I didn't want to hear that shit.
I left on the break. I don't usually do that, but it was late and I was tired. And I felt uncomfortable in that room, anyway. I'd liked the old midnight meeting better, even if I'd had to take a cab to get there.
Walking home, I thought about George Bohan, who'd wanted me to open a detective agency with him.
I'd known him years back in Brooklyn, we'd been partnered for a while when I first got a detective's gold shield, and he'd retired and worked for one of the national agencies long enough to learn the business and get his PI license.
I hadn't answered when that particular opportunity had knocked.
But maybe it was time to do that, or something like it. Maybe I had let myself get into a groove and wear it down into a rut. It was comfortable enough, but the months had a way of slipping by and before you knew it years had passed.
Did I really want to be an old man living alone in a hotel, queueing up for food stamps, standing in line for a hot meal at the senior center?
Jesus, what a thought.
I walked north on Broadway, shaking off bums before they could launch their spiel. If I was part of a real detective agency, I thought, maybe I could give clients better value for their money, maybe I could operate effectively and efficiently instead of fumbling around like some trench-coated refugee from a 1940's film. If it occurred to me, say, that Paula Hoeldtke might have left the country, I could interface with a Washington-based agency and find out if she'd applied for a passport. I could hire as many operatives as her father's budget could stand and check airline manifests for the couple of weeks around the date of her probable disappearance. I could--
Hell, there were lots of things I could do.
Maybe nothing would work. Maybe any further effort to track down Paula was just a waste of time and money. If so, I could drop the case and pick up something else.
The way things stood, I was holding on to the damn thing because I didn't have anything better to do.
Durkin had said I was like a dog with a bone, and he was right, but there was more to it than that. I was a dog who didn't have but one bone, and when I put it down I had no choice but to pick it back up again.
Stupid way to go through life. Sifting through thin air, trying to find a girl who'd disappeared into it.
Troubling the final sleep of a dead friend, trying to establish that he'd been in a sober state of grace when he died, probably because I hadn't been able to do anything for him while he was alive.
And, when I wasn't doing one of those two things, I could go hide out at a meeting.
The program, they told you, was supposed to be a bridge back to life. And maybe it was for some people. For me it was turning out to be a tunnel, with another meeting at the end of it.
They said you couldn't go to too many meetings. They said the more meetings you went to, the faster and more comfortably you recovered.
But that was for newcomers. Most people reduced their attendance at meetings after a couple of years of sobriety. Some of us lived in meetings at the beginning, going to four or five a day, but nobody went on like that forever. People had lives to get on with, and they set about getting on with them.
For Christ's sake, what was I going to hear at a meeting that I hadn't already heard? I'd been coming for more than three years. I'd heard the same things over and over until the whole rap was coming out of my ears. If I had a life of my own, if I was ever going to have one, it was time to get on with it.
I could have said all of this to Jim, but it was too late to call him.
Besides, all I'd get in response would be the party line. Easy does it.
Keep it simple. One day at a time. Let go and let God. Live and let live.
The fucking wisdom of the ages.
I could have popped off at the meeting. That's what the meetings are there for. And I'm sure all those twenty-year-old junkies would have had lots of useful advice for me.
Jesus, I'd do as well talking to house plants.
Instead, I walked up Broadway and said it all to myself.
At Fiftieth Street, waiting for the light to change, it occurred to me that it might be interesting to see what Grogan's was like at night. It wasn't one yet. I could go over and have a Coke before they closed.
The hell, I was always a guy who felt at home in a saloon. I didn't have to drink to enjoy the atmosphere.
Why not?
"Zero blood alcohol," Bellamy said. "I didn't know anybody in this town ever had zero blood alcohol."
I could have introduced him to hundreds, starting with myself. Of course I might have had to start with someone else if I'd acted on impulse and gone to Grogan's. The inner voice urging me there had been perfectly reasonable and logical, and I hadn't tried to argue with it. I'd just kept walking north, keeping my options open, and I took a left at Fifty-seventh, and when I got to my hotel I went in and up to bed. I was brushing my teeth when he called in the morning to tell me about Eddie's blood alcohol, or lack
thereof.
