The Granite Moth (2 page)

The blast threw me to the sidewalk, but I managed to absorb most of the fall with my arms. Blinking up into the smoke and confetti, I instinctively scanned the street for Dolly. I couldn't make anything out beyond vague shapes. I quickly checked myself for cuts, relieved not to find anything serious. Then I pushed myself up and sprinted toward the chaos. More people flew by me, coughing and crying, but I couldn't let myself slide into terror, yet.

“Dolly,” I screamed again, but the sound was completely lost. I ran toward where I had seen him last, despite a sinking feeling that he would have been flung far from there. I nearly
tripped over another victim before I stopped to check on him. I crouched down to see the man's face, but he was waving me away.

“I'm okay, I'm okay. Help the others,” he said. I squeezed the stranger's hand before heading closer to the fire. It was hot, but the smoke bothered me more than the heat. I could feel my throat constrict, wanting to gag, but I pushed forward.

“Dolly,” I tried again. Police officers were already on the scene, asking anyone like me who had run into the danger to stay back. I ignored them and kept calling.

“Ma'am,” someone said, pulling my arm. I twisted out of his grasp and ducked closer to what remained of the float.

“Over here, kitty cat,” said a strangled voice nearby.

Relief flooded my system as I dropped to the ground and crawled toward Dolly. He was sprawled on the pavement, his dress ripped and bloody. I scanned his body as best I could in the smoke, my eyes and throat searing. I didn't see any major injuries, but plenty of scrapes and burns. I maneuvered him until I had both arms wrapped around his torso, then scooted away from the inferno, pushing as hard as I could with my boots. I could hear sirens close by and tried to tell Dolly not to worry before being overcome by coughs. He had his eyes squeezed shut, but he was breathing. We were too close to the float for anyone to notice us right away, but after five feet or so, an officer came over to help. He dragged Dolly to safety then went back toward the blaze.

I rolled onto my knees and dry heaved, spitting black globs onto the pavement. It took a few minutes before I could do anything else. When I checked Dolly's pulse, it was strong, and I felt some of my nausea subside. I loosened his wig and took off his necklace, trying to cool him down. His pretty face had been licked by flames, and there was a angry pink mark across his forehead. When he finally opened his eyes, he smiled.

“I
thought angels would have halos, not masks,” he said before coughs racked his petite frame.

I laughed—a dry, aching sound—and rocked back on my heels, ripping the cheap Mardi Gras decoration from my face. I'd forgotten about the disguise altogether.

“Better,” he said, reaching to brush my cheek. His hands were burned, too, but not as badly as his face. I stood up to look for an EMT. Ellis's frame was illuminated by the lights of a parked squad car. I waved to get his attention, and he turned toward me, mouthing something I couldn't make out. I knelt down quickly and told Dolly that I would be back with help then jogged toward the car.

“He's hurt. I don't know how bad,” I said, reaching Ellis.

He gestured for a distraught parade attendee to stand back then yelled “Kurt” toward one of the two ambulances. “We have another 10-54 by the 10th Street sign, east side.”

I looked back toward Dolly to see that I had been dragging him back to my viewing spot. When two EMTs rushed past me, I asked Ellis what else I could do.

“You'll be safer at home,” he said.

Ignoring him, I went back to Dolly's side, as Ellis must have known that I would. The EMTs had applied an oxygen mask and were checking the burns for any that looked serious.

“Do you think he hit his head?” one of the workers asked me.

“He was standing on the float when it blew.”

He nodded and strapped Dolly onto a stretcher. “Roosevelt Hospital,” he said to my unasked question.

I kissed Dolly's temple before they wheeled him away, then noticed that he had my sequined mask tucked to his chest. I wanted to change my earlier answer to Ellis: Yes, Dolly was most certainly a friend.

CHAPTER TWO

E
mergency rooms the world over must look particularly gruesome on Halloween, a combination of real and fake gore highlighted by glitter and fluorescent lights. The Roosevelt waiting area was packed. A few of
t
he Pink Parrot performers were milling around, waiting to
have
their minor wounds examined. They told me that three of their coworkers, including Dolly, had been rushed back. I sunk onto the floor next to a child in a kitten costume. The girl's whiskers had been cried off, but she was remarkably calm considering the gash on her shoulder.

“I fell,” she offered when she caught me staring, then adjusted her cat ears and leaned back into her mother.

“Me, too,” I said, showing her the small cuts on my palms. She was more curious than horrified. Her mom smiled wearily at me and stroked her daughter's hair.

My own parents had been killed in a fire. Not an explosion of the sort I had just witnessed, but a run-of-the-mill kitchen fire, deadly despite its banality. You'd think by now I would be immune to tragedy, but staring at the distraught faces around
me, I definitely wasn't. The sight of Big Mamma rocking herself in the corner disconcerted me. She had dressed up for the parade even though she hadn't been on the float, and her gold pantsuit looked gaudy in the hospital glare. One of her employees rubbed her back absentmindedly, but was equally upset. He had removed his wig, revealing a crew cut above his made-up face. I turned away when he caught me watching him, but his eyes were glassy, as if he didn't register me or anyone else. When the news came that two of the three performers had bled out during surgery, he was the first to leave, refusing to be treated for smoke inhalation. I had a feeling Big Mamma wanted to run away, too, but her sheep gathered around her, seeking comfort from her imposing frame and no-nonsense attitude.

When I learned that Dolly was not one of the two casualties, my vision dimmed, and I had to put my head between my knees to keep from passing out. My whole body was tingling, but I could make out a light patting on my shoulder, my kitten companion providing what little comfort she could. Of course, she didn't need to provide comfort because I was feeling giddy with relief—guilty for feeling relieved perhaps, but giddy nonetheless. When I sat up, Big Mamma was staring at me from across the room as if she knew I wasn't mourning the loved ones she'd lost. She was trying to say something to me, but I didn't understand. She raised her voice, and I shivered.

