Soul Patch (17 page)

 

I USED A booth on Mermaid Avenue and got Melendez at home. If I felt weirder making a call in my life, I’d be damned if I could remember it. For fuck’s sake, talk about mixed emotions. My guts were twisted in bunches. I had stood there for five minutes with the phone in my hand, rehearsing what to say. But there was no rehearsing a conversation that might cover lust, guilt, murder, and betrayal. When she picked up, I found I could not speak.

“Moe, Moe is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t hate me?”

“I feel a lot of things about you, Carmella, but hate isn’t one of ’em. I think I wish it was. Things would be easier that way.”

“You were all I thought about today.”

I ignored that in self-defense. “That’s about to change.”

“Why?”

“Malik’s girl, Kalisha . . .”

“What about her?”

“Someone blew her head off with a shotgun about fifteen minutes ago.”

“How’d you find out?”

“I was standing across the street.”

“What happened?”

“We talked, Kalisha and me, and we agreed to meet again to talk some more. I walked toward my car and that Camaro that tried to run me down the other day pulled up. She walked over to the passenger door and . . .
Bang! Bang!
She was a mess. I found the Camaro in flames over by the creek.”

“Why kill the girlfriend?”

“I’ve got some ideas about that. You on tomorrow?”

“Uh huh.”

“Think you can get away from Murphy for lunch?”

“I’ll call you.”

“Okay.”

“Moe.”

“I know,” I said. “I know.”

I said I did, but I didn’t know a goddamned thing anymore.

MUNDANE.

Given that in the last few days Larry Mac had either been killed or killed himself, that someone had tried to kill me, that I’d kissed Carmella Melendez, and that I’d witnessed a woman’s head being blown off and was reading about it at the breakfast table, you’d think mundane would be the last word to come to mind. But I had a family and a business and a house and taxes to pay. I had pancakes to serve to a little girl and I had to catch the mailman.

“Yo, Joey!”

But when Joey the mailman turned around, he wasn’t Joey. Years ago, there was a local New York kids’ show called
The Merry Mailman
. Well, not only was this guy not Joey, but he was as merry as a mortuary.

“Sorry,” I said, handing him some letters to be mailed.

“Gee, thanks, just what I need.”

I let that go.

“Did your neighbors move?” he asked.

“The Bermans? Yeah, they moved down to Boca about two weeks ago. Why?”

“Look at this crap!” Mr. Mortuary said, shoving a fistful of envelopes at me. “I have to carry all this shit around with me all day because some idiot screwed up their change of address card.”

I was seriously considering telling this numbnuts to go fuck himself, but thought better of it. You never want to piss a waiter off before he brings you your meal and you never want to screw with the mailman after you’ve just handed him the envelope containing your mortgage payment.

“Have a nice day . . .”
Asshole!

When I got back inside, Sarah was talking to someone on the phone. “Un huh . . . Yeah, I’m in fifth grade . . . Sometimes I help my mom out downstairs with her design work and my daddy takes me to the stores with him . . .”

“Who is it, kiddo?”

“Excuse me a second,” she said into the phone. “A lady named Margaret,” she said to me.

“Okay, kiddo, I’ll take it from here.” Sarah handed me the phone.

“Hi, Marge.”

“Frank tells me you came by yesterday to talk to me about Larry.” Her voice was grave. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s not like that, Marge. I just wanted to talk, to try and jar your memory a little about Larry.”

“My memories of Larry don’t need any jarring, Moe.” She began softly sobbing.

Frank Spinelli was no fool. He understood his new wife very well. Margaret’s love for Larry was, indeed, a once-in-her-life thing. Although crushed by the divorce, Marge had probably kept the faint hope of some sort of reconciliation alive. She had married Frank Spinelli as revenge. It was foolish, of course. You can’t poke someone in the eye when they’re not looking at you. My guess was that when Larry had called Margaret a few weeks back to arrange for dinner, she had gone to the Blind Steer fully prepared to do whatever she had to, to recover at least some small part of what she had lost, her own dignity be damned. I can’t imagine how much it hurt when Larry failed to show.

