Authors: Edward Conlon
As Esposito led Nick away to the car, lifting the tape for him to pass beneath, he looked plaintively at his partner—
Yes? What now?
—and got a curt nod of the head in return. Time to go. You’re being told to leave. The red carpet goes both ways, coming and going. Let me lift the tape for you. Bouncer or chauffeur? The
eruv
, the imaginary boundary that makes the outside the inside, letting the faithful say they were at home. It was Nick’s work, his home, and he was being cast out. Esposito even opened the car door for him before getting in.
“Either way, Nick.”
Nick nodded, unsure what he meant. Was that a threat?
“Either way, you got to get outta here.”
Esposito started the car and pulled out of the spot, jerking a U-turn to take them back downtown. Nick waited for the explanation.
“Either Michael thinks he killed you and we gotta keep you outta sight. Or he knows he didn’t, so we gotta get you outta here, so he don’t come back at all of us, wandering around. We don’t need anybody else getting killed over this. Shame you couldn’t say you saw it.”
Nick thought that sounded like a suggestion, and he paused, determined to consider the practical considerations first.
“Why didn’t I call it in, take action? There isn’t going to be a 911 call from me. I didn’t chase anybody. It won’t fly.”
“Just thinkin’ aloud here, Nick.”
Nick slunk down in his seat, in accommodation to the idea that he should not be seen.
“Not for nothin,’ ” Esposito went on, “but even dead, the guy looked better than the last time. I saw him outside the church, at your father’s funeral. He was shaking like a wet cat in winter. What happened, he straighten out?”
“Yeah. He’s been clean a couple of months.”
“That’s a shame. Same time, he probably did ten things a day he shoulda got shot for when he was a junkie. Maybe he woulda slipped up
tomorrow, taken his paycheck to the closest dope spot and shot the whole load up his arm. At least, you and what’s-his-name weren’t close. Whaddaya gonna do?”
Nick was incensed by the dull barroom philosophizing, and became increasingly worked up as he went through the reasons. There was the glib and flabby fatalism, suggesting that Jamie’s time had come; the lowered expectations, permission to lose, granted in advance. Esposito would never have made the remark—“Whaddaya gonna do?”—about one of his own cases, and he would have had sharp words for anyone who offered them. Nick understood that Esposito was writing them both off, Jamie as victim and Nick as cop.
“Whose case is this? Who’s up?” Nick burst out, “I want it. Tell the guys, tell the lieutenant, it’s mine. Never mind. I’ll tell them myself.”
“You can’t have it.” There was no emotion or hesitation in Esposito’s refusal; it was a flat statement of fact, as if one of his children had asked for a pony for Christmas, or a switchblade.
“Why not?” Nick was no less petulant in his protest than RJ or Johnny or Al would have been.
“One question on the stand, ‘You were friends with the deceased, Detective Meehan, were you not?’ ”
Nick couldn’t answer. “Yes” would have been a lie, but “no” sounded so shameful, stone-hearted. Still, he understood that it couldn’t be his case, when it was his fault. Not his fault, but his failure. A conflict of interest, at a minimum. Nick wondered if Jamie’s oblivious martyrdom might gain him some advantage in purgatory, when the accounts were laid out. Nick wondered if either of them had hope of purgatory, if there was something worth saving. God might have expected more from both of them than just a few good days.
“You see what I’m sayin’, pal?”
“So whose is it? I don’t want Perez or Garelick. How about Napolitano?”
“No, it’s Garelick’s. I was in the office before you. When I heard the address, Nick, I thought it was you. I was gonna tell the lieutenant that I wanted it. But then I thought about it. If it was you, I couldn’t take it. The case, I mean. Believe me, it’s for the best, having somebody on it who don’t give a shit. He’ll go through the motions, that’s all. We gotta work this our way, Nick, off the books.”
Our way
. So that’s what it was. Was that an invitation to join him, or
an assumption that he had? Doing something about Michael had not helped. Doing nothing had not, either. Nick made an effort not to let his anger show.
“What about your guy?”
“I’m thinkin’ he’s a little late. He owes me a call.”