I asked what else was in the report, and one item caught my attention. I asked him to repeat it, and then I asked a couple of other questions, and an hour later I was sitting in a hospital cafeteria in the East Twenties, sipping a cup of coffee that was better than Willa's, but just barely.
Michael Sternlicht, the assistant medical examiner who had performed the autopsy, was about Eddie's age. He had a round face, and the shape was echoed by the circular lenses of his heavy horn-rimmed glasses to give him a faintly owlish look. He was balding, and called attention to it by combing his remaining hair over the bald spot.
"He didn't have a lot of chloral in him," he told me. "I'd have to say it was insignificant."
"He was a sober alcoholic."
"Meaning he wouldn't take any mood-altering drugs? Not even a sleeping pill?" He sipped his coffee, made a face. "Maybe he wasn't that strict about it. I can assure you he couldn't have taken it to get high, not with the very low level in his bloodstream. Chloral hydrate doesn't much lend itself to abuse anyway, unlike the barbiturates and minor tranquilizers. There are people who take heavy doses of barbiturates and force themselves to stay awake, and the drug has a paradoxical effect of energizing and exhilarating them. If you take a lot of chloral, all that happens is you fall down and pass out."
"But he didn't take enough for that?"
"Nowhere near enough. His blood levels suggest he took in the neighborhood of a thousand milligrams, which is a normal dose to bring on sleep. It would make it a little easier for him to get drowsy and nod off, and it would aid him in sleeping through the night if he was prone to restlessness."
"Could it have been a factor in his death?"
"I don't see how. All my findings point to a classic textbook case of autoerotic asphyxiation. I'd guess he took his sleeping pill not too long before he died. Maybe he was planning to go right to sleep, then changed his mind and decided to squeeze in a hand of sexual solitaire.
Or he might have been in the habit
of taking a pill first, so that he could just slip right off to sleep as soon as he finished his fun and games.
Either way, I don't think the chloral would have had any real effect. You know how it works?"
"More or less."
"They do it," he said, "and they get away with it. They have their heightened orgasm and they evidently enjoy it, so they make a regular practice of it. Even when they know about the dangers, their survival seems to prove to them that they know the right way to do it."
He took off his glasses, polished them with the tail of his lab coat.
"The thing is," he said, "there is no right way to do it, and sooner or later your luck runs out. You see, a little pressure on the carotid"-- he reached across to touch the side of my neck--"and it triggers a reflex that slows the heartbeat way down. That evidently has something to do with boosting the thrill of orgasm, but what it can also do is make you lose consciousness, and you have no control over that. When that happens, gravity tightens the noose, and you can't do anything about it because you're out of it, you don't know what's happening.
Trying to be careful doing it is like exercising caution during Rus-sian roulette. No matter how successful you've been in the past, you've got the same chance of blowing it the next time. The only careful way to do it is not to do it at all."
I had taken a cab downtown to see Sternlicht. I took a couple of buses back, and got to Willa's just as she was on her way out.
She was wearing a pair of jeans I hadn't seen before, paint-smeared, ragged at the cuffs. Her hair was pinned up and tucked out of sight behind a beige scarf. She was wearing a man's white button-down shirt with a frayed collar, and her blue tennis shoes were paint-spattered to match the jeans. She carried a gray metal toolbox, rusty around the locks and hinges.
"I must have known you were coming," she said. "That's why I dressed. I've got a plumbing emergency across the street."
"Don't they have a super over there?"
"Sure, and I'm it. I've got three buildings to take care of besides this one. That way I don't just have a place to live, I also have something to live on." She shifted the toolbox from one hand to the other. "I can't stand and chat, they'll have a full-scale flood over there. Do you want to come watch or would you
rather make yourself a cup of coffee and wait for me?"
