Gargantuan (34 page)

“H
e’s dead
,” I keep repeating as I cradle Attila’s head. It’s as if I’m trying to make myself believe it. I have never held a dead person’s head in my hands. A dead person I have been intimate with. A person with whom, at least briefly I entertained the idea of sharing my life. “
He’s dead
,” I say again, aloud.

Just a few feet from Attila’s body is the body of a woman I assume to be his wife. She went quickly and her face isn’t contorted in pain or expectation of death. Attila on the other hand looks agonized. His bright blue eyes are open and there is a memory of pain in them.

As the psycho stands near me, staring, I reach over and close Attila’s eyes.

Though there’s no reason why the psycho shouldn’t kill me as well, I am not afraid. I feel a sob come up from deep inside me but I force it back down.

“How did you get out?” the psycho asks me now.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. He seems to consider this and then decides that in fact I’m right. It doesn’t matter.

“You killed two people.” I look up at him.

“It was an accident,” he says, actually seeming remorseful. “They tried to hurt my dog.”

I have no comeback for this. I have no comeback for anything.

“I have to go now,” the murderer suddenly announces. Making
it sound like he’s got to go to the store or perform some other mundane task rather than flee the scene of his crime.

“You tell them it was an accident,” he says, frowning at me. “Those people tried to hurt my dog.” He gestures at the bodies and begins backing out of the room.

I keep my mouth shut. It’s not like I have anything to say anyway. It occurs to me to ask where he’s going. But I don’t. Doesn’t seem like he knows. I watch him slap his thigh, calling to his dog. The dog glances back at me once, as if apologizing, and then they are gone. I continue my vigil, crouched near Attila’s body.

I’m not sure how much time passes before I finally stand up and look around for a phone. There are two empty jacks but no phone. My body feels like it weighs more than an entire ocean but I force it to move. I walk in circles in the living room for a while, then crouch down by Attila once more. I lean over and kiss his cheek. It is already slightly cool. I hesitate and then trace his lips with my fingers. With his last words he kept trying to tell me something. To run, I think, but it also seemed like he was saying
ride. You have to ride
. I don’t know what this meant. Ride a horse? Our last good moment together was in fact when I was riding Lucky out at the Hole. Maybe this is what Attila was thinking of. I will never know. And realizing this makes me sob again. More time passes. I start thinking about moving again. About getting out of here. It feels wrong to leave him here but I can’t see what choice I have. I walk out of the house and start heading down the dark, steep driveway. I come to a road. I look left and right but see no lights. I begin to walk. When I hear a car, I put my thumb out. The car passes by without slowing down. Another one follows a few minutes later with the same results. About ten minutes later a truck appears. The driver slows down. I walk over to the passenger side and get in. The driver is a heavy-set middle-aged white guy. At first he’s very cheerful, maybe thinks I’m going to show him a good time. I disabuse him of that notion. He takes me to the nearest police station, in Saugerties. He wishes me luck as he leaves me there. I don’t think luck can help me now.

S
he’s lying on her side with her knees tucked toward her chest. Her face is smooth and childlike in sleep. I’m afraid to move and disturb her so for a long time I stay beside her, propped on one elbow, watching her sleep and marveling that she can look this peaceful such a short time after walking through the mouth of hell.

It was just dumb luck that I was able to help her at all. When I couldn’t find hide nor hair of her that day at the track, I started getting worried. I was sick to my stomach after learning about her and the jockey, but some instinct was telling me my girl was in trouble and I had to squash my hurt pride and help her. I was supposed to be checking in with the office and then getting myself back down to Florida to tend to my string and keep things going there but I didn’t. I went looking for Ruby.

I called all her phones to no avail. Under the guise of helping him find the man, I got Carlo to give me Attila Johnson’s address and vital statistics along with a photo. I didn’t want my face to show anything so I didn’t look at the picture of Attila Johnson until I was alone. In it, he was standing near a barn. He was staring into the camera, unsmiling. His eyes were a little hard, but he had good features. A shock of boyish white blond hair made him look younger than he was.

I drove to the address Carlo had given me for Attila. A nosy landlady nearly called the cops on me when I went asking her to let me into the guy’s basement apartment. She examined my badge at
length and eventually let me in. She flicked on the overhead fluorescent, then stood in the doorway watching me.

“I’ll be all right, ma’am,” I told her. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.” She hesitated for a few moments then reluctantly went away.

There wasn’t much to see. A narrow twin bed, a pressed-wood dresser, a miniature fridge, a hot plate, and a scale. I went through the dresser drawers. There were a few pieces of clothing, none of these in very good shape. In the closet was one navy-blue suit. It was very small. I got an image of Ruby touching the man who’d worn this suit. I sniffed at the suit, wondering if I’d smell her on it, but it just reeked of mothballs.

I looked through the trash. An empty container of protein powder and a very brown banana peel. I shuffled through a stack of
Daily Racing Forms
near the bed. I sat on the bed. I wondered if Ruby had slept in it.

I went into the bathroom. The medicine cabinet held one crusty toothbrush and a jumbo-size bottle of generic ibuprofen. The guy was out of toilet paper.

The apartment didn’t contain traces of Ruby or of anything other than a depressing life.

I closed the door behind me. The landlady was standing on the porch, waiting.

