The Hard Way (12 page)

Eunice tried to remember
all the places she could go in weather like this, unrelenting cold, snow that seemed as if it would never stop, not in the foreseeable future, maybe not in her lifetime. There was box town in Central Park, she thought, but then she remembered that it wasn't there anymore, the mayor having instituted a crackdown on the homeless, because, clearly, there was no more important issue in the city than clearing the park of people who were so down on their luck they didn't remember life ever being any better.

But you had to keep your spirits up, no matter what, Eunice thought, and no one was going to do that for you, not the mayor, not social services, not the emergency room at St. Vincent's Hospital, not your family because nine times out of ten, you didn't have one, or if you did, you didn't remember their names. Hell, fifty-fifty chance you didn't remember your own. And what if you did? Eunice thought, yours and, say, your sister's. She tried to picture showing up at some nice house, knocking on the door, a woman who looked something like her but fixed up answering the door. She tried to picture the woman in her expensive slacks and fine cashmere sweater holding her arms open for Eunice, ready to take her in, let her stay there, only the picture didn't work. She couldn't see it because it wouldn't happen. Everyone has her own problems. No one's interested in yours.

Box town, Eunice thought, rolling the words around in her mind, about twenty homeless people there at any given time. Cardboard city. Dumbo. Nolita. Every place you lived had to have a label. People did, too. Crazy was hers. Eunice didn't care. She didn't care when people moved away from her, from the smell of urine on her old sneakers. She didn't care if they talked about her, loud enough for her to hear them, figuring crazy as she was, she wouldn't know the difference. All Eunice cared about was her mission, finding the soldier before it was too late.

They walked along the river first, the dog in the red sweater again, Eunice wearing the cap he'd given her, the soldier, Eddie, taking it off his head, putting on hers in its place, not for the reason he gave her, but for good luck, to keep him safe. Eunice took it off, holding it open so that the dog could put his whole muzzle inside. “Find Eddie,” she told him. “Find Eddie.” But the dog just looked up at her and wagged his tail. He waited to see which way
she
would walk.

Did the hat smell too much like her now? Had the trail been covered in snow for too long? Or maybe there was no trail. Maybe Eddie had never been where she was looking.

Eunice sat down on one of the benches, not even bothering to knock off the snow. “Not here?” she asked the dog. But he was sniffing at the base of the bench where some dog had left a message, scratching the snow away, then trying again.

“Not here?” she asked again, the dog not even looking up.

Walking along West Street, passing the empty buildings where the wholesale meat markets once operated, Eunice heard voices coming from inside a couple of refrigerator boxes put together to make a home. She stopped, pulled off the cap, shoved it at the dog.

“Eddie?” she asked him, but before he had the chance to walk over to the box and check it out, she said the name again, louder.

“Eddie? You in there?”

Eunice listened to the sound of traffic skidding on the snow, a horn honking, the wind.

“Eddie?” she said. “It's me, Eunice.”

“The fuck out of here,” a voice from inside the box said.

And then another, “Do you have a reservation?”

There were no homeless in the pocket parks that dotted the Village, little oases with benches, trees and pigeons. Rats with wings, people called them. She saw one once with just one foot, hobbling along anyway, keeping his spirits up by getting on with the business of living, finding food, keeping warm, avoiding cats, whatever it was that birds did all day long. Or maybe he just didn't know he was supposed to have two. Birdbrain, Eunice thought, and suddenly it sounded like an advantage, not knowing precisely how fucked up you were or even
that
you were fucked up.

No homeless camping out on heating vents. No one sitting on the corner near the bank, begging for change. No Eddie anywhere.

Eunice pulled off the hat again, but this time she didn't show it to the dog. What was the use? she thought. It probably smelled like her now. No wonder he was confused.

Standing on the corner near the bank, blinking, wondering where to look next, someone passing by dropped some coins in the hat. Eunice looked up. It was a woman in a red coat, a fur hat, sheepskin boots. Eunice could see her blond hair flowing down from under the hat, blond from a bottle, Eunice thought, blow-dried straight. She had a shopping bag from Jeffrey, another from Stella McCartney, one from Ralph Lauren, way over on Bleecker Street, a serious shopper, the packages in the bags wrapped with pretty paper, tied with bows.