“We need to talk,” she said, then turned toward the exit without waiting to see if I would follow. Of course I would.

Paramedics took long pulls from their cigarettes as they watched us walk toward an unlit corner of the parking lot. I'm sure we were a sight, my face dirty from the smoke, hers tense
from holding back emotions. Big Mamma had helped me on a previous case, providing key information about a fellow Manhattan bar owner, a rival that she was glad to see fall. I had been in awe of her at the time. Ms. Burstyn is something of a living legend—it says so right on her Wikipedia page. She was one of the first people to refuse to pay mob protection fees for her club, and she was also one of the first African American women to own a business south of Harlem. It was hard not to feel inferior to this pioneer, and I wanted to turn back. She seemed to sense that and clamped a hand around my arm as we continued. I winced, but let her lead me. When she stopped, so did I.

She didn't speak at first, and we both focused on the chain-link fence. There were drooping, plastic flowers entwined in the metal and a few burnt-out Saint Michael candles on the ground—forgotten remnants of a September 11th shrine from the month before. I didn't like looking at them, but didn't know how to hurry this impromptu meeting along. One of the sergeants at my old precinct used to say that all conversations are about power, who has it and who doesn't. At the time, I assumed he meant when talking to suspects, but over the years, I'd come to apply this principle to most interactions. What I'm saying is that Mamma Burstyn was in control. I shifted my weight from foot to foot in order to warm up, waiting for her to begin.

“Two men leave a SoHo club together, get harassed then attacked by an angry mob,” she said. I watched her breathe out a few visible puffs before she continued. “Six to two are bullshit odds. Bullshit, right?”

I nodded, and she continued. “Bruises, gashes, broken ribs. Stitches and CT scans. Not to mention a lifetime of looking over their shoulders, not sure if it's okay to be seen together. Does this sound familiar, Miss Stone?”

I thought the question was rhetorical and didn't say anything. The story had been aired on the local news stations
several nights in a row. All six men had been arrested and charged, but the sensationalist nature of the crime meant it was still talk show fodder. An array of civil rights experts weighed in while anchors murmured along gravely. When the pause stretched too long, I spoke as softly as I could. “Yes, ma'am, I remember. Did you know them?”

“Does it matter?”

I swallowed hard, the spit making my throat burn all over again, and shook my head.

“I try to keep my boys safe,” she continued. “Cameras covering every square inch of The Pink Parrot. State-of-the-art alarm system. Professional security guards, not bouncers off of Craigslist. Cars home after midnight. I even set up a self-defense class. Only Bobbie—” She stopped talking, and I looked away as she composed herself. I guessed that he was one of the men to have died in the ER. “Only Bobbie took me up on it. Smart kid, that one. From Kansas.”

She paused again, and I wondered who would tell his parents. That was probably her responsibility, too.

“Ms. Burstyn, are you saying that you don't think this was an accident?”

In response, she opened the lapel of her jacket, and I jumped, scared that she was about to pull a gun on me. My paranoia didn't go unnoticed, but Big Mamma didn't comment. Instead she handed me what looked liked a wedding invitation, and I expected an announcement of Bobbie's nuptials, feeling sick at the thought of his fiancé learning that he was a widow. On closer inspection, however, it was an invitation of a wholly different variety:

We regret to inform you of the passing of Darío Rodriguez, Roberto Giabella, Herman White, Ravi Sethi, Aaron Kline, Carlton Casborough, and Juniper
Summer. Services will be held at St. Mark's Church, date and time TBA.

I rubbed my fingers over the seven names, noting that they were raised on the silver letterpress paper. They were printed in an intricate crimson font, and at the bottom was a small, black noose. It was the fanciest death threat that I'd ever seen. A few of the seven names were familiar, but I knew most of the Pink Parrot stars by their stage names.

“Were they all on the float tonight?” I asked.

“Do I look stupid? I haven't even let them be in the same room together all at once. These are my headliners. Tonight, Dolly and Bobbie were up there. The other performers were understudies or busboys.”

With Roberto “Bobbie” Giabella, one down and six to go
, I thought before I started shaking.

“Nuh-uh,” Big Mamma said. “You stop that right now. We need you.”

“No way, this needs professional attention.”

“You are a professional.”

I couldn't think of a reasonable response and mumbled something about the NYPD.

“You mean the fine officers I met last month? They didn't even make a copy.”

I knew the type. I could even imagine their faces, blowing off this woman's concerns because of apathy or fatigue. Two gay men getting beat up—followed by a media frenzy—warranted a quick response. But a threat? Bottom rung of the priority ladder.

“But they'll investigate now.” Explosions tended to get official attention.

“I don't give a flying fig about now. Now, they can do whatever they want. Me? I want somebody's undivided attention.”

She had it, and she knew it. Dolly's name was on that list, Darío Rodriguez, and he was one of about three people who might miss me if I was gone.

“Don't tell me you trust New York's Finest as far as you can throw them,” she continued. “After what they did to you. Most people jump when a car backfires. You? You jump when someone reaches into her jacket.”

She has the power
, I thought again, not in the least surprised that she knew about my past life. If anyone had hidden eyes and ears in this city, it was Lacy Burstyn. Her connections must have made her more rather than less frightened, aware of the chinks in her finely tailored armor. While I sympathized, I wasn't sure that I was the right person to help and said something about the NYPD doing their best with limited resources. Plus, I had volunteered for my undercover assignment, however much havoc it had wreaked on my life.