Nightbird (6 page)

Leigh shuffled
Playbills
around the floor, looking for something in particular. She had saved them since the first play she went to with her young
husband, both of them awed by live theater.

“We saw Gillian Stone in
A Chorus Line
,” she said, handing him one of the programs folded over to the cast page. “The last time we saw it, just before it closed.
She played Sheila.”

Leigh and Anthony Ryan had tried to expose their kids, Margaret and Rip, to all the wonders of N.Y.C.: plays, concerts, restaurants,
parades, exhibits, museums, ball games. Rip loved Yankee Stadium, a place he roamed like an explorer; he made a point of sitting
in every single section for at least one at bat. Their daughter, Margaret, always told them she missed the theater. Margaret
and their granddaughter, Katie, were living in Dublin for the year, unearthing the family roots.

“Was it definitely suicide?” Leigh said, lacing up a pair of Reeboks that were the same exact model she’d worn for twenty
years. She had to scour the outlets and discount stores to find them now. Then she bought every pair in her size.

“Suicide is the early consensus,” Ryan said.

“Had she been depressed?”

“Not according to her father. But he also denied she had a drug problem. No problems whatsoever.”

“Gillian had been away from home for a long time,” Leigh said. “So maybe Mom doesn’t know, either. One of the TV reporters
said there were rumors she was going to be fired from this show. Maybe she was more brittle than anyone realized. She gets
the first bad news of her life and snaps.”

“Danny doesn’t think so.”

“Men do not notice subtle changes. Ask a woman.”

Ryan wondered if Evan Stone noticed the identification room in Bellevue morgue. Would he remember its fake leather couches
and low tables? Did he read the religious pamphlets or notice the boxes of tissues, the pitcher of water and two glasses?
Would he recall the glass partition that separated the room from the one next door? The dark blue curtain that covered the
partition? The bright light that came on when the curtain slid back? The single gurney covered by a blue sheet? The attendant
in blue scrubs who pulled back the sheet?

“People handle bad times differently,” Leigh said, standing over him and putting on her linen blazer. “Gillian might have
been one of those who just couldn’t deal with it.”

“If she was that fragile, somebody should have been looking out for her. I’d like to know who.”

“What would that accomplish, Anthony?”

“Whoever it was should be called on it.”

A TV reporter stood in front of the Broadway Arms, explaining how Gillian Stone fell to her death. Ryan put his face between
his knees. Leigh wrapped both arms around her husband. “Come on, we’re not going to mope tonight.” She reached for the clicker.
“I can’t watch this anymore.”

The images faded to black. But the image unerased was the one in Anthony Ryan’s mind: of himself as he listened to the Utah
Public Safety officer explain how their son, Rip, had died.

The official Utah verdict was called PIO, pilot-induced oscillation. Pilot error. The police had ascertained from witnesses
that young Rip Ryan, in his inexperience, was unable to make his final turn into a turbulent wind. He hit the ground at approximately
fifty miles an hour. In the state-of-the-art morgue of a western state, Ryan listened to the drone of official words as he
silently begged God to let him change places with the broken body being caressed by his wife. Never in his life had Ryan felt
so helpless, so useless. Leigh whispering hoarsely to their son, as if crooning a lullaby.

“Maybe nobody is responsible,” Leigh said as she stacked the
Playbills
back in the box. “I’m going to call my sister, tell her we’ll pick her up in five minutes.”

Somebody is always responsible, he thought. Who would tell the Stones that no one was responsible? He thought about them in
the Bellevue morgue this morning. Did they think their daughter was only sleeping? He’d noticed that it always took an oddly
long time for parents to react in the morgue. He didn’t know if it was the familiarity of the closed eyes or the absolute
stillness. Or merely a few extra seconds of hope. How easy it was for parents to convince themselves, for those few seconds,
that their child was only sleeping.

“Enough dwelling,” Leigh said. “Dwelling is not good for anybody.”

She grabbed his wrist and tried to pull him to his feet. He sat there looking up as she yanked. “On your feet, pally. Let
someone else worry about who’s responsible. The only thing you have to worry about is where you’re taking us for dinner.”