Of course. There'd been Santas on every corner collecting money, maybe for themselves, you never know, store windows decorated with gigantic snowflakes and mannequin children opening gifts.

Eunice looked around. Everyone had packages. How had she not noticed? It was the week before Christmas, she thought, and all through the house. But then she stopped because that wasn't how it
went and besides, there'd be no Christmas for Eunice and Lookout, only whatever she could find in the Dumpster.

She looked down at him, at the dog, then back at the woman in red, half a block away, snow falling on her fur hat, on those perfectly wrapped presents.

“God bless,” Eunice called out after her, lifting one hand, as if to wave good-bye, as if the lady could hear or see the woman who had spoken them.

Eunice looked down at the dog again, the red sweater heavy with snow, all stretched out of shape, hanging down to the sidewalk on one side. She bent down and carefully pulled it off him, carefully freeing his front legs, then pulling the wet sweater over his big, boxy head. Then she tossed it into a nearby trash can.

“The hell with it,” she said, stuffing her cap, Eddie's cap, into her pocket. “Let's go home.”

I called Speedy Messengers
at nine on Monday morning, saying they'd been recommended to me, particularly one of their employees, a Willy Williams. I said I'd heard he could be counted on to get things delivered fast.

“That's true of all our messengers,” the man on the phone told me. “We only hire the most reliable, efficient—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I told him. “But can you send Willy?”

There was a brief silence, perhaps a sigh, but I couldn't be sure.

“It's not our custom to—”

“Look, is he working today?”

“Address, please?”

“Can he pick up at a restaurant? I'm on my way to breakfast at Pastis.”

This time I'm sure there was a sigh. I was giving him a lot of shit for the seven-fifty it would cost to send an envelope to midtown, money I would happily pay despite the fact that I had no envelope to send.

“Address?” he asked again.

I told him where Pastis was. I said I'd be in the front room, not wanting to call it a bar lest he get the wrong impression. The impression he already had was bad enough. And just to keep things kosher, I gave him the address the package was going to, that of my brother-in-law's business.

“How long will it take for him to pick up?” I asked.

“Thirty minutes.”

“That's great,” I told him, sure that meant at least an hour.

“How will he know you, Ms. Alexander? Assuming you won't be the only one out to breakfast this morning.”

Was that sarcasm I detected in his voice?

“I'll know him,” I said.

“Of course.” And he hung up.

I ran up to my office and addressed a manila envelope to my brother-in-law, then back down where I carefully folded a section of the
Times
and slipped that into the envelope. I thought it would be best to
appear
to have a legitimate need for Mr. Williams's services, at least for the first few minutes.

When I had my coat on, I picked up the envelope, trying to remember the last time I'd spoken to my sister, Lillian, or my brother-in-law, Ted, and I couldn't. He'd cheated on her and she'd forgiven him, but it seemed I couldn't forgive her for being so foolish. Or was I the foolish one, living by myself, unable to make any relationship work except the one I had with my dog?

I headed out alone. Although sometimes restaurants I frequented took pity on me and risked getting a fine by letting my dog in, I didn't think the presence of a pit bull would endear me to Willy Williams, and as I was rapidly running out of witnesses, I wanted to do everything I could to make this meeting go well.

The snow had stopped, which was good news, but the temperature had dropped by at least ten degrees, which was not. I walked quickly, getting to Pastis forty minutes after requesting a messenger and had only another twenty-five to wait for Willy to show up in the doorway, his worn, black messenger bag slung over one shoulder, the strap crossing his chest, the bag itself, already half full of oversize envelopes, resting along his lower back. He had a watch cap on, similar to the one that used to be mine, the one Eddie might still be wearing, only Willie's was new and had the company logo on it, the same logo that was on the strap of his bag, the letters
SM with those little puff marks behind them, the ones cartoonists use to let you know someone is running.

I waved him over and when he hesitated, I picked up the envelope, happy I'd bothered to bring it along.

He came over to the table and waited for me to hand him the envelope. All business, an attitude I'd have to tweak and tweak fast or else the whole thing would be over.

“Cold out there,” I said.

Willy frowned. I guess he wasn't used to small talk on the job.

