Brainquake Page 10
“Where you live? The shack?”
He nodded.
“Paul, I’d love to have some cold chicken in your shack.”
* * *
Michelle sat in the back of the taxi, the baby in her arms, the blue bag on the seat beside her. She kept looking at Paul’s photo on the license. He looked younger, but his face was still blank.
“When was this picture taken?”
“Ten years ago.”
“Ever read Oscar Wilde?”
“Not up to W yet.”
“Picture of Dorian Gray?”
Paul shook his head. She caught his answer in the rear-view mirror.
“It’s about a man who kept his young face as he grew old.” Michelle smiled. “It’s a horror story.”
“Horror?”
“Well, he was a mean, selfish sonofabitch. But every evil emotion in him only showed up in the painting. His face stayed beautiful.”
“Like Jekyll and Hyde.”
She’d never read it, but remembered something from a movie. “Sort of. Every person has good thoughts and evil thoughts.”
She watched his face in the mirror. It remained blank. He was concentrating on driving carefully, with a baby in the car.
Again she looked at his picture. He looked like a priest, she thought. He behaved like one. She was suddenly conscious of the wall of celibacy between them. She wasn’t used to it. Conscious of a new experience having a man as a friend and only as a friend.
He pulled up near a liquor store. Took a deep breath. “Like some wine?” Thinking, can’t give her orange soda.
“I’d love some.”
He bought a bottle of wine and a corkscrew, the first of either he’d ever held. Handed the brown paper sack to her through the window, climbed in behind the wheel again, and drove off toward the Battery.
19
She felt his eyes on her, watching for her reaction as he helped her out with the baby and took the blue bag and her shoulderstrap purse and the paper bag from the liquor store.
Michelle studied the clapboard shack on its little patch of dirt and concrete, living in the shadow of its giant neighbors, close to the ground, lost, forgotten. Its survival in the towering forest of skyscrapers was inspiring. It was the perfect place for a character like Paul to hide himself from New York City’s barbarians. She couldn’t imagine anyone else but Paul living in this shack.
She smiled at him. “How did you find it?”
“Born in it.”
She glanced at the weeds, the puddle of rainwater, the one yellow flower growing between cracks in the asphalt.
“I don’t see any graveyard,” said Michelle.
He led her to the rubble, pointed at what was left of a gravestone. She could just make out the dates, 1675–1750.
Paul brought her to the door, opened it without a key.
“This is still New York City, Paul. Anybody could just walk in and steal everything.”
“Nobody comes.”
They entered the three-room shack. Neat, almost bare, like his face and his life. He was living in his own world. The shack and Paul were one.
“There was no name on that alley we turned off,” said Michelle.
“Rain washed it off.”
“Yesterday’s rainstorm?”
He shook his head. “Night my father was born here.”
Paul helped her prop the baby on a pillow in the chair, tied it with his bathrobe belt so as not to fall off, went into the tiny kitchen to prepare the food.
Michelle passed an antique table in the middle of the room, looked into the curtained-off bedroom area. Spartan. A bed. A small lamp table beside it. An alarm clock near the phone. On the floor scattered sheets of paper and an old dictionary.
Back in the main area, Paul cleared some space on the table, moving pads, more sheets of paper. In a corner, a bookshelf held volumes of poetry, some battered novels, a cookbook. And another big dictionary. On the walls were many color photos of horses, including one of a jockey sitting high in the saddle holding one handle of a silver cup and a man standing next to the horse holding the other.
“You like horses, don’t you?” Michelle said.
“Yes.”
“You bet on them?”
“No.”
“Who’s the man standing by the horse that won the cup?”
“My father.”
“Did he own it?”
“He was a bookie.”
“Do you have a picture of your mother?”
Paul brought the chicken and the wine bottle to the table, took out his wallet, and plucked a photo from it. He handed it to her. She looked at the small, old photo. His mother was smiling and very beautiful.
“When did she die?”
“I was ten,” said Paul.
She returned the photo. He put it back and pocketed the wallet. He pulled out the chair for her. Opened the bottle, poured wine for her in a water glass, and water for himself from a water pitcher.
She lifted her wine in toast. He lifted his water.
“No alcohol?”
“Never.”
“Thank you, Paul. For everything.”
“White or leg?”
“White, please.”
He cut off several slices for her, twisted the leg off for himself. They enjoyed the cold chicken. The baby had milk from its bottle. Paul went into the kitchen, found some baby food in the blue bag, warmed it up and brought it out in the smallest bowl he had.
He pushed the baby’s chair closer to Michelle, watched her feed the baby with a spoon, wiping off the dribblings from its chin.
“How long has your family owned this lot?” said Michelle.
“Since my Grandpa. He was a bootlegger.”
“And daddy was a bookie. What did your mother do, run guns?”
“Seamstress.”
She nodded. “How did you get interested in poetry?”
He got up, went to the shelf, returned with a very old book, turned to the poem, pointed at one word in a stanza. Solitude.
“How old were you when you first saw that poem?”
“Fifteen.”
“Who’s your favorite poet?”
“Emily Dickinson.”
“What did she write?”