“I’m sorry, Marge.”

“Don’t be. I just . . . I just really miss him.”

“I know. He could be a real jerk, but . . .”

“Christ, help me, I know.”

“I like Frank a lot,” I said, trying to change the subject, but her sobbing only got worse.

“It’s so unfair to him, to Frank.”

“I don’t think he’d see it that way. He loves you and he understands more than you think, Marge.”

At that very moment, Katy walked through the basement door, waving her portable office phone at me. Her face was as grave as Margaret’s voice had been.

“Excuse me for a second, Marge.” I covered the mouthpiece. “What’s up, Katy? What’s wrong?”

“There’s a Detective Melendez on the phone for you.”

“Tell her to hold on for one second while I get off this call, okay?” She shook her head yes and walked out of earshot. “Marge, listen, I’ve gotta go. Can we meet later, maybe some place you and Larry used to go when you first started seeing each other?”

“Cara Mia,” she said, without hesitation and without tears. “Do you know it?”

“In Bay Ridge?”

“That’s it.”

“Eight okay with you?”

“Eight.”

Katy must’ve heard me hang up, because she reappeared, portable in hand. I mouthed, “Thanks,” and took her phone. My day was about to take a sharp turn away from the mundane.

“Yes, Detective Melendez, what can I do for you?”

“They got your tag number,” she said.

“Who got my tag number?”

“We did, the cops.”

“From last night?”

“That’s right. Somebody gave up your plate number.”

“Fuck!”

“It gets worse, Moe. Detectives Bento and Klein are coming to talk to you.”

“When?”

“Like now, so start thinking of something to say.”

“Listen, write this number down.” I gave her Preacher Simmons’ phone number. “Call it and tell the man at the other end what you just told me. He’ll know what to do.”

“Give you an alibi, you mean.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

There was a loud silence on the other end of the phone. I thought she began to say something, but maybe not. I probably imagined it. She was already compromised and she knew it. Calling Preacher for me wasn’t going to make it any worse.

When I hung up and turned around, Katy was standing right behind me. Her expression hadn’t brightened any. No one, not even the
wives of ex-cops, like getting unexpected calls from the police. But there was something else in her eyes beyond concern and curiosity, something I had never seen in her eyes. And before I could ask about it, Katy explained it all with a question.

“How did you know Detective Melendez was a her?”

“I met her before. She’s the one who drove me to where they found Larry’s body.”
She was the beautiful, dark-skinned detective who was hanging around the cemetery. She was the one who pushed me out of the way of an oncoming car. She was the one who I—

I resisted the urge to say more. The guilty talk too much and in the back of my mind I heard the old steps creaking with the weight of my guilt. Katy opened her mouth to say something, when the doorbell rang. Whatever was in her eyes had gone, at least for the moment.

“Those are the cops for me,” I said. “I’m going to go with them.”

“The cops! What happened?”

“They think I saw something.”

“What?”

I ignored that. “Where’s Sarah?”

“She went down to my studio,” Katy said. “Why?”

“I don’t want her to hear us.”

“Well, what do they think you saw?”

“This!” I held up the
Daily News
and showed her the story about Kalisha’s execution.

“Oh, my God! You saw it, didn’t you?” There was no fooling Katy. She could see it in my face. That ability of hers gave me pause.

“I’ll explain later. I’ve gotta go.”

She didn’t argue. The doorbell rang again and this time there was knocking as well. I opened up the door and stepped out, rather than letting the detectives in. Sarah was downstairs, but I didn’t want to risk her hearing anything at all. Kids always know more than their parents think they do, but I didn’t feel obliged to help the process along.

 

FOR THE FIRST time in or out of uniform, I was on the wrong side of the desk inside a police interview room. I can’t say how exactly, but it seemed fitting that it should happen at my old precinct house. I doubted familiarity was apt to make interrogation a more enjoyable experience. On my way back to the interview rooms, with Klein and
Bento behind me, I looked for Carmella, even Murphy. I might just as well have been looking for Judge Crater or proof of Atlantis.