The weight of being up for over twenty-four hours had descended on Anthony Ryan. Fatigue had left his emotions too close to
the surface. He buried his face in his arm. He wanted to stay in this room where he knew the stories behind every framed picture,
every souvenir and knickknack, every odd creak and groan.

“I need to be fed, Officer,” Leigh said, still pulling. “Something Italian and fattening as hell. Maybe a nice bottle of wine.
A big bottle. We’ll all get stoned on that Day-Glo red you half Italians drink.”

“Dago red,” he corrected, and had to smile because his southern girl had said it the same way for over thirty years. “It’s
called dago red.”

She yanked with both hands, grunting, as if pulling him out of jungle quicksand. Her back was almost parallel with the floor,
head thrown back recklessly, gray hair flying. Ryan got up slowly, holding tight; he had to or else she would have fallen
backward. When he was up, she wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Dago, Day-Glo, whatever,” she said. “We’ll get two bottles.”

T
he borough of Queens was named after Catherine of Braganza, the queen of King Charles II. She could have it back as far as
Danny Eumont was concerned. On Thursday morning road crews had funneled Fifty-ninth Street Bridge traffic into one eastbound
lane; it took Danny two hours to drive the olive green Volvo from home to his office.

Manhattan
magazine, despite the facade of a P.O. box and a telephone exchange indicating Manhattan, was actually located in a fading
industrial section of Long Island City, Queens. For a quarter of the price of Manhattan square footage, the fledgling journal
rented the entire top floor of a two-story concrete block structure only two subway stops east of the East River.

Danny jogged up the steep and narrow stairway to the second floor. An auto body shop occupied the ground floor of the kind
of building his uncle called a “taxpayer.” The magazine’s main office was empty, nine
A.M.
being too early for real journalists. The floor plan consisted of one long room, with private offices at the far end. Only
editors and bean counters rated private offices. Danny’s desk sat in the big room, near a back window, overlooking a pyramid
of used tires and a vicious one-eared mongrel restrained by an anchor chain. The only time he’d brought Gillian to the office,
she’d gone out and actually petted the greasy, psychotic beast.

Ball-peen hammers
ping
ed and air compressors
whoosh
ed as Danny opened and slammed his desk drawers, looking for his tape recorder. The recorder was the only reason he’d made
the trip in the first place. He rarely used it, but this time he wanted verification of the impromptu interview he was about
to spring on Trey Winters. Verification was the right word. Verification, because he didn’t trust Trey Winters. Not for evidence.
Danny wasn’t in the evidence business. He wanted to set things straight for Gillian, tell her story. And after all, it was
he she had called, nobody else. His uncle always said that life was a series of loyalty tests. He wasn’t going to start flunking
them.

He found the recorder under a menu for Chinese takeout. The batteries seemed strong. He popped in a fresh microcassette. Then
he checked his messages: nothing pressing. He did have three new letters he assumed were from cops. Most of his recent correspondence
were reactions to his Todd Walker police brutality story. Usually he opened them with a carving knife, turning his face away
in case of a malicious surprise. But no time for that now; he was running late for his own surprise. He decided it would be
quicker to leave the olive parked here and take the N train back to Times Square. The smell of burned toast wafted out from
the coffee room. He shoved the recorder into his pocket.

N
o more two shows on Wednesday,” Pinto said. “One show, we quit. Go home. You did too much yesterday, showing off for those
Swedish bitches. It’s no good for you. Then you take too many pills, and that’s no good.”

Pinto had rubbed the entire tube of cream into Victor’s neck, arms, and back, and when the Russian wouldn’t massage hard enough
Victor took over himself, his fingers pressing deeply into his flesh, kneading the muscle, digging underneath his shoulder
bones, trying to squeeze the nerve endings themselves. The spasms were visible, the muscles almost jumping through the skin.

“Shot of cortisone straighten you right out,” Pinto said. “I’ll drive you to the accident ward. One shot you’ll be old self.”

“I have things to do.”

