Losers Live Longer (35 page)

"Yeah, whadaya want?"

He was fireplug stocky with a hard Buddha belly. His head was bald but not entirely hairless, a black Kentucky-colonel beard sprouting from his chin. He tugged it, assessing me with his leaden eyes.

I told him Poker sent me.

"Poker? What's a poker?" He crossed his arms, his manner as pedantic as a professor emeritus.

I tried another tack. "My editor at the
Voice
. He said he'd call ahead."

"The
Village Voice
?"

"Yeah, I'm putting the finishing touches on this article that was started by this other guy who o.d.-ed last week and now's in rehab till October, and we're going to press in two days."

"Article on what?"

"A season round-up on the newest innovations in your craft. You know, design, equipment, method."

The leaden eyes melted a little."That's a great idea," he said. "You know, you came to the right place. I've trained with some of the masters like—"

From behind the velvet curtain a man's voice screeched, "Lyle, I'm bleeding here. What the hell are you doin'?"

"Oh, shut it!" Lyle yelled over his shoulder, then said to me, "Look, I've gotta finish up with this dork. Can you hang?"

"Sure, no problem. I'll just check out some of your work." I motioned to the wall of photos.

He grinned, slapped my back, and went back behind the curtain.

Studying the snapshots was like screening applicants for the Coney Island freak show. There were men and women, young and old, some with rows of tight rings threading their eyebrows or studded silver balls cleaved straight through the center of their tongues. Some photos were only body shots of elaborately impaled nipples and bellybuttons. I almost missed what I'd been scanning for—a tight row of barbed-wire rings on a girl's bottom lip—but there it was low to the floor.

The flash camera had been too close to the subject, bleaching out her face, her eyes glowing orange, but she fit Celia Janssen's description of the girl who had taken her purse. I tried to match the face with my photo of Missy, but the Polaroid's quality was too poor for comparison. I could make out what she was wearing though: a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket with green-flaming skulls painted down the sides.

I pried loose the staples and walked out of the shop with the Polaroid cupped in my hand.

Once on the sidewalk I lost myself in the slow parade of people, hoping my quick departure didn't make Lyle suspicious.

Turning the corner onto Second Avenue I ran into an