Authors: C. E. Lawrence
When Lee returned to his apartment later that afternoon, the first thing he did was sit down at the piano. The sight of the notes on the page comforted him. Music was a language he had spoken since childhood, a language of sound and rhythm and color. It went directly to a part of him that was beyond the reach of words.
He began a Beethoven sonata, enjoying the pure physical pleasure of his fingers on the keyboard. He played the adagio movement first, lingering on the graceful phrases, the swell and rise of the melodic line. Then he plunged into the allegro passage, channeling his rage and frustration through his fingertips onto the keys. He couldn’t help thinking about what Nelson had said. There were fourteen Stations of the Cross, and the Slasher was only up to number four.
During the dark days, there were times when music alone could reach him, when it was the only thing that passed through the wall of his depression, to lift him back into life.
He was dimly aware of the sound of the phone ringing, but he blocked it out and continued until he finished the sonata. Then he rose, went to the answering machine, and listened to the message.
The minute he heard Diesel’s voice, he knew something was terribly wrong. He listened to the message in a fog of impending horror. He was vaguely aware of hearing the words “Eddie…subway train,” and “killed instantly.”
No, not Eddie
…
He dialed the number showing on his caller ID. Diesel answered after one ring.
Fifty minutes later he was sitting in McHale’s, nursing a pint of Saranac Amber, waiting for Diesel and Rhino to show up. The beer, with its dark, nutty flavor, reminded him of Eddie. Maybe the demons that had plagued him since the war—the napalm-scarred corpses of his nightmares—really had come to call on him one final time, luring him down onto the subway tracks. Even Eddie’s chattiness was just another camouflage for his pain. In his tales of wartime horrors, he always appeared to leave something out. Lee had the sense that things happened in Vietnam that even now he couldn’t come to grips with.
But suicide? Lee didn’t believe it. Something else was at work.
When Diesel and Rhino arrived, Diesel’s eyes were red rimmed. Rhino wore dark glasses, his white skin pasty in the weak light coming in through the grimy windows. They both slid into the booth across from him without a word. They were both wearing dark jeans and very white T-shirts under black leather jackets.
“Sorry,” Diesel said. “I had a few people to call—you know, to tell them.”
“What happened?” Lee asked. Their phone conversation had been brief, confined to the where and the when, leaving out the uncomfortable question of why.
Diesel shook his head. “I don’t know yet. It’s only been a couple of hours so far. They haven’t even released his name to the press yet.”
“How did you find out?”
Diesel leaned back in his chair. “I have a few contacts here and there.”
As usual, Rhino did not speak. He took off his glasses, cleaned them carefully, and put them in his jacket pocket. His hands were surprisingly delicate for such a powerful-looking man. Lee noticed that his eyes, too, were bloodshot.
“You want anything?” Lee asked them.
“Let us get this round,” Diesel said as Rhino rose from his seat and headed for the bar.
“Thanks,” Lee said. He could use a second drink.
“Eddie didn’t even like riding the subway,” Diesel said. “Always said he hated standing on that yellow warning track.”
Lee leaned forward. “Do you think he jumped?”
“Absolutely not. I know Eddie could get low—it wasn’t any secret that he suffered from ups and down—but right now he was in an up phase.” He picked up a beer coaster and ran his fingers lightly over the edges. “Could have been an accident, I guess. He had just won a lot of money, and he was probably excited about it. He may not have been paying attention because of all the money he’d just won—maybe he was thinking about that.”
“But you said he hated standing on the warning track. Why would he even be close to the edge like that?”
“That’s what I can’t figure out.”
Rhino returned with three glasses of very cold beer. Lee drank half of his in one gulp, and felt the bubbles rise to his head.
For the first time since Lee had met him, Rhino spoke.
“I think someone got to him.” His voice was oddly thin and high, like the upper reaches of a woodwind instrument—a reedy oboe or clarinet.
“You mean someone pushed him?” The minute Lee spoke the words, he knew that was what he had been thinking all along, in the back of his mind.
Rhino’s pale eyes narrowed. “No way a guy like Eddie falls onto a track—or even jumps. It’s not his style.”
Lee turned to Diesel. “Do you agree?”
Diesel nodded slowly. “I can’t figure it any other way.” He took a long drink and wiped his mouth delicately with a cocktail napkin.
