The Long Good Boy (4 page)

I heard another car. Business was brisk.

“Look, can we do this later? I gotta earn a living.”

I thought she hung up, because for a while I didn't hear anything. Something black and low to the ground moved across the street. I yanked Dashiell's leash, and we headed for the corner.

Then she was back. “Don't be like that, baby. Yeah? Up yours, too.”

“Chi Chi?”

I heard a horn honk. “I'll call you in the morning,” she whispered. “Hey, baby. I'm goin' make you feel
real
good, ya hear?” And then the line went quiet. Two cars passed Little West Twelfth Street. I could see Chi Chi's near-white hair as the second one went by.

The rat aside, I had a lousy feeling about Keller's, about Chi Chi's convenient memory loss, about life in general from where I stood. I checked my watch. It was nearly midnight. Keller's wouldn't be open until just before dawn, and when it was, no way was someone going to talk to me about the death of their manager. I needed to get in there when they were closed, check their paperwork, see what I could find out. I shivered at the thought. There were more rats than people in New York City, a denser population here in the meat market than, say, the Upper East Side. But that was just an educated guess.

I wondered if there were rats in the cellar at Keller's, the answer a no-brainer. I wondered if any of them came upstairs, especially when the place was quiet, the way it was now, the way it would be when I was in there, reading what was in their files, quiet as a little mouse.

I wondered if they moved around much in broad daylight. But what if they didn't? I couldn't either. Like the rest of the denizens of this street, I'd have to do my work under cover of darkness.

I walked back to Keller's again, staying on the opposite side of the street, passing by and going all the way to the end of the block, to West Street, where the wind picked up my scarf and almost carried it away. About a third of the markets on Little West Twelfth Street looked as if they'd closed not just for the night but for good. More and more of the markets were moving to Hunts Point in the Bronx, another neighborhood of wholesale food suppliers and drugged-out hookers. I'd have to come back in daylight to make sure, but some of the buildings looked deserted; a few were even starting to go to seed.

The building to the right of Keller's, my right, that is, had a sign that said they sold rabbit, grouse, pheasant, and other game. The one on the other side, the one closer to West Street, to the river and that punishing wind, to where Angel Rodriguez's body had been found, looked deserted; no vehicles outside, a heavy padlock on the door, one of the windows upstairs broken and not even repaired with cardboard and tape. All three structures as similar as they could be, aside from their signs.

I walked back to the corner again, now looking to see how I could implement my next good plan, hoping I could do it without freezing to death. At least the hookers got to get into warm cars. They didn't just stay out in the street the way Dash and I were doing.

Alert for movement, even paper swept up and sent tumbling by a gust of wind, I checked out both sides of the street for a place that would let me see without being seen, then thought of a place where I could get warm until the time was right to settle into my hiding place.

4

She's a Virgin

I spent a few hours at Florent, the all-night bistro a block away on Gansevoort Street, eating steak frites, then nursing a glass of wine and writing down the questions I needed to answer, watching the clock as I worked. I wanted to be back at Keller's at least an hour before they opened, but since I hadn't tested access to my brilliant hideout, I gave myself forty-five minutes extra, hoping the steak and red wine would keep me warm while I secreted myself and waited, probably for nothing.

Back at Little West Twelfth Street, I looked for the best way to climb up to the top of the sidewalk bridge that protected the first half of the block—from what, I couldn't be sure. Sidewalk bridges are used to protect pedestrians from falling debris when, in compliance with Local Law 10, owners have contracted to have the brickwork repointed and cornices made secure. But none of the squat old buildings that housed meat markets, or used to house meat markets, on Little West Twelfth Street were being repaired. And anyway, I didn't think Local Law 10 applied to such low buildings. I thought it was for high rises since it was passed after someone was killed by a falling piece of cornice from a tall building. Nevertheless, in keeping with the general chaos of the market, the bridge was there and appeared to have been in place for years. Had there ever been razor wire along the top, luckily for me, it was long gone, but the supports looked sturdy. Whether or not the top of the bridge was, I was about to find out. The bridge went from the building line at the corner to the building just past Keller's. For my purposes, assuming I could get up there without killing myself, and that the bridge would hold me, it was perfect.

