The Hard Way (13 page)

“Enough for you to give him the benefit of the doubt?”

“Exactly.”

Willy pushed his plate away, picked up his coffee.

“He says someone pushed him into Mr. Redstone. I thought maybe you might remember who was standing behind him.”

He began to shake his head.

“I have the feeling your memory is a whole lot better than you let the cops believe. Just keep in mind, I'm not a cop. You have no involvement beyond this, beyond telling me plain and simple what you saw.”

Willy began to shake his head.

“What?”

“I knew this was a mistake, what happens when you get greedy, you want a little extra dough before the holidays, you want to be in a warm place, eat some food without rushing.”

He reached for the envelope. I slapped my hand onto it.

“You were behind him, Willy? Is that it?”

“No. No way. You're just like them, making out it was me, just because…”

I shook my head.

“I didn't push him. Not on purpose and not by accident.”

“Then why won't you tell me where you were standing?”

Willy looked away, his eggs congealing on the plate. “The thing about being a messenger,” checking to see if I was listening, “you're not cooped up in an office all day. You don't have some fat white guy with bad breath looking over your shoulder, telling you what you're doing wrong. You're out there. You're moving. It's like, it's like you're free. You get the picture? I can't do no office job. No tight, crowded places. I can't—”

“You can't breathe in a crowd, on the subway platform, on the train.”

Willy nodded.

“But you have no choice now. And you had no choice then.”

“That's right. That's the truth.”

“So you stood where?”

“I was by the trash can, because mos' people, they won't stand there, 'cause of the smell. Because that's where a lot of the homeless men pee, like dogs using a tree, and the stink is something awful, especially in the summer. The stink don't bother me as much as the people, so close, they're halfway up your ass.”

“And where was the trash can?”

I slid over the pad, handed him my pen.

Willy bent his head over the pad, then looked up. “How you want me to make it, a little circle like you have?”

“Sure. A little circle would be great. Write T in it for trash. And then put in a circle for you, and write WW in that one.”

And so he did, passing the notebook and the pen back to me when he'd finished. I looked down at the diagram. The trash can was to Florida's right. Willy was behind it, standing right next to the person who stood behind the homeless man.

I made a circle behind Florida's and slid the notebook back to Willy.

“The F, that's for Florida. That's the name the homeless man uses, what he goes by.”

“You don't know his real name?”

“He may not.”

Willy nodded.

“So the fifty-dollar question is…,” pointing to the circle behind Florida.

“I didn't see.”

“How could you not see? You saw the kid, right?”

He nodded. “But that was after.”

“And before?”

Willy's face looked crushed. He rubbed his chin, as if he thought there might be food there. Then he leaned toward me.

“My eyes was closed,” he said in the voice of a little boy. “I didn't open them until the screaming started.”

“I'm the same way,” I whispered. “Ever since I was a little kid, something bothers me, I can't…”

Willy nodded.

“Too much stimulus coming in at the eye,” I said.

He nodded again.

“But how'd you end up right near Florida? Was that a coincidence, you give him a swipe, you both go down the stairs, he positions himself right near you, right near where you feel the safest?” Screwing up my face to show him how confused I was.

“Not exactly.”

A frisson of energy in the solar plexus, a tingle. We were finally getting to something.

“Then what exactly?”

“He followed me.”

“Because people don't even look at the homeless let alone give them a little help, except you, Willy, you gave the guy a free ride. You looked at him. You responded to him. Bet that doesn't happen too often.”

“Yeah, a free ride. Could be that was why he follow me.”

“Could be another reason?”

“Could be,” he said.

“Could be he wanted more? Could be you gave him a finger and he wanted the whole hand?”

“I didn't give him the finger.”

“Not
the
finger, Willy.
A
finger. It's an expression. It means people are greedy. You help them out, they—”

“They figure you owe them a living all of a sudden. They figure they gots hold of a sucker, they not about to let go.”

“Is that what happened?”

“Might be.”

“He followed you down the stairs. He followed you across the platform. And he asked for more, a few bucks for coffee or a meal, is that it?”

“That about covers it.”