“Did Eddie have any enemies that might have—I mean, he did gamble, right?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t owe his bookie, and he’d just won big at the track.”
Lee frowned. “He told me he was clean—that he’d given it up.”
His companions exchanged a glance.
“Eddie didn’t always exactly tell the truth,” Rhino said, looking down at his beer glass.
“This guy you’re after,” Diesel said, “is he capable of something like that?”
“Oh, he’s capable of just about anything.”
“But I thought he killed women.”
“Yes, but a murder like this would be different. It would be to protect himself from getting caught. But how would he know who Eddie is?”
“I don’t know,” Diesel said. “But maybe he tailed him into the subway and waited for his chance.”
“But why? What did Eddie know? That’s a big risk to take.”
“Yeah, it is. I don’t know what Eddie knew, because I hadn’t spoken to him for a couple of days. But maybe this guy had been watching him.”
“Okay,” Lee said to the pair sitting opposite him, “I’m going to need some information from you.”
“Anything you want, you got it,” Rhino replied.
“Right,” said Diesel. “If this guy did Eddie, we want to help you any way we can.”
Lee shivered as another thought came into his head. For the first time it occurred to him that whoever wanted him off the case might very well be someone he knew.
The SRO desk clerk was a thick, lumpy man with a face that looked like it had been hewn from an oak tree with a rusty ax. His cheekbones were set at different heights, giving his whole face a lopsided look, and his nose was flattened and crooked. Lee realized he was looking at a boxer’s face. The man’s clothes and haircut belonged to a different era. They reminded Lee of gangster films of the ’30s and ’40s.
“Excuse me, I wonder if you could help me,” Lee said as he approached the desk.
The man looked up from the sports pages he was reading. “Sure, Mac, whaddya need?” Even his voice was straight out of a B movie.
Diesel and Rhino had given Lee the address of the West Side flophouse where Eddie lived, but they didn’t know the manager’s name. This guy had night staff written all over him, though, and a couple of twenties later Lee was seated on the bed in Eddie’s room, going through his things. Word had already gotten around about what happened to Eddie, and the clerk insisted on watching while Lee went through his friend’s possessions. He stood in the doorway fingering a cigarette, as if he couldn’t wait to go outside and smoke it.
It was a dismal room, the stale smell of desperation clinging to the peeling wallpaper, and Lee felt ashamed that he hadn’t known how close to the edge his friend was living. Any offers of help had been politely rebuked. Eddie had a way of appearing to be able to take care of himself. A single bed and an unpainted pine dresser were the only pieces of furniture, a green braided rug the only touch of comfort.
He looked through the contents of the dresser: half a dozen shirts, a couple of pairs of pants, socks and underwear, and a couple of sports jackets. The rest of Eddie’s possessions were unremarkable—pens, paper, and other simple office supplies, a few cans of soup, a box of crackers, several decks of cards, well thumbed and grimy—but one thing caught Lee’s eye. It was a racing form dated the day Eddie died. In the first race, a horse’s name was circled in red pen: Lock, Stock, and Barrel. Lee looked at the night clerk and held up the form.
“Can I keep this?”
The man stuck the unlit cigarette behind his ear. “You can keep all of it, Mac. Poor Eddie won’t be needin’ it now, I guess. Unless he had family somewheres, but I don’t think so.”
“Did he seem depressed in the last few days?”
The man cocked his lopsided head to one side. “Naw, that’s the thing—he seemed really happy, y’know? Told me he’d bet on a sure winner.”
Lee held up the racing form and pointed to the circled name. “This horse?”
The man squinted to read the name and shook his head. “Don’t know. Just said he had a feeling his horse was gonna win. Never saw him after that. Poor guy. He was a good egg, you know?”
Lee slipped the clerk another twenty before leaving, because the man seemed to feel sorry for Eddie. As he stepped out of the building, hot tears clouded his vision. He took a deep breath and headed out into the night.
The next stop was Eddie’s bookie—another bit of information he managed to get out of Diesel and Rhino. He didn’t know what he expected to find; he only knew that he owed it to Eddie to try and find out anything he could.
The apartment was in the ground of floor of a five-story walk-up, one of the rows of brick tenement buildings the lined the forties and fifties from Eighth Avenue to the river. The long, narrow “shotgun” apartments (so named because you could fire a shotgun at one end and the bullet would pass straight through to the other end) were once crammed with poor migrant families—and more recently, struggling actors and writers. But now you could buy a house in New Jersey for the price of a one-bedroom co-op on West Forty-seventh Street.