I found a wooden box down the block and brought it back to the side farthest from the corner, hoping that this way I wouldn't be seen. Little West Twelfth Street was off the stroll, and at this hour there was no one around, at least not that I could see. I placed the box next to the far, inner leg of the bridge, standing it on its side to give it more height, then gingerly testing it out. I was still short of where I could reach the top and hoist myself up. Then I got a better idea.

Like all the bull and terrier dogs, Dashiell can scale a nearly perpendicular wall and leap astonishing heights, even without a running start; the muscles he sports are not just for show. I remember once hiking with him on a steep mountain trail, astonished at how fast and graceful he was, moving up the mountain not on the zigzagging path the way I did, slow and unsure of my footing, but by going straight up like a mountain goat, his mouth open in a grin, happy to be using those powerful muscles on something that actually required them.

I pulled the box way back, found some boards and concrete blocks, and made a sort of platform a few feet back from the bridge. Then, leaving Dashiell's leash attached to his collar but dropping the handle, I backed him partway down the block and told him to wait. Next I got between the platform I'd created and the bridge, bending slightly forward to round my back, hoping like hell Dashiell would understand what I had in mind for him. I told him
hup
, and he took off, barely touching the platform as he ran. I heard the board creak, then he was on me, his back feet digging into my waist, his front paws lightly on my shoulders. I never even had the chance to wince at the thought of what those nails would do to me when he took off, it was all so quick. But the sheepskin coat was thick enough to protect me. He seemed to fly over my head, and then the bridge sighed, arcing slightly under his weight, dust and bits of mortar and God knows what else falling to the garbage-covered sidewalk beneath. When I looked up, he barked once. He was peering over the edge, his flews hanging down, his forehead creased, impatient for me to join him. I was comforted by his approval of my plan, even knowing that no one but a dog would think I was doing a wise thing.

Moving the box close again, I stood on it and reached for Dash's leash. With one hand finding purchase in the structure and the other on the leash, I told him to back up; between us, me climbing, Dashiell pulling, I was lifted up to the top of the bridge. It moaned, and held.

After checking the surface out to make sure that none of the boards was broken, and brushing off as much of the debris as I could, using one of my gloves as a whisk broom, we lay side by side, facing Keller's, and began what I now hoped would be a fruitful vigil.

He showed up at ten to four, parking and reparking his car to get it exactly where he wanted it, a case of obsessive-compulsive disorder if ever I'd seen one, then whistling as he unlocked and removed the padlock from the door, locking it back onto one of the handles, then disappearing inside. At first nothing happened. We waited. A light went on upstairs. We waited some more.

I heard Clint before I saw her. As she passed under the bridge, picking her way through the trash, the dachshund began to growl, then bark. Dashiell stood, sending a shower of dust and small stones down between the slats. I signaled him to stay and held my breath, hoping this wasn't all for nothing, hoping she wouldn't look up and see us through the openings between the boards that made up the floor of the bridge, wonder what I was doing there, and abort her current project.

I heard Chi Chi shush her dog. Moments later she stepped out from under the bridge, tiptoeing through the parking area out front as if there might be someone around who shouldn't hear her, Clint still grumbling deep in his throat, Dashiell's tail stirring the air behind us as he stood next to where I was lying, still as ice.

I watched her stop at the door to fix her hair, running the fingers of one hand through that big, near-white mop of pu-bic-like curls, wiping the corners of her mouth where lipstick tends to smudge, pulling up her panty hose, and doing something distinctly unladylike in the vicinity of her crotch.

She pulled Clint out of her jacket and let him down, bending and whispering to him. I saw him lift his leg and immediately get scooped up again and tucked not back into her jacket but under her arm.