“So you were pretty mad, I guess. You extend yourself to this man, you give him the ride he seems to need and instead of being grateful…”

“It wasn't like that.”

“How was it?”

“It was like when I'm on my wheels, people yelling stuff all the time 'bout me going too fast, 'bout the bike being on the sidewalk, 'bout the lights. Some of them, they're cursing, smacking the bike. You just close it out, just part of the noise of the city, part of the rhythm of everyday life.”

“Is that a fact? You mean he's standing there asking for a little dough and you just close your eyes? Is that what I'm supposed to believe?”

Willy wiped his fingers across his lips, back and forth, thinking, perhaps, about greed, his own, about why he was stupid enough to sit down with me, to have this conversation in the first place, this talk that could lead to no good.

“That's the God's honest truth.”

“And he kept at it? Was he still asking for money when you heard the train coming?”

Willy just stared.

“It's important,” I said. “Was he asking for money when the train was in the tunnel, when you heard the train approaching the station?”

“No,” he said. “He'd stopped asking.”

“And what made him stop?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Was that because you'd closed your eyes?”

Willy nodded. “I figured it was a message, ‘I'm sleeping, leave me alone.'”

“And after? After Redstone was on the tracks and people were screaming and you opened your eyes, what did you see, Willy?”

“I see my luck going down the drain.”

I nodded. “What else?”

“I see the kid at the edge of the platform. I see Florida pulling him back and then taking off.”

“You saw that?”

He nodded.

“And then what?”

“I see all the people there moving back, making room for him, scared out of their minds he'll push them, too, even though the train was in the station then.”

“And what did you do?”

“I be the fool I always been. I freeze. I don't know what to do. I figure I take off, everyone marks me as the doer. I stay, they mark me anyway. Before I make up my mind, the cops are there and I'm fucked, same as always.” Shaking his head from side to side. “Dumb move,” he said, pushing his chair back, letting me know he'd had enough.

I pulled one of my cards out of my pocket, two twenties and a ten with it. I told Willy he could call me if he thought of anything else. I told him he'd helped me a lot.

He shrugged one last time. “I don' see how,” he said.

I watched him walk through the brightly lit bar and out the door. Then I paid the check and headed out myself.

I checked my notes
on the way to the clothing store where Lucille DiNardo worked, a funny feeling coming over me as I did.

The shop, Lula, was on Washington Street, around the corner from Fourteenth Street, half a block from GR Leather and not far from the station where she had seen Gardner Redstone get killed.

For someone involved in fashion, the term used loosely in this case, especially in the now gentrified meat market, I expected Lucille to be young, or if not young, put together perfectly. I expected a size four, or even a two, hair coifed and perfect, nails painted the color of the moment. But that's not what I found. Lucille DiNardo was in her fifties, her hair brown with streaks of gray, her size, I'd guess, fourteen or sixteen, which meant she would not be able to wear anything being sold in the faux fancy shop where she worked. A moment later, checking out the other salespeople, it occurred to me that Lucille didn't work there. She owned the place. Because no one, not even Lucille, would have hired her to work the floor in this neighborhood.

We went to a small room in the back, nothing elegant there, just a desk in the corner and racks of clothes with notes pinned to them everywhere else. She sat at the desk. I sat on the folding chair
at the side of the desk and for a moment, we each waited for the other to begin.

“Thanks for seeing me,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

“So what's the deal? You're not with the cops, is that right?”

“It is. I work privately. I'm working for Mr. Redstone's daughter.”

“Eleanor.”

“Yes.”

Lucille nodded.

“She wanted me to try to locate the homeless man who pushed Mr. Redstone, her father, onto the tracks. She wants to know he won't be able to do that again.”

“The black man?”

“Yes, I believe that's what you told the detectives.”

She nodded, drummed her unpolished nails on the desk, looked harried. “I have a lot to do here,” she said. “Can we get to the point?”

“I wonder if you recall where you were standing that day, in relation to…?”

“Right behind him.”

“Behind the homeless man?”

