City Of Lies (6 page)

‘You’re shitting me,’ Faulkner says, and then he looks at Duchaunak and his eyes are wide – surprised, kind of amazed.

What?
Duchaunak mouths, and Faulkner does that irritating thing of shaking his head and half-raising his hand.

‘What the fuck is it?’ Duchaunak says.

‘Okay,’ Faulkner says. ‘Okay, yes . . . on our way.’ He hangs up. He holds the phone in his hand, holds it like he’s fixing on hitting someone with it. He looks away towards the front of the restaurant, and then back at Duchaunak.

‘What? Tell me what the fuck is going on?’

‘Lenny,’ Faulkner says. ‘Lenny is up in St Vincent’s—’

‘What the fuck’s he doing there?’ Duchaunak says, and he’s rising from his chair.

‘Sit down a minute will you?’ Faulkner says.

Duchaunak stands awkwardly for a moment, and then sits down heavily. Looks, just for a moment, like a short man who needs a long drink.

‘He was shot last night, early evening . . . some liquor store up near Washington Square Park.’

‘Shot?’

Faulkner nods. ‘Chest wound . . . pretty bad they say. He’s in intensive care, hooked up to everything they’ve got and then some. Not sure he’ll make it, his age an’ all, you know?’

‘Jesus,’ Duchaunak sighs. ‘What happened? Was it Marcus? Did Ben Marcus do this?’

Faulkner sort of half smiles, like he feels awkward relaying what he’s been told. He shrugs. ‘Well, no . . .’

‘Well, no what?’ Duchaunak asks.

‘What they said was that he tried to stop someone robbing a liquor store—’

Duchaunak starts to laugh, a nervous sound, the sound of someone told something they cannot quite comprehend, or perhaps something that so obviously contradicts what they know to be the truth. Was this what it would come to? After all this time, was this how it would end? ‘He tried to stop someone robbing a liquor store?’ he asks, and though it sounds like a question it’s one of those questions that isn’t really a question at all; still he sounds like a nervous man, a man unsettled by something profound and significant.

‘’S what I was told,’ Faulkner says. ‘You want to go see him?’

Duchaunak is nodding his head, rising from the chair again. ‘Of course I want to go see him . . . just to make sure he dies for real this time.’

Faulkner smiles. ‘You have issues, Frank Duchaunak . . . maybe your daddy didn’t hug you enough when you were a kid.’

Duchaunak doesn’t reply. He’s walking towards the door.

Faulkner shakes his head and sighs. He goes to the counter to pay for the meal. It is his birthday. Duchaunak had been the one to suggest the meal. Duchaunak had promised to pay.
Such is the way of the world
, Faulkner thinks, and then wonders if that really was the case, if it really
was
the way of the world, or if he was on
the rough end of something awkward with little chance of reprieve.

Ten minutes later Frank Duchaunak pulls the car out onto Varick, doubles back towards West Broadway, and takes a route towards St Vincent’s that would avoid the gridlock on Sixth and Seventh. At some point he mumbles something.

‘You what?’ Faulkner asks.

Duchaunak shakes his head.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said that I take back what I said earlier.’

‘About what?’

‘About going to make sure Lenny dies for real this time.’

‘Eh?’ Faulkner frowns, one of those concerned frowns that indicate a degree of anxiety about another’s mental state.

‘It wouldn’t be right.’

‘What?’ Faulkner says, surprise evident in his tone. ‘But—’

‘I know, I know, I know,’ Duchaunak interjects. ‘I know it might not make sense, but I really don’t think it would be right for a man like him to die like this.’

Faulkner hesitates for a second, and then says, ‘I know what you mean, Frank . . . know exactly what you mean.’ He is quiet for a moment, and then, ‘You reckon the thing is still going to go ahead? You reckon they’re still going to do this thing if Lenny’s out of the picture?’

Duchaunak shrugs. ‘Aah, Christ only knows, Don. I still haven’t got my head around how these people think. Let’s just go up there and see what happened, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Faulkner says. ‘We go see what happened.’

Neither of them speaks again until they reach the lot behind St Vincent’s Hospital on West Twelfth and Seventh. Duchaunak parks the car, sits there for a moment without uttering a word, and then he opens the door and steps out.

‘You go,’ Faulkner says, almost as an afterthought. ‘It doesn’t need both of us.’