I did stop to stare at the spot on the squad room floor where one misstep and a careless piece of litter had combined to forever alter the course of my life. There was no plaque, no ersatz memorial to the death of my undistinguished police career. Shit, they’d probably redone the floor two or three times since I’d slipped and twisted my knee in a way that neither God nor Darwin had ever intended. But I was lucky, I think, to be able to trace the course of my adult life back to one single thing. When most people look in their rearview mirrors, all they see are faint ghosts: tiny, intermittent steps that don’t seem to add up to where they are.
How the fuck did I get here?
is a question most people take to their graves for consideration. Not me. I’d have secrets to keep me warm through eternal night.

“What the fuck you lookin’ at?” Bento wanted to know.

“Can’t you see him?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Elvis’ ghost.”

“Get the fuck in the room, Prager.”

They’d spruced up the Six-O’s interview rooms since last I stepped inside one over twelve years ago. It’s not like they’d painted the walls a snappy orange or added potted plants, but it was brighter somehow.

Wasn’t it Pascal who said that if you had to wager on whether or not God existed, the safe bet was existence? Although I don’t think he had my situation in mind when he wrote it, I went with Pascal’s advice. I didn’t know if I was in the interview room in which Carmella Melendez had planted the wire, but I acted as if I were. Even if I were so inclined to trust Klein and Bento with the truth—which I wasn’t—I couldn’t be sure of who else might be listening. My answers would be as much for those invisible ears as for the two detectives.

Detective Klein was maybe thirty-five, a lean and quiet type with steel gray hair and eyes to match. He was the kind to hang back and watch. Bento, an impatient, barrel-chested Sicilian, was about my age. He held his hands curled as if holding an invisible salami hero and cold Heineken. He liked his food. I wasn’t stupid enough to think one detective more dangerous than the other.

In the car on the way over, Bento had done most of the talking, mostly about the Mets.
They should have won three championships by now. Gooden’s a piece-of-shit drug addict. They never should have traded Kevin Mitchell.
It was all crap meant either to make me feel at ease or to disorient me. It did neither. Now inside the box, Bento changed his tune. He was probably a fucking Yankee fan anyway.

“Do you know why we want to speak to you?”

“What happened, you’re not interested in talking Mets’ baseball anymore?”

“That’s not what Detective Bento asked you, Prager.” Klein jumped in. “So let me ask it again. Do you know why we want to talk to you?”

“No.”

“Lying’s no way to begin a friendship,” he said.

“I got all the friends I can use, Detective Klein.”

“Then why just march into our fucking car when we showed up at your door?” Bento asked, already looking pissed enough to rip my head off.

“Because I used to be a cop and when two detectives from my old precinct show up at my door and ask to speak with me, I go with them.”

Klein opened a folder and laid out various photos of Kalisha’s body on the table in front of me. Although I had watched the murder take place and had stood closer to her lifeless torso than I was now to either Klein or Bento, the pictures were worse. Recorded after death had fully taken hold, when the blood had settled and the open wounds had begun to attract the local insect population, the photos caught the ugliness and horror of murder in a way the filtered human eye could not: a tangle of blood-soaked hair caught on a wire fence, a piece of skull lying on the sidewalk next to a crushed soda can, a lone fly crawling into a vacant eye socket, a blood-splattered leather jacket.

“You recognize her,” Bento stated more than asked.

“It’s hard to tell.”

“Name’s Kalisha Pardee,” he said.

I never did know her last name
. “Who was she?”

“Come on, Prager. We know you knew her,” Klein said.

“Oh, yeah? Maybe you can refresh my memory a little.”

“She was a working girl. Used to have a boyfriend, a small-time dealer named Malik Jabbar, a.k.a. Melvin Broadbent. Ring any bells.”

“Nope.”

“Malik beat his girl into the long hereafter by only a few weeks.” Klein made a gun of his forefinger and thumb, pressing the barrel to my temple. “Took a few to the noggin.”

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s not helping.”