She reached for the door and pushed it open, disappearing into the dark. Then a hand came back out and pulled the door closed. In the quiet, I could hear it click shut.

I let out my breath. I was no longer feeling cold. I looked straight across to that lit-up window now, thinking that if either of them looked out, they would be able to see Dashiell standing on the bridge. So I tapped the board in front of him, and when he lay down, I put an arm across his wide, warm back and waited again.

After ten or so minutes I changed my mind, deciding to abandon my hiding place before Chi Chi appeared. When she stepped gingerly out into the parking area in front of Keller's, stopping to put some bills inside the pocket of Clint's coat, I was across the street. But she didn't see me. She picked her way under the bridge and headed back toward Washington Street. Until her phone rang.

“Who's this? LaDonna, this you?”

“No. It's Rachel.”

“What you doing up so late?”

“Waiting for you.”

“What you mean?”

She'd stopped walking, but she wasn't looking around. She stood in the dark under the sidewalk bridge, her back to me, Clint's little rump sticking out beyond her elbow, his tail hanging straight down like a plumb line.

“I'm across the street.”

Now she turned, frantic, until she found me with her eyes. I stood there watching as she crossed the street, putting Clint down when she got there.

“What you doing, spying on me?”

“Exactly.”

“I can explain.”

“I thought you might be able to, but it would have been a hell of a lot simpler for you to tell me what's going on in the first damn place.”

“It's not what you think.”

“And what is that? What do I think, Chi Chi?”

“That it's all about the money. Well, it
is
steady money. I admit that. He pays real good. Better than most.” She unzipped the little pocket in Clint's coat and pulled out two twenties and a ten. “Sometimes, some of 'em, you know, when it's slow out and I really need the money, they pays me five. Two even, one time. I had to. I didn't have enough for the subway. The night before, I'd been run in, beat up. I was really hurting, and I needed somethin' for the pain, you know. But here, I get what I'm worth.” She held up the money a second time. “And I can use the bathroom after, freshen up, make myself look good for the next customer.”

“That's not what I was thinking.”

“No?”

“I was thinking that there's a chance, just a chance, that he's the one who killed Rosalinda and Mulrooney, and that you're taking your life in your hands when you see him like this.”

“It couldn't be him.”

“Why not?”

“It jus' couldn't.”

“Because—”

“He never hit me, not even once. He doesn't have much of a temper. She lucky, his fiancée.”

“You never heard the expression, Revenge is a dish best served cold?”

“Wha's that supposed to mean? That he did it? That he killed Rosalinda?”

“No. It means you don't need a hot temper to murder someone.”

“That's not how it is with us.” She was shaking her head so vigorously, Clint began to bark. “You shut up,” she told him. “You could wake the dead, that mouth of yours.”

“So how is it with you?”

She looked exhausted. Even with all that makeup, freshly applied at Keller's, she looked used-up and ready to fold, struggling to keep her eyes open.

“It's in the heat of the moment. Like someone finds out.” She just looked at me, to see if we were on the same page.

“And?”

“They might stiff you. 'Cause you cheated them, they say. You tricked them, pretending to be one thing and really being something else. This one guy, he catches me off guard, you know what I'm saying? And he goes, ‘Oh, my God, it's a man. Do I finish?'”

“What did he decide?”

Chi Chi rolled her eyes. “Paid me, too. But some of them, they feel like a fool, and they gets pissed something fierce.”

I nodded.

“That's the least of it, not paying. They get so mad sometimes.” She shook her head. “Sometimes you got to go to Emergency. You can't work for a couple of days. Means you can't eat, or nothing. Means you could lose your home, have to live in some abandoned car, take a crap next to a tree, like you was a dog. Could be, your luck runs out, it's worse than that. Like what happened to Rosalinda.”

“You're saying it was a john who did her?”

“I'm saying—” She sighed. “I'm saying, some people, you put one over on them, they feel …” She seemed to blank out for a second. Then she began to shake her head. “Look, I'm telling you the truth. You listening?”