The building showed all the signs of a neglectful landlord. The hallway was drafty and badly lit. The walls were an insipid shade of pale yellow, and hadn’t seen a paintbrush for years, and the tile floor was chipped and stained. Lee knocked on the door of apartment number 1C and waited. After a moment the metal peephole cover slid open.
“Yeah?” The man’s voice was wary, hoarse.
“Hi. I’m Eddie Pepitone’s friend.”
“Yeah?” There was an echo, as though he was inside a cave.
“He made a bet with you the other day. Lock, Stock, and Barrel—trifecta in the third race.”
“Yeah? So?”
“What happened? In the race, I mean.”
“His horse won.”
“I need to know if he spoke to you about it.”
“So why don’t you just ask him?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” The voice was suspicious.
“He’s dead.”
There was a long silence. Lee heard the sound of something frying inside the apartment. The smell of rancid oil floated out into the hallway.
“Who are you?” The voice was tighter, accusatory.
“I just want to talk to you for a minute.”
There was the sound of a chair scraping over a bare floor, then the sound of many dead bolts being unlocked. The door opened a few inches, restrained by a metal chain. Lee got a whiff of bacon grease and fried potatoes. A bloodshot eye peered out at him.
“You a cop?”
“No,” Lee lied. “I’m just a friend who wants to find out who killed Eddie.”
“Shit,” the man said. “So you weren’t shittin’ me? Somebody iced Eddie?”
“That’s what I think. I just need to know one thing: Did he talk to you about his horse coming in?”
“Yeah. Two days ago. Said he was comin’ over for the money. Never showed up—I figured something came up, y’know? How did he die?”
“He was run over by a subway train.”
“Hey, I heard something about an accident on the news tonight. Shut down the whole A line for hours, they said. I thought it was a suicide or something. Didn’t know it was Eddie.” There was a pause, and then he said, “Hey, how did
you
know?” His eye squinted through the crack in the door, studying Lee hard. “You sure you’re not a cop? You’re startin’ to smell like a cop to me.”
“Look, I have no interest in closing you down—just tell me when it was you talked to Eddie last, okay?”
“Let’s see…Monday. Race was Sunday. He calls me up first thing Monday, says he’s coming over. Never showed up. I figured he’d show up sooner or later. It was a nice sum, five thousand smackers. Horse was a real long shot.” His eye narrowed again. “Hey, you haven’t come for the dough, have you?”
“No—keep it. I’m sure you can use it.”
The man whistled softly through the gap in his front teeth. “Shit, man. I don’t feel good about Eddie dyin’ or nothing, you know.”
“Neither do I.”
“He was a good customer and a straight-up guy, far as gamblers go, anyway. Hey, wait a minute—on the news they said it was an accident. So are you sayin’ it wasn’t no accident?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. How did Eddie choose which horse to bet on?”
“Funny you should ask. Eddie was superstitious, y’know? He always had these weird reasons for bettin’ on a horse.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Oh, I dunno. One time a coupla years ago my daughter had a baby, you know, and Eddie bets on a horse that has the same name as the baby. That kinda thing, you know? I think he had some kinda idea that the universe was givin’ him messages or something. I know it sounds weird, but sometimes the horses came through for him. He did okay, he really did.”
Lee held up the racing form with the name “Lock, Stock, and Barrel” circled. “Any idea why he’d choose this horse?”
The man peered at it. “No. Wish I did. All I know is he seemed sure about it.”
“Okay,” Lee said. “Thanks. Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”
“But I didn’t really help you.”
“Oh, yes, you did,” Lee replied as he hurried down the dingy hallway and out of the building.
“Eddie Pepitone didn’t kill himself,” Lee declared as he walked into Chuck Morton’s office. It was just after eight o’clock the next morning, and Chuck was still on his first cup of coffee.
“Whoa there—back up a second. Who is Eddie Pepitone?” Chuck said, putting down his coffee.
“The guy on the subway yesterday. The ‘accident’ on the A train—held up the trains for hours. Did you hear about it?”
“Of course—everyone did. But no one saw him being pushed.”
“Well, I think he was pushed.”