Nick looked at Esposito as he drove, his heavy shoulders leaning toward the wheel so his arms would not have to work so hard to turn it, speeding down Broadway, cursing out the window since he could not hit the siren. The Roman nose in profile. Which Roman, what Rome—serving the city, or scouting the walls in preparation for its sack? Esposito saw Jamie’s homicide as a setback, at most, a detour, and Nick hated him for it, but not as much as he hated how he himself had nothing better to offer, nothing better to say. It took enormous effort to control his voice when he posed the question, “You still think you did the right thing?”
If Esposito recognized an accusatory tone, he did not show it. “Yeah.”
“Where is he now?”
“I’m gonna find out, soon as I drop you off.”
Nick shook his head. He felt exhausted. When Esposito let him out at the precinct, he went upstairs into the dorm and slept more soundly than he had in a while, now that the world was crashing down, and he was safe again, in a strange bed. The guilty sleep, when fear is gone from your bones. He had a dream that Daysi lay beside him and told him she was pregnant, which startled him awake, transported him with a feeling of urgent joy. He sat up in the bunk, dazed, and his head swam. Tears pooled and fell. The sense of it, the belief in it, was so strong that he wanted to run down the block and kiss her, hold her, laugh and cry. He wiped his face. It was too much. It was as if he’d crawled from the desert and was given a slug of whiskey; good stuff, but not for this thirst. The only tears shed should be for Jamie, and Jamie deserved better, needed more than tears. Nick went to the bathroom to wash his face, and headed back into the office.
As he entered, Esposito raised a hand for him to stop, then put a finger to his lips and pointed to the locked door of the interview room. He waved Nick ahead, to the meal room, to acquaint him with the developments. Much had happened as he’d slept. When Esposito called Malcolm, he said that he hadn’t known that Michael was back; no one had called from Georgia to tell him he’d left. The call woke Malcolm up,
and he checked Michael’s room. Michael yelled from behind the locked door that he wanted to be left alone. Esposito stationed two cops in the lobby, waiting for relayed calls, from Malcolm to Esposito, and they were waiting for Michael when he stepped off the elevator. They asked him if he lived there, and he took offense at the question. Esposito had warned them there might be a fight, and there might be a gun, but to try to be careful of the face, in case they had to do lineups. It had worked out well.
“Anyway, now we got him, for assault on a cop. He gave one of them a nice shiner. I guess he’s learned how to throw a punch.”
“Gun?”
“No. I got Malcolm tearing the place up for it now. I told him not to touch it if he finds it, that we might get prints or DNA off the clip. We got a shell casing for a .40 caliber by the body.”
“Good. Do either of the Coles know what this is about?”
“No. I’m glad you were in the dorm when they brought him in. I want you in reserve. I’ll talk to him awhile. Then you come in. See if he thinks you’re a ghost. Not that we don’t know already.”
“Maybe, but we won’t be any closer to locking him up for the homicide.”
“Trust me. This one won’t stay open for long. I let him keep his belt and laces. If we’re lucky, he’ll hang himself. Or maybe I’ll flip him, like his brother, and we’ll wind up as best friends.”
Esposito smiled as he headed to the interview room. Nick regarded the return to the old swagger with mixed feelings, glad for his optimism, fearful of overreach. His partner did have a way of making friends. “Making” was the word. It was an act of raw creation, of breaking and rebuilding through force of will. Still, Nick found it hard to imagine Michael vulnerable to either bullying or charm. He was tougher than Nick, more honest, too. When he said he was going to do something, he meant it.
Nick opened the newspaper and turned on the TV to the news, glancing between them, paying attention to neither. One of the wars seemed to be going better, the other getting worse. Nick changed the channel to a nature show and turned the page until he found the crossword. He wouldn’t talk to himself about this, at least for a while. An hour passed peacefully, until Esposito barged back in, his jacket off and his tie loose.
“That kid’s an asshole.”
Nick waited a moment before closing the paper; this could not be considered new information. Esposito seemed irritated by Nick’s deliberate leisure, the lack of response.
“This prick is the toughest little scumbag I’ve ever talked to. He don’t care. He is twisted and miserable, hard as a rock. I tell him we know, he nods. I tell him we have the gun, he nods, says, ‘Bring it.’ I almost wanna tell him his brother Malcolm works with me, we can work it out, I can work with anybody, things can be settled. I don’t tell him that, but almost…. He sees I’m thinking, and he laughs. He says I should bring him upstate, he’d like to meet my family, too. I want to check under my car, to make sure he ain’t hanging from the axle, next time I drive home. Nick, I never thought I’d meet anybody I couldn’t interrogate, nobody I couldn’t talk to, but this guy doesn’t want anything I can give him, isn’t afraid of anything I can threaten. I don’t know where to go with this—there’s no opening. Can you think of anything, Nick? You’re a stubborn prick. Maybe you know the language. Can you help me here, or do you wanna go back to the crossword?”