I told her I'd wait, and she walked inside with me and let me into her apartment. I asked her if I could have Eddie's key.
"You want to go up there? What for?"
"Just to look around."
She worked his key off her ring, then gave me one for her apartment as well. "So you can get back in,"
she said. "It's the top lock, it locks automatically when you pull the door shut. Don't forget to double-lock the door upstairs when you're through."
Eddie's windows had been wide open ever since Andreotti and I had opened them. The smell of death was still in the air, but it had grown faint, and wasn't really unpleasant unless you happened to recognize it for what it was.
It would be easy enough to get rid of the rest of the smell. Once the curtains and bedding were gone, once the furniture and clothing and personal effects were out on the street for the trash pickup, you probably wouldn't be able to smell a thing. Swab down the floors and spray a little Lysol around and the last traces would vanish. People die every day, and landlords clean up after them, and new tenants are in their place by the first of the month.
Life goes on.
I was looking for chloral hydrate, but I didn't know where he kept it. There was no medicine cabinet.
The lavatory, in a tiny closet off the bedroom, held a commode and nothing else. His toothbrush hung in a holder above the kitchen sink, and there was half a tube of toothpaste, neatly rolled, on the window ledge nearby. In the cupboard nearest to the sink I found a couple of plastic razors, a can of shaving foam, a bottle of Rexall aspirin, and a pocket tin of Anacin. I opened the aspirin bottle and dumped its contents into my palm, and all I had was a handful of five-grain aspirin tablets. I put them back and tackled the Anacin tin, pressing the rear corners as indicated.
Getting it open was enough to give you a headache, but all I found for my troubles were the white tablets the label had promised.
The upended orange crate beside his bed held a stack of AA literature-- the Big Book, the Twelve & Twelve, some pamphlets, and a slender paperback called Living Sober. There was a Bible, the Douay Reims version, with a bookplate indicating it had been a first communion gift to Mary Scanlan. On another page, a family tree indicated that Mary Scanlan had been married to Peter John Dunphy, and that a son, Edward Thomas Dunphy, had been born a year and four months after the wedding date.
I flipped through the Bible and it opened to a chapter in Second Chronicles where Eddie had stashed a pair of twenty-dollar bills. I couldn't think what to do with them. I didn't want to take the money, but it felt odd to leave it. I gave the whole question a good forty dollars worth of thought, then returned the bills to the Bible and put the Bible back where I'd found it.
His dresser top held a small tin with a couple of spot Band-Aids left in it, a single shoelace, an empty cigarette pack, forty-three cents in change, and a pair of subway tokens. The dresser's top drawer contained mostly socks, but there was also a pair of gloves, wool with leather palms, a Colt .45 brass belt buckle, and a plush-lined box of the sort cuff-link sets come in. This one held a high school ring with a blue stone, a gold-plated tie bar, and a single cuff link with three small garnets on it. There had been a fourth garnet but it was gone.
The underwear drawer contained, along with shorts and T-shirts, a Gruen wristwatch with half its strap missing.
The erotic magazines were gone. I guessed they'd been bagged and tagged and taken along as evidence, and they'd probably spend eternity in a warehouse somewhere. I didn't come across any other erotica, or any sex aids, either.
I found his wallet in his trousers pocket. It held thirty-two dollars in cash, a foil-wrapped condom, and one of those all-purpose identification cards they sell in schlock shops around Times Square.
They're usually bought by people who want fake ID, although they wouldn't fool anyone. Eddie had filled his out legitimately with his correct name and address and the same date of birth as the one in the family Bible, along with height and weight and hair and eye color. It seemed to be the only ID he had. No driver's license, and no Social Security card. If they gave him one at Green Haven, he hadn't troubled to hang on to it.
I went through the other drawers in the dresser, I checked the refrigerator. There was some milk that was starting to turn and I poured it out. I left a loaf of Roman Meal bread, jars of peanut butter and jelly.