail somewhere else.

Rodney finally emerged from the holding pen at five minutes to one and stood next to his assigned lawyer without even looking at him. Strike watched him closely, measuring the level of his anger, deciding he looked pretty relaxed, all things considered. The bail panel reviewed his sheet and the new charges, then read off their recommendations, talking about his roots in the community, his career as a small businessman. Rodney’s PD entered a not-guilty plea. When the judge announced that the bail was being reduced from five thousand dollars with no cash option to the ten percent alternative, Rodney muttered in a stage whisper, “Five hundred dollars. Gah-damn, I ain’t even got me five hundred
cents.
“ Alarmed, Strike stood up. He had assumed Rodney would just pay the bail and walk.

As Rodney was being led by a court officer back to the holding cell, Strike caught his eye and silently begged for understanding. Rodney stopped dead, his face grew icy, and he glared at Strike until he sank back down to the bench. Panicking, knowing Rodney must have already heard about the handshake with the Homicide, Strike held his hands up, mouthed “Wait, wait,” tried to signal to Rodney that he had it all wrong. But Rodney just turned tight-lipped to the holding pen and disappeared back into County.

Buzzed and helpless, Strike fled the courthouse and drove aimlessly around town. He was desperate for sleep but afraid to go to his apartment: Rodney might have sent somebody out for him, and whoever it was might get him while he was in bed. He couldn’t go to any of his safe houses and pick up the rest of his money either. Rodney probably knew where the houses were, the same way he knew all about Tyrone and just about everything else.

Still ghost-driving, Strike rolled past the Roosevelt benches. Seeing only Peanut there, he had the thought that maybe the best plan would be to sit down with one guy, explain the whole situation and tell him how that Homicide was pressuring him, using every trick in the book, getting Jo-Jo in on it, Thumper in on it, but how he just wouldn’t crack—never did, never will—how he was too much for all of them. Maybe he should tell all that to Peanut, one on one, let Peanut spread that around while Strike found someplace to lie low. Then he could come back in a few days, and maybe he’d even be a hero in people’s eyes for everything he’d been through.

Strike drove to the old lady’s driveway and parked. This would be good, this plan. He would stroll right into the projects like he had nothing to hide and no one to fear.

Strike walked to the benches and took a seat next to Peanut. The afternoon sunlight hurt his eyes, made his face feel pinched.

“Where’s everybody at?”

Peanut shrugged. “They not here.”

“You want to tell me something I
don’t
know?”

“Erroll Barnes came by and everybody left,” Peanut said, looking away.

Strike went quiet, wondering what
that
could mean, then noticing that goddamn kid Tyrone come out of his building looking half crazy, starting to eyeball Strike again like he had to talk or he’d explode.

“What you mean, Erroll Barnes came by?” Strike said, turning back to Peanut.

“He was asking where you was.”

“What you talking about?”

“He was looking for
you,
“ Peanut said, his voice turning malicious.

Strike turned in time to see Tyrone marching straight at him. The kid seemed determined to say what he had to say no matter what, but Strike exploded before he could get out a word. “Will you get out my motherfuckin’ face?
Please?
“ Strike hunched over to be eye-to-eye, Tyrone looking stunned, Strike wheeling and walking, talking to himself about how Victor was lucky to be in there, away from all this,
all
of it.

He began to trot back to his car, thinking, Just get out of town now, take the money you got on you, fuck the other fifteen thousand, just leave. But half a block from the driveway, close enough to hear the gospel music raining down from the open window of the old lady’s house, he saw Erroll Barnes leaning against the Accord’s rear bumper, arms folded across his chest, just waiting, no package this time, and the grip of his .38 was sticking out of his pants like he didn’t give a shit who saw it.

Strike walked quickly back the way he had first come, thinking about abandoning the car now, just taking a cab into New York. Then he saw Tyrone coming toward him, still with that determined look, probably heading for the car to catch up with him, the kid bug-eyed and muttering, his hand over his belt buckle again.

Strike ducked behind a parked car before Tyrone could spot him. As the kid chugged past, Strike overheard his private rantings.

“…if every time I try to earn some money I have to worry about you
lying,
lying to me, to your grandmother, to all the people that love you in this
world,
because if you don’t know it I’m gonna tell you again—without your family you are
nothing,
you are alone out here, and I just want to know what kind of
boy
you are…”

Tyrone steamed out of earshot, heading for the Accord, Strike thinking, Goodbye, good riddance, hoping another accidental bump-in with Erroll Barnes might scare this kid out of his life for good.

Rocco was so electrified by the near tragedy of the morning that he didn’t think he’d ever need sleep again.

Disoriented, giddy with exhaustion, he went in to work two hours early and began catching up on some reports. But after sitting at his desk for ten minutes, he decided to lie down on the cot in the cell again, try to stretch out some tension knots. He instantly fell down a dreamless hole.

He was awakened after an hour by one of the day-tour investigators, Bobby Colon, loudly singing a McDonald’s jingle as he poured himself a cup of coffee. Rocco sat up, annoyed, thinking he’d say something to this inconsiderate asshole, but then he noticed that Colon had his sport jacket on and his death valise between his ankles.

Rocco pushed back his hair. “What time is it?”

“Hey, it’s alive,” Colon said, tilting his chin at Rocco.

“You coming or going? What time is it?”

“Three o’clock. Guess who’s dead.”

“Who?”

“Guess.”

“Don’t fuck with me, OK?”

“Erroll Barnes.”

“Yeah? Good. Who shot him? He got shot, right?” Rocco yawned. His shirt stank.

“He got capped by a little kid, can you believe that? Some ten-year-old from Roosevelt. Kids today, right?”

Mazilli came in for some tea, singing, “Ding Dong, the Witch Is Dead.”