“Behind the one who did the pushing. Yeah. That's what I said.” She pulled a cigarette out of the pack lying on her desk but didn't light it.

“And you saw the push?”

“Of course.”

“And you saw Mr. Redstone fall?”

“No. I only saw the first push.”

“The first push?”

“Yeah. The black guy pushed this tall man who was standing next to him asking him for money. He shoved him to the side. You understand? I didn't want to be that close to whatever the hell that was all about, so I'd turned around. I figured I'd go around the column where the black guy was leaning, go to the other side, not get shoved myself, you see?”

I nodded. My mouth might have been open.

“So I didn't see when he pushed Mr. Redstone. I was behind the column, heading for the other side, when I heard the train, when that poor man got shoved onto the tracks.”

“So you're saying the black guy, the little guy, pushed the tall man who was standing next to him, is that right?”

“Do I have to repeat everything twice? Look at this stack of work here.”

“I'm sorry. This will only take a couple of minutes. I promise.”

“Yeah, well,” glancing at her watch, “it's been a couple of minutes already. Let's get on with it.”

“And then you turned and left, right?”

She sighed. “Right. Are you a lawyer, by any chance?”

I shook my head. “Just trying to get this right. Were they still arguing when you turned to leave?”

“No. I think the push shut the big guy up. You've got to be pretty stupid not to get the message. A guy shoves you away, he's not about to give you money the next minute. Besides, the black guy? He didn't look like he had two dimes to rub together.” She pushed her hair back behind one ear and leaned forward. “You ask me, they both looked homeless.”

“So what you're saying is that you were going around the column to get away from their argument and that's when the little one, the black guy, pushed Mr. Redstone onto the tracks? That first he pushed the other homeless man and then he pushed Mr. Redstone?”

“That's right.”

“But you didn't see him push Mr. Redstone, is that correct? You only saw him push the big guy who'd asked him for money, true?”

“True. Listen, I need a smoke. Can we take this outside?”

“Sure. No problem.”

She grabbed her coat from the end of one of the racks, picked up the book of matches and headed for the street, me following along behind her.

“Ms. DiNardo…”

“Mrs. For whatever it's worth. The miserable jellyfish sits in front of the TV set all day while I take care of the shop. ‘Larry,' I tell him, ‘would it kill you to get off your ass once in a while? You're making a dent in the sofa.' ‘Yeah, yeah,' he tells me. He's not even listening. You know how they do that? ‘Yeah, yeah,' without hearing a word you said.”

I waited a decent interval before continuing, one, maybe two, seconds. “Mrs. DiNardo, why didn't you tell all this to the police?”

“I did. I told them the guy who did the shoving was black, big beard, wearing gloves.”

“Gloves?”

“In all that heat.” Shaking her head.

“Was he carrying anything?”

She poked her cigarette toward me. “Hey, you're right. He was. One of those canvas bags”—she crossed her chest with one finger—“the kind you wear across yourself, keep your hands free for pushing innocent people onto the tracks.”

“One more question, please. Do you recall who was standing next to you, the person who would have been standing behind the tall man?”

“Yes. No one. At least not right behind him. He smelled too bad, even worse than the one in front of me. I had trouble standing where I was, but there wasn't a hell of a lot of choice at that hour.”

“So there was someone behind him, but not right behind him?”

“A guy in a suit. I only glanced at him for a moment. He was carrying the suit jacket over one arm. He looked really hot. See what I mean, about the black one wearing gloves? Call me a liar, but I swear it was ninety out, ninety-five in the station.” She flipped her cigarette out into the street. “Look, hon, I wish you all the luck in the world with this. I hope you find the little bastard. But I gotta get back to work.”

I thanked her, gave her my card, asked her to call if she thought
of anything else, no matter how trivial. “It's all in the details,” I said, Lucille frowning, wishing she could flip me away like a used butt.

I stayed put while she went back inside, checking out the clothes in the window. Lula, I thought. Lucille and Larry. Touching.

They were tearing down a building a block away. I headed east to get away from the noise, but a block later, there was another crane, another pneumatic drill. Like the mail delivery, nothing stopped construction in a hot market.