Duchaunak doesn’t reply. He slams the door shut and starts walking towards the hospital.

‘A bold Sumatra,’ the coffee guy said. ‘Which is kind of earthy and aromatic. Or we have arabica, Colombian . . . the Colombian’s very good, freshly ground just an hour or so ago, kind of rich and chocolaty with a hazelnut undertone—’

Harper cut in. He felt sick, a little dizzy. ‘Just a cup of coffee,’ he told the guy, and wanted to add
What in God’s name is a hazelnut fucking undertone? Are you people on drugs or what?
But he didn’t say a word.

The coffee guy kind of sneered condescendingly, and said ‘Well, alright, if it’s
just
a cup of coffee you want then
just
a cup of coffee you’ll get.’

A handful of minutes later, coffee in his hand still too hot to drink, the smell of it almost turning his stomach, John Harper stood on the corner of Seventh and Greenwich and looked at the impressive facade of St Vincent’s Hospital. Christmas lights hung in some of the windows on the upper floors, and a lone pine tree stood sentinel at the top of the front steps. He had walked all the way from Evelyn’s, had considered going back but felt he couldn’t face her. Not yet; not until he’d come out here and seen for himself.

There was a smell in the air like snow. Cool and crisp. Harper clutched his jacket around his throat with his free hand and looked up at the sky. Clouds, pale and thin, scudded awkwardly towards a yellowed harvest moon. God, how he wanted a cigarette. Cursed himself for leaving Evelyn’s house without an overcoat.

Didn’t know what to feel. Thirty-six years old, and the father that had left when he was two – a father he’d never spoken to, a father he’d believed dead – was up ahead of him in the hospital, dying of a gunshot wound.

He took a step, now resolved that he would go up there and
see. One foot forward, hit the edge of the kerb, and then stopped dead in his tracks. He closed his eyes for a moment. He raised the coffee cup to his lips, caught the aroma and decided against drinking it. He popped the lid, leaned to pour the contents into the gutter, and then backed up a step to put the cup in a trash bin. He folded his arms and stamped his feet. He
really
wanted a cigarette, just a couple of drags, just to feel that rush of sensation in his throat, his chest. Something to help him feel grounded.

He walked down the sidewalk. He went no more than three or four yards, and then turned suddenly and hurried across the road to the front of the building.

By the time he realized what he was doing he was standing beside the pine tree inside the front entrance. A small paper angel sat on the uppermost branch. A slight breeze caused its tissue-thin wings to flutter, but the angel hung on relentlessly. A man came out of the revolving glass doors and looked at Harper. The man nodded, sort of half-smiled, like there was a sense of fellow-feeling and camaraderie that naturally existed between all those who came to such places.
You’re here because someone died
, it said.
Or maybe someone is going to die and you want to make sure you settle things with them before they go
. Something such as this. Harper smiled back and went in through the doors. He stood for a moment and then located the reception desk to the right.

The duty administrator possessed the face of someone who spent their life sympathizing.

‘I’m here—’ Harper started, his voice faltering.

‘You are indeed, sir,’ the woman replied.

Harper looked at the badge on her jacket.
Nancy Cooper
, it read, and Harper thought of Nancy Young and David Leonhardt and the question that was neither asked nor answered.

‘I’m here to see someone,’ Harper went on. ‘To ask if I can see someone who was admitted.’

‘Name?’ Nancy Cooper asked.

‘Mine?’

‘The person admitted.’

‘Edward . . . Edward Bernstein.’

Nancy rattled her fingernails on the computer keyboard. ‘And you are?’

Harper looked at her, his eyes wide.

‘Sir?’

‘His son,’ a voice said from behind Harper.

Harper emitted a strange sound from the back of his throat, something both of fear and surprise.

‘Hello there Sonny,’ the voice said.

Harper swallowed awkwardly. He turned.

‘How’ve you been keeping?’

Older, much older, but the voice, the face, the smile – everything was unmistakable.

For a while, a handful of years after Garrett died, there was a family friend, a man called Walt Freiberg. He came every once in a while; he gave Evelyn money, brought gifts for John, called him ‘Sonny’. A drinking man, always smelled of liquor; thick neck, dark eyes, fingers swollen and red at the tips as if cauterized to stop them fraying. Laughed like an express train through a smoky tunnel. Visited infrequently until Harper reached his teens, and then he too disappeared into the maw of living that was New York.