Chuck’s blond eyebrows shot upward in surprise. “What do you mean? How do you know?”
Lee tossed the racing form onto his desk.
“He had just won five thousand dollars and was on his way to his bookie’s place to get it.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Eddie was a friend of mine. We were at St. Vincent’s together—he was my roommate.”
“Oh, Jeez, Lee, I’m really sorry. But what are you saying?”
“I think the Slasher got to him.”
“Why would he—”
“Because Eddie was helping me in the investigation.”
“Helping you? Why wasn’t I in on this? Who was this guy?” Chuck Morton’s face reddened, and the cords on his muscular neck stood out.
“Eddie is—was—a guy with some unusual friends. His help was strictly unofficial.”
“Unofficial or not, don’t you think you should have let me in on it?”
Lee rubbed the back of his neck. The room suddenly seemed stuffy and overheated.
“Eddie wasn’t always on the straight and narrow side of the law.”
“So
what?
You think all the cops on the force work with squeaky-clean informants? Come on, Lee, you know better than that!”
“He didn’t like cops.”
“What about you?”
“We met under special circumstances. Look, do you want to hear what I think about his death or not?”
“Okay, okay!” Chuck sat in his chair and twisted the phone cord between his fingers, tapping his other hand on the desk irritably.
Lee told him the story of Eddie’s involvement in the case.
“So he was the one who led you to that homeless guy?”
“Right.”
Chuck got up from his chair and came around to lean on the front of the desk. “And you think he was pushed? Couldn’t he have tripped and fallen? It happens, you know.”
“No,” Lee interrupted. “Eddie was afraid of subway trains. He would never have been waiting so close to the tracks.”
“And suicide is out because he’d just won all this money.”
“Right. Not only that, but I think the name of the horse he bet on is a clue.”
“A clue to what?”
“To what he was going to tell me.”
“So what are we going to do about it?”
“Well, the first thing you can do is to add another name to your list of victims when we catch this son of a bitch.”
“Yeah—right.”
“Look, Chuck, I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. And if we can find out what Eddie knew, we could be that much closer to catching this guy.”
Chuck rubbed his immaculately shaved chin. “Maybe he didn’t know anything. Maybe this guy was just trying to send you a message by killing your friend.”
“I thought of that, but I don’t think so.”
“He’s one sick bastard.” Chuck laid a hand on Lee’s shoulder. “You sleep last night?”
“Not much.”
“Look, I want to catch him just as much as you do,” Chuck said. “Now, why don’t you go home and get some rest? You look awful. Come back this afternoon, and we’ll have a meeting with everyone. I’ll call you if I find out anything—I promise.”
As usual, Chuck was right. Lee was too tired to function, having been up half the night trying to unravel the mystery of what Eddie might have known. He went home, took a Xanax, and fell into a dead sleep.
He awoke to the wail of a car alarm in the street outside. The sound pierced his head and jolted his entire body into a state of alert. His stomach ground and twisted, and he felt the old, familiar warning signs of an attack. His head began to swim, as his mind began to cloud up, and his breathing became rapid and shallow. For days now he had awakened with his stomach clenched hard as a fist, a tight knot of tension that dissipated only gradually as the day wore on. His head was pounding, and his neck was sore, oddly stiff, as if he had pulled a muscle or something.
Stop this
, he told himself. He tried to concentrate on slowing his breathing as he opened he eyes and saw the calendar on the wall above his bed. March fifteenth.
Beware the Ides of March
. It was exactly five years since his sister had disappeared, slipping silently away from the world of the living like a drowning swimmer sinking into the recesses of the deep-blue ocean waves, leaving no trace behind.
She must have left
some
trace—they just hadn’t been able to find it yet, he told himself, but they would, they
had to
—he needed to believe that. And yet, with every passing anniversary, the hope receded a little more.
The front door buzzer rang. Lee threw the covers off his body and sprang out of bed. His neck was so stiff he could hardly move his head. A wave of nausea rose up from his stomach as he headed for the door. Then he felt the blackness descend as he crossed the bedroom into the living room. He managed to call out, “Who is it?”
He heard the response as if in a dream.
“It’s Butts.”
But then the blackness draped itself over him, enveloping him like the wings of a great dark bird, bringing him to his knees. He struggled feebly toward consciousness, then surrendered to the pull of oblivion.