“If I can stop one heart from breaking,” he recited, slowly, and she waited until he was done.
“That’s beautiful, Paul.”
He nodded.
“And you write poetry too. To woo women. You’re a taxidriving Cyrano.”
No reaction.
“You never saw Cyrano de Bergerac? They made a movie.”
Paul shook his head.
“It’s about this guy, Cyrano, who’s in love with a girl called Roxanne. But she’s in love with his friend. When they go to war, the friend gets killed, but Cyrano keeps writing letters to her from his friend so she won’t find out he’s dead. He doesn’t have the courage to tell her that he wrote the letters and that he loves her.”
Paul thought about it.
“He’s a soldier?”
“The best in France.”
“Why doesn’t he have courage?”
“He has a giant nose. He’s very sensitive about how ugly he looks and what people say about him and how they laugh at him behind his back. Of course, they never tell him to his face that his nose is too big and too ugly—he’d challenge them to a duel if they did, and they know they’d lose. He’s that good with a sword.” She drank the last of her wine. “What was your reason, Paul? Why didn’t you tell me the first time we met that you wrote those poems?”
Paul became flustered. He poured more wine for her but his fingers trembled. Wine spilled on the table.
He heard the flute and silently shouted, Not now!
The brainquake hit. In pink he saw the Boss putting a gun into the baby’s mouth. Paul seized the wine bottle, jumped to his feet. Glasses and dishes fell to the floor. He threw the bottle at the Boss, narrowly missing the baby.
The quake stopped.
Gone was the flute. Gone was the color pink.
Michelle shouted, “Are you crazy?” She snatched up her baby, who was screaming.
Paul stared at the broken bottle on the floor.
“The Boss had a gun in the baby’s mouth…”
“What are you talking about? What boss? You just threw a fucking wine bottle at my baby!”
“Was protecting him—”
“You’re insane!”
His hands hung limp. Face dripping with sweat.
Michelle grabbed her blue bag, slung her purse over her shoulder, ran out with the baby. Paul followed her, caught up to her by the alley.
“I’m not crazy. I swear. It’s just…my brainquake. I see things…”
“You threw that bottle at my baby, you bastard!”
Paul tried to stop her. She cracked him hard across the face.
“I’m being treated for it,” Paul said, his voice entreating. It was the most emotion she’d ever heard in his voice. “Dr. Adson. Brain surgeon. Says he can help.”
She stopped, stared at him, still furious, still cradling her baby’s fragile skull with one hand. And yet—this was the man who’d saved his life. He wouldn’t deliberately hurt him, that made no sense. But a madman doesn’t need to make sense.
“You’re a goddam maniac. You should be locked up! I don’t understand how the city lets you drive a cab—give me one good reason I shouldn’t report you, get your license taken away!”
“Not really a cab driver,” Paul said.
“What?”
“Michelle…”
“Explain, goddam it.”
He felt himself twisting again, his heart wrung in an iron grip. To make her understand was suddenly the most important thing in his life.
“License is phony. They gave it to me. People I work for.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Not a cabbie, I’m a mailman. A bagman—”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“You know what that is?” He could see in her eyes that she did. She’d stepped back, several steps.
“No way,” she said. “Fuck you. You’re just a lunatic. I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true.”
“Then you’re worse than Frankie was!”
He shook his head. “I’m no criminal.”
“The hell you’re not!”
“I do deliveries, that’s all.”
“And throw bottles at babies!”
“It’s in my blood,” Paul rasped. “My father had the same jackal in his brain. Dr. Adson said it’s hered…hereditary. Help me.”
“I don’t care what you are, and I don’t care why you are that way. I can’t have you near my son. You get cured, we can talk. Not until then.”
She strode off. He watched her until she disappeared on the path leading to the alley.
20
At 6:30 P.M., while Paul was delivering heroin profits to a drop at a Long Island estate and Cornelius Hampshire was delivering a speech to the media about the importance of stopping the heroin trade, Lieutenant Zara got what seemed like the first break in the case. It came from a dead dog and an informer, a black teenager who called herself Red and was usually dependable. The dog, Ringo, working with police, had sniffed out a $3 million cargo of dope on the dock. Drug smugglers put out a $25,000 contract on the dog. Red led Zara through hundreds of wrecked cars in the auto graveyard to where a man sat hunched on the hood of a Caddy convertible, gazing at a dead dog laid out on the busted steering wheel. Red darted away before he could see her. Watching Lieutenant Zara approach, the man lifted the dead dog up like a produce sack. Blood had dried around its gut hole.
“This is Ringo. Give me my twenty-five thousand.”
This man certainly looked like he could be a psycho. And he was black. But that wasn’t enough. Zara had to make sure he was the one she wanted.
“Not till I know when you rigged the gun and the bomb.”
“Gun…bomb…”
“Gun. Bomb.”
The man smiled. “The exact time?”
“As close to it as you can remember.”
“When I blew a kiss.”
“You blew a kiss to the carriage? To the victim…?”
“To Lincoln Clinic.”
Psych ward. Protective custody. “How long were you there?”
“Six months.”
He hurled the dog at Zara. She jumped out of the way.