Now Walt Freiberg stood right behind him, and as Harper turned Freiberg raised his arms and put his hands on Harper’s shoulders.

‘You’re here,’ Freiberg said.

Harper didn’t move. There were no words to express what he felt. There was too much emotion, too much feeling altogether – memories flooding back, a sense of anger, something akin to loss, something else that threatened the very structure of his body as he stood shaking and sweating and trying to keep it all together.

‘I was so hoping you’d come,’ Freiberg said. ‘I called Evelyn and told her to get you here. She was surprised to hear from me after all these years, but considering the circumstances I felt it was the right thing to do.’

‘I . . . I don’t know—’

Freiberg smiled. He pulled Harper close and hugged him. The prodigal son returned. ‘It’s okay, Sonny,’ he said, and Harper felt like a child, all of nine or ten years old, standing in the bay window of the Carmine Street house as Uncle Walt came out the back of a yellow cab with flowers for Evelyn and birthday gifts for himself.

‘He’s here,’ Freiberg said. ‘He tried to stop someone robbing a liquor store—’

Freiberg released Harper and stepped back. ‘Christ almighty . . . you look like him, John, you
really
do look so much like him. It’s good to see you, so very good to see you after all these years . . . such a terrible thing, such a terrible reason for you to see him, but. . .’

Freiberg’s voice trailed away. He closed his eyes for a moment. He sighed and shook his head. ‘We’ll go up now.’

Harper nodded involuntarily.

Freiberg stepped in front of the desk and smiled at Nancy Cooper. ‘We’d like to go on up and see Mr Bernstein if that’s okay?’

Nancy shook her head. ‘He’s in Intensive Care right now. You won’t be able to go in and actually see him, but they might let you into the ante-room. Third floor, turn right as you come out of the elevator. Speak to one of the orderlies and they’ll find you a duty doctor.’

Freiberg thanked the woman and then, with his hand on Harper’s shoulder, guided him to the elevator.

At one point Harper slowed and stopped. He turned, eyes wide, his face pale and drawn, every muscle in his body tense and jagged.

‘It’s okay,’ Freiberg said. ‘Just go with it Sonny . . . just go with it.’

Third floor, heading right as they came out of the elevator just like Nancy told them. Long corridor, sound of shoes on the linoleum, sound of shoes echoing back from above and beside, heart beating in Harper’s chest. Felt like a kid. Uncle Walt’s hand on his elbow, guiding him, being there for him. Like when he was little. Uncle Walt coming with presents from the back of the car, and small Harper never really understanding why Aunt Ev made him feel so unwelcome. Tension in the house between them, tension you could feel.

And then, suddenly, Walt Freiberg slowed down as they neared the end of the corridor. To their right was a wide window, must have been eight or ten feet, and through it Harper saw a man in a suit talking to a doctor.

‘What the fu—’ Uncle Walt started, and then he said ‘Stay here, John . . . just stay right here a minute.’

Harper was rooted to the spot. Couldn’t have moved without external motivation had he even known where to move. A
thought: after his break-up, the one with Nancy Young, he felt hollow. Just that; nothing more; just hollow. Felt like a shell of flesh with nothing inside. Felt like that now. Felt like he’d woken suddenly from a bad nightmare, a real bad nightmare, and realized that he hadn’t been sleeping at all. Understood that everything he’d imagined was real.

He turned slightly, just his neck because he was incapable of moving much more than that, and he saw Walt Freiberg saying something venomous to the man in the suit. The doctor had taken a couple of steps backward; he looked almost threatened, and the man in the suit stood there listening to whatever Walt was saying, and every once in a while he sort of side-glanced towards Harper. He frowned, just a fleeting shift in his expression, but Harper registered nothing. Because there was nothing to register. Because he was hollow.

Walt kept on talking. He even raised his hand and pointed his finger. The man in the suit looked away, and then he looked down, and then he held a momentary expression like he’d been caught doing something bad. He looked like a man ashamed.

Walt stopped talking. The man in the suit said something – not very much at all, but something – and then he started towards the door at the end of the wide window. He came out. He walked towards Harper. He stared at him, didn’t avert his gaze. He frowned, tilted his head to one side, and he opened his mouth to speak. ‘You look like—’

Suddenly Walt Freiberg was beside Harper.