“Thank you, ma’am, I’m done.”

“Find anything?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “Have a nice day.”

I got back in the car.

Carlo had told me that Attila had a kid and an estranged wife whose address I’d jotted down. I nosed the car into traffic and drove.

It was a narrow two-story house flanked on both sides by houses that were identical save for the color of their vinyl siding. This edge of Queens had clearly been the victim of a particularly aggressive vinyl-siding salesman. The guy—and it had to be a guy—had come through, spreading ugly uniformity in his wake.

I rang the doorbell but nothing happened. I knocked. When
that failed to yield results, I tried the two neighboring houses. No one was home. Finally, I picked the lock on the wife’s house. I could get in trouble for it, but I can’t say I cared.

The door opened into a narrow hallway. To the right a small living room and ahead, a kitchen. The kitchen windows looked out over a tiny concrete yard. There didn’t seem to be any animals or indications of happiness. The living room held an orange couch, a rocking chair, and a large television. There was a bookshelf holding more porcelain knickknacks than books. On the far wall there were pictures of horses. Two of them were win photos from Aqueduct. Two horses I’d never heard of but the rider was Attila Johnson. He looked happy. I wondered if he still was.

Upstairs were two bedrooms. Not a lot of cheer in either one, though one of them was obviously a child’s. The bed was small. The dresser was made of pink plastic. On top of it sat a collection of plastic horses.

I made my way back downstairs, reset the lock, and let myself out.

I sat in my car for a few minutes then decided to go by Ruby’s. It was rush hour and it took me nearly an hour to get to Coney Island. The day was still gray and the wind had gotten meaner.

I parked the car on Mermaid Avenue, and, as I headed over to Ruby’s, I took my phone out and tried calling her again. The machine came on. When I reached her building, I picked the downstairs lock and climbed up the narrow stairs. I knocked at her door and then at the neighbors’. No one seemed to be home anywhere today. I picked Ruby’s lock too.

Ruby’s cats were waiting at the door and the big one let out a hunger cry as soon as I came in. The air inside the apartment smelled stale, like no one had walked through it in more than a day. The cats started milling around my legs, screaming at me to feed them. I walked into the kitchen and looked in the fridge. There was a packet of raw meat there. I fed it to the cats. I noticed their water bowl was dry and I started to feel a little sick. It was totally uncharacteristic for
Ruby to have left her cats unfed and unwatered. Something was very wrong.

I was trying to figure out what to do and what to look for when I heard something in the hall. I threw open the door and there was the neighbor, Ramirez, with his girlfriend, Elsie.

Ramirez frowned and looked behind me, seeing if Ruby was standing there. Elsie looked me over head to toe and a few different emotions crossed her face. Finally, she asked what I was doing there.

“Looking for Ruby,” I said. “When’s the last time you guys saw her?”

“What you doin’ in her apartment?” Ramirez asked.

“I had to let myself in. I’m worried about her. I’m trying to figure out where the hell she is.”

“Ain’t none of your business,” Ramirez said.

“She’s got a new man,” Elsie added.

“Thanks,” I winced, “I heard. But that new man’s in a bad spot and I think he brought Ruby into it with him.”

“She’s in trouble?” Elsie ventured, looking to Ramirez.

Ramirez shrugged, “I ain’t seen much of her since you been away. She called me yesterday though, right before I went to pick you up at the airport. Asked could I feed her cats and I actually forgot”—he hung his head a little—“I didn’t think about it too much, I was on my way out, but she didn’t tell me where she was or why. She was a little rude too, hung up on me.”

“When was this?” I asked.

“Yesterday,” Ramirez said, hanging his head again.

“Didn’t say where she was calling from?”

“Nah. Some cell phone though. Number came up on the caller ID. Wasn’t a number I’d seen before.”

“So it’s still on your caller ID box?”

“I guess,” Ramirez shrugged and, after a little nudging, invited me in to look at the number on the box.

I put in a call to Carlo to have him trace the number. Told him it pertained to the jockey. He said he’d get on it and call me back. I guess neither Ramirez nor his girl wanted me in Ruby’s apartment.
Elsie brewed up some tea and begrudgingly asked what I’d been doing with myself. In spite of being eaten with worry, I found myself telling Elsie about Gulfstream. About Clove in particular. I watched Elsie warm to me as I detailed Clove’s story. Not that I was telling it to win points. I loved that mare and I loved talking about her to anyone who’d listen. What’s more, it took my mind off Ruby.

Eventually Carlo got back to me. Ruby had called Ramirez from a cell phone belonging to Attila Johnson’s wife. They were still working on tracing where the phone had been when Ruby had used it.

I figured I’d overstayed my limited welcome by then and I was about to head back to the motel when Ramirez’s phone rang.

The man stared at the phone like it was a weapon.

“You mind answering that in case it’s her again?”

“I don’t know that number,” he said, indicating the caller ID box.

“May I?” I said and, without waiting for an answer, picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” It was her voice.

“Ruby? Are you all right?”

“Who’s this?”

“Ed.”

“Ed?”

“Yeah, remember me?” I said, somehow finding it within myself to attempt a touch of levity in what was a distinctly unfunny situation.

“Where’s Pietro?”

“Who?”

“Ramirez, where’s my fucking neighbor, Ed,” she said, hysteria coming into her voice.