“They let me go this morning,” the man said, “because I’m not sick anymore.”
* * *
Also at 6:30 P.M.: the two men who had stared at Michelle in the park were in their apartment on West 47th Street. They were, in fact, brothers. They were also gutter grifters. Muggers. Got by doing whatever would turn a buck.
Eddie, 27, was tall, well-dressed, the better-looking example of their parents’ genetic blend. On him the black hair and black eyes and heavy jaw had a certain charm. On Al—29, stocky, slouching—they just looked dirty and deep-set and unshaven. Eddie wore a suit, even when it was hot out, even when he didn’t have someplace to be. At least a suit jacket. Al wore whatever the hell his closet had in it.
The door buzzed.
Eddie opened it. Michelle strode in, handed the baby to him, then lunged like a jaguar at Al, punching, kicking, going for his face with nails extended. Eddie put the baby in the corner of the couch, pulled Michelle off Al, slammed her down beside the baby. The baby began to cry.
“He could’ve blown up our son!” Michelle shouted.
Al whimpered through blood. “It was timed to blow when the cops checked the carriage for prints!”
“The paper said it was a reverse-action bomb, you goddam moron!”
“Who knows about reverse action? I paid twenty-five bucks for it. The guy was hot. He told me what to push and took off!”
Al limped into the bathroom, came out with a wet towel, rubbed his face, continuing to whimper. “You wanted the cops to look for a psycho. I did my job. They’re looking for a psycho.”
“Why did you say a black psycho, Michelle?” Eddie asked.
“The cop was black. It came out of my mouth!”
“All right, all right. Let’s drop it.”
“If I hadn’t been on Frankie’s left side, the bullet would’ve got me!” She let that sink in for Eddie.
Al yelled, “I told you to stay on your left all the time, you bitch!”
Eddie smacked his brother. “If that bomb had killed our baby, Al, I’d’ve sawed off your goddam head.”
Eddie poured three bourbons, passed out the drinks silently.
“Anyway, it worked,” said Eddie. He was the only one who drank. “Cops think a psycho did it. Forget the fuck-up. Michelle’s alive. The baby’s alive. Forget it.”
“Eddie,” Michelle said very quietly, “you know I was cornered. Why I had to get rid of Frankie. If he found out you knocked me up, he’d’ve killed both of us. You know that.”
“Course I know that.”
“But from now on, Eddie, I don’t want to see your brother anywhere near me or the baby, or I split with the baby. Do you understand me?” She said this last facing Al, though she was still talking to Eddie.
“We need Al to help pull it off.”
“No, Eddie. He goes or I do.”
“Ed—!” This from Al. Eddie patted the air in front of him, trying to keep things from boiling over.
“Why don’t you go in the other room?”
“Ed!”
“Just for a minute. Michelle and I need to talk a bit.”
“A minute’s not going to do it,” Michelle said.
“You gonna let her talk to me like that?”
“Just go.”
“Just you don’t forget,” Al said, punctuating his remark with a jabbing forefinger, “one phone call from me to the cops, bitch, and you go away for twenty to life.”
“Eddie?”
“Better believe, I’m this close to doing it.” Holding his fingers a millimeter apart, ri
ght under her nose. “You’ll fucking rot in jail, while Eddie and I sit on a beach in old Me-hee-ko.”
“Eddie!”
“Go. Al? Go.”
Al went. Fuming, but he went.
“I’m not joking. About him.”
“Calm down.”
“I don’t trust him. I never have, but now…”
“You know he can hear you.”
“Let him!”
“Michelle…”
“He’s a loose cannon! He’s dangerous, could get us both—”
Eddie put a hand on her arm. When she looked in his eyes, he shook his head minutely. His voice dropped to a whisper, not even a whisper, his lips just forming the outlines of the words: “I’ll handle it.” Out loud, changing the subject: “Who was the guy?”
“What guy?”
“With you, on the bench.”
She took a deep breath, let it out. The bench. Oh. “That’s Paul. He’s…he saw what happened, offered to help out. You know, samaritan.”
“Great. All we need. A good citizen.”
“Not so good,” Michelle said. “Told me he’s a bagman.”
“A bagman?” Eddie’s expression turned sour.
“What?”
“A bagman doesn’t tell strangers what he does.”
“He’s sick in the head,” said Michelle.
* * *
Paul drove back to the shack after his last drop, found a longstemmed red rose wrapped in cellophane at his door. In the shack under the light his shaky fingers had trouble pulling out the small white card.
Who am I to judge you?
9 A.M., your bench in the park.
Ivory Face
21
They kissed.
People passed. Mothers pushed carriages. Kids were playing. It seemed like an eternity. From the moment he ran through the park and spotted her on the bench near the bend in the path, he was sure it was a mirage. Then he sat down by her, and they instinctively kissed without touching each other.
When they stopped kissing on the lips, she kissed him on his eyes and nose and cheeks. She saw tears in his eyes. But the spark was in them too.
“You shouldn’t have told me, Paul.”
He knew what she meant, didn’t want to hear it, but she persisted.
“I’ll never let anyone know,” Michelle said. “But what if they found out?”
“The Boss is good. She’s my friend.”