“People to see,” Pinto said. “I know all about it.”

“You know nothing; what do you know?”

“I know something with you is always up. Trouble is coming, that’s what I know.”

Pinto helped him get his shirt on. Victor wore a starched white shirt with a high collar. White shirts accentuated his tan,
lit his face. He believed that a man with good skin should wear white, high around his face, especially turtlenecks. Victor
could feel the warmth of the cream tingling on his skin, as if itching from a wool sweater.

“I’m sorry about the act today, Pinto.”

“Just go. Go to your important business. Thursday’s not so busy anyway. I’ll do a solo today. Not to worry.”

The bone-deep pain returned in full before the D train left the Bronx. By the time he got to Times Square Victor was desperate,
his white shirt soaked with sweat. He’d taken only one pill before he’d left home, thinking it would be enough. The pain had
returned too quickly.

He bought six little red pills from a pregnant woman in a doorway on Thirty-ninth Street and took three immediately. They
weren’t his usual muscle pills, but by the time he got to the overhang of the hotel he was breathing easier.

Victor realized that he’d caused his own problems yesterday, starting his act without warming up. Then he’d overdone it. From
the beginning he was too keyed up, too jazzed from the events of the night before. He’d put everything into the performance,
showing off for the crowd, tossing the bowling balls higher than it was wise to do. Showing them what a former Barnum & Bailey
headliner could do. The women, he’d heard the women squealing with pleasure. They should have seen him in his trapeze days.

Yesterday brought back the old days, and as always, he fed off the spotlight. But it was the end for him. Not even if a miracle
took the pain away would he ever again beg an unappreciative street audience for loose change from their pockets. For their
crumbs.
No más
.

In his hand Victor held the second installment of his golden egg. It was an envelope containing great discomfort for a very
rich man. A man rich enough to spend a little to buy his own peace of mind. Victor had no desire to hurt this man. But they
could ease each other’s discomfort. It was a simple business deal; he’d said as much in the note. Simple business. Done every
day in this city. No worse than the stock market or General Motors. In fact, much less greedy. Mr. Trey Winters would see
that his request was reasonable.

Victor felt better with each passing minute. Everything coming up rosy, as his friend Pinto always said. He almost smiled
as Trey Winters came down the steps of his office. Victor knew that Winters met business associates every day at this time
in the hotel coffee shop. Winters was right on time. Everything coming up rosy. Victor pulled the hat down tight on his head
and adjusted the dark glasses. He planned to follow him into the hotel, hand him the envelope, and walk out the front door
onto Broadway. Disappear into the crowd, just like last time at the Mexican restaurant.

Winters stopped at the rear entrance of the hotel. A young man had caught him as he was about to enter the revolving door.
Winters appeared startled. The young man shuffled his feet and gestured with his hands. Victor wondered who he was. Then,
Winters stormed into the hotel, an angry look on his face. Victor waited, the envelope that would change his life still in
his hands. He felt his own fury erupting.

* * *

D
anny Eumont’s timing was impeccable. Just as he came around the corner he spotted Winters walking into the driveway underpass
of the Merrimac Marquis. He sprinted to catch the tall, lanky Broadway producer. Winters spun around and did a half pirouette.

“Sorry, Mr. Winters,” Danny said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You did a damn good job of it.”

Winters patted his long fingers against his chest. His theater-trained voice boomed with amplified resonance under the hotel.
Danny had no doubt his tape recorder would pick it up easily. He handed his business card to Winters.

“I’m doing a story on Gillian Stone,” he said. “I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

“I’d be glad to. Call my office and make an appointment.”

Except for a meat truck and one taxi, they were alone in the block-long underpass that was created to let vehicles pick up
and drop off hotel guests without interfering with traffic on Broadway. Danny stepped out of the path of the departing taxi.

“I’ll call for an appointment,” Danny said. “But just a few short questions. I’ll be quick.”

“I’m running late right now.”

“About the rumors that Gillian was taking drugs, everybody I talk to seems to think that they’re false.”

“Whom did you speak to?”