The sting and the dare were well-aimed, well-earned; Nick doubted he could funnel his own frustrations into as useful an outlet. He ought to have something to offer, some insight into the fortress. What did he know about people who wouldn’t listen? Nick thought for a moment, not much longer than that.
“Agree with him. Start talking, and then agree more and more. He’s used to being fought with. He’s ready for arguments against. Say he’s right. He’s never heard that before. I’ll watch through the window. Put both your hands up, scratch your head when you want me to come in. That’s the high sign. Set it up, somehow. Maybe say how problems happen when you do it all on your own, when you’re a one-man show. You fall in love with yourself, you’re blind to other people, other things, and can’t anticipate every risk.”
Esposito considered the advice, pleased. It had been a while since Nick had made much of a contribution. Esposito did not appear to catch the double meaning of the last admonition.
“Nice. I like it. Let’s give it a shot.”
Esposito turned and went back into the room. Nick waited for him to settle in, then made his way around to the one-way mirror, to watch. Esposito paced his side of the table, hands busy with elaboration. Though he stood over Michael, he made no overt attempt to intimidate;
he smiled more often than not and spoke at increasing length. Even though Nick couldn’t hear what was said, he was almost persuaded by Esposito, his fluency and persistence, when his voice seemed to lift off in an anthem, or lower down to nearly a sigh. But he also saw that he might as well have been serenading a wooden Indian. Nick could only see the back of Michael’s head, but his posture was eloquent, varying between church-pew stiffness and exaggerated slouch, elbows on the table. Mostly his arms were crossed, and he wiped his mouth often; sometimes a knee danced with a little nervous energy, but he’d catch himself after a few minutes and resume the rigid pose. After nearly an hour, Esposito sat down, leaning across the table, closing in the space between them. Michael tipped back, at first, then tilted forward, meeting him in the middle. Nick expected the face-off to continue, but Esposito suddenly withdrew and put both of his hands on his head, ready to rip out handfuls of hair. He looked like he would have much preferred to have them around Michael’s neck, and Nick rushed around the corner to make his entrance.
Nick threw open the door and strode over to Michael, to amplify the presumed surprise with physical menace. As soon as he did it, he realized the mistake. Michael jumped back, knocking his chair from beneath him, but the reaction would have been the same had Nick tossed a firecracker at him. Nick was supposed to be testing for a single thought, not for the general health of his nervous system. Fortunately, Michael aced both tests, quick with his reflexes and his unfiltered remark. “You wore a vest, you faggot! Even at home, you got the vest on!”
Both detectives were astonished, at the candor of the admission and the brilliant idiocy of the take.
That’s it. Nick must be bulletproof!
Nick started to laugh, so abruptly at first that he spat, which provoked Michael beyond restraint—
laughed at and spat on!
Michael lunged forward, swinging, knocking the table to the ground. Esposito knocked Michael back. His head hit the mirror and left a smear of blood from his nose, and he redoubled his effort when he turned again, but Esposito took hold of an arm and twisted it, taking him down to the ground and cuffing him. Esposito looked up at Nick as he locked the cuffs, baffled equally by his partner and his prisoner. Nick covered his mouth, and tears filled his eyes for the second time that afternoon. He raised two helpless hands to Esposito and stepped back quickly, trying to get out of earshot before he broke down in laughter again.
Nick staggered over to the meal room. The lieutenant observed the unsteady transit, and decided to remain in his office. Nick sat down and turned off the television, threw the newspaper out the window. He found some napkins and mopped his face, coughing out the laughter as if it were a bone in the throat. Not long before, Michael could have killed Nick with a Christmas card; a kind word from a man he’d wronged would have sent him to the river, the woods, a quiet place where he could have put the gun into his mouth. Instead, Michael had saved him with his hatred, with a gun—Twice!—telling him he mattered, he had a purpose and a place in this world. After a few minutes, Nick eased into a kind of punchy sobriety, as Esposito walked into the room.