“Cup of coffee?”

He was still frowning. I was still holding the envelope, not handing it to him, not letting him be on his way.

I indicated the basket of fresh bread, croissants, brioche with a tilt of my head, then pulled out the chair next to me.

The frown deepened. This was New York City, after all, paranoia central, and not for no reason. Every time we listened to the news, we were told that there were threats aimed right at us, threats that were all too real because of what had already happened here. And weren't we constantly told to go about business as usual but to keep alert? Wasn't Willy doing just that?

“It's a nice offer,” he finally said. “I sure wouldn't mind sitting in here and having a roll and some coffee. But,” shrugging his skinny shoulders now, “I could lose my job I show up an hour later than I'm expected. This is time-sensitive material,” indicating his bag with a tilt of his head, “otherwise people be sending it with the U.S. Postal Service, taking their chances on when it would get where it was going instead of calling for a messenger, get it there the same day.”

“How about if you didn't actually have to deliver this?” I asked him, putting the manila envelope back on the table. “How much time would that save you?”

No answer.

“Enough for breakfast?”

“Had my breakfast while you were still sleeping,” he said, pull
ing the chair out a few more inches but not sitting, perhaps willing to negotiate, or so it seemed. He put his hands on the back of it and leaned closer. “What's up, lady?”

“I'm a private investigator,” I told him, speaking softly so that he had to lean even closer. “I'm working on the Gardner Redstone case. The police have,” shrugging, making a
you-know-the-cops
expression, “tabled their investigation for the foreseeable future.”

“You mean they've given up? They've let it go?”

I nodded. “They've failed to find the homeless man and…” Another shrug.

“You've been hired to do that?”

“I have.”

“By?”

A man of few words. A focused man. Not at all what I was led to expect by the unflattering thumbnail description Eleanor had gotten from her friend in the department.

“His daughter,” I said.

“Eleanor.”

“You've been following the case?”

“Not much of a case
to
follow, far as I can see.” He sat and pulled off his gloves. The waiter came over and he ordered coffee.

“Eggs? Bacon? A person needs fuel to keep warm in this weather.”

“Nice try,” he told me, “but I sit here with you, I don't deliver that package, I lose money.”

“We'll need a few minutes,” I told the waiter. “Just coffee for now, please.”

Willy leaned toward me. “This time of year, I lose
two
tips, one from the sender, that would be you, one from the addressee,” tilting his head to read the name, “that would be him, Ted Silver. You get my meaning?”

“It's almost Christmas,” I said. “People are feeling generous.” Remembering the two quarters that had been dropped into Eunice's hat yesterday.

“Guilty's more like it,” he said. “I don't do this as a hobby. I do this for money. I can't pay my bills with no ham and eggs. You understand?”

“I do,” I told him. “Perfectly.”

He was a little man, small and wiry, a clever man, one who could switch back and forth between proper English and Ebonics smooth as a watermelon pit, a man, I figured, who liked to fuck with people, let them know their first impression of him was inaccurate, maybe their second and third impressions, too. I thought again about the story he'd told the detectives, wondering what, if any of it, was true.

“How much cash you figure you'd have in your pocket if you went back out in the cold and took this,” holding up the envelope, “to my brother-in-law's office? Hey, who knows, he might appreciate getting the sports section of the
Times.
”

The waiter brought Willy's coffee.

“Sunny-side up,” Willy told him. “You got sausages?”

“We do, sir,” the waiter told him.

“Any home fries with that?”

The waiter nodded and smiled, working on his tip, everyone thinking ahead.

“That sounds good.”

Willy pulled his cup closer and waited.

He could have been twenty. He also could have been forty. He had the lean physique and drive of a bike messenger, but I figured in this weather, the subway was a safer bet. In fact, despite what happened to Gardner Redstone, it was probably a safer bet all year round. But I didn't mention that to Willy Williams. The bike messengers had their own culture, and avoiding the dangers of riding in traffic wasn't part of it.

“I understand the detectives were pretty rude to you,” I said, picking up my cup, holding it with two hands.

Willy picked up the envelope, weighing it in his hand. “Sports section of the
Times
you say?”

“I'll do better than the going rate for tipping a few days before Christmas, Willy, but only on one condition.”

“What's that?”

“That you do a lot better with me than you did with the detectives.”

He opened his mouth. I held up my hand.

“I've talked to almost everyone they talked to by now, Willy. You weren't the only witness who didn't feel comfortable with the detectives. Some of them were scared.” I stopped and waited, watching Willy. “Scared they'd get in trouble even if they hadn't done anything wrong.”

He nodded, let me know he was listening, he was being cooperative, he wanted that tip.

“Some of them found the detectives rude. Or much too aggressive, considering they were innocent parties, just unlucky bystanders.”

“You don't say.”

“I do.” I took a sip of tea. “But no one found me rude or aggressive. So don't bullshit me, Willy, because I'm not coming in on this cold and if you're lying, I'll know it.” I waited a moment and then continued. “Fact is, the better you do at remembering the specifics of what you saw, the more”—I stopped and for a moment we regarded each other—“the more guilty I'll feel. Understand?”

Willy nodded and took a sip of coffee. He drank it black, straight. I was hoping that would be the way he'd tell me what happened on that platform, the straight story, unadorned. I picked up a brioche and tore off a piece, chewing while I waited for Willy to begin.

“He was a white guy,” he said, “tall. You could see he was down on his luck, you know, not only by the way he was dressed, but by the expression on his face. But he didn't look crazy like some of them. He looked sad, maybe lost. I guess that's why I gave him the swipe. Maybe he had someplace to go. Maybe when he got there there'd be someone to help him out. 'Least that's what I figured.”

“Why were you on the subway?”

Willy touched his bag. “Delivering.”

“You don't do it by bike?”

Willy took another sip of coffee, put the cup down, looked toward the window, out at the cold. “I had an accident. Driver opened his door into the bike lane without looking, knocked me right off the bike, broke a bone in my wrist.” He shook his head from side to side. “You ever get in an accident in New York City traffic, don't be the one on the bike when you go to court. Don't be the one who's black neither.” He looked out the window again. “I was off the bike for two months, taking the subway, like now. The boss doesn't want us riding in the snow. Some of the guys, they do it anyway. One got hit by a cab last year, then his bike skidded under a bus. With him on it.” He drew one finger across his throat. “So the owner, he says no bikes in the snow.”

The waiter came with Willy's eggs. He picked up his fork and looked at me before starting.

“I didn't tell you very much. I'm going to have to pay for this myself?”

“That would be a premature judgment.”

Willy began to eat.

I took out the little pad.

“Where were you standing before Mr. Redstone was pushed onto the tracks?”

Willy looked up, nervous.

“What you have in mind?”

“Not what you think,” I replied.

“You know me ten minutes, you already know what I think?” Putting the fork down now.

“That I'm somehow trying to nail you for this.”

I waited for a reaction. There was none.

“Now why would I do that? What would my motive be?”

Willy opened his mouth and I held up my hand.

“No,” I said. “Don't go there. Don't say it. Don't even think it. Because you don't know me, either.”

We stared at each other like two dogs trying to see which one was alpha.

“Did you have a motive for pushing Mr. Redstone off the platform, Willy? Did you perhaps pick up a package from his office and get stiffed on the tip?”

“Are you out of your…”

Willy stopped.

I shrugged.

I slid my little chart where he could see it.

“I found him,” I said, close enough to Willy to smell the sweetness of the butter his eggs had been cooked in. “The homeless man.”

“No shit. Then what the fuck we doing here?”

“He says he didn't do it.”

“What you saying, that you believed him?”

“I'm saying that I can't solve this case by having preconceived notions, by judging people I don't know. I'm saying I'm investigating the facts and the allegations, that that's how I work, that that's how I find out what's true and what isn't true.”

“But no one ever admits to doing nothin'.” Too stunned to be clever.

“True.”

“So why you…?”

“You see the kid, the one standing next to Mr. Redstone, to his immediate right?”

Willy nodded. “The one went over to the edge of the platform to look for body parts. Yeah, what of it?”

“Kid says someone pulled him back, someone told him to be careful.”

“Wasn't me.”

“It was him.”

“The homeless man?”

I nodded.

Willy nodded, too.

“Paints another picture of him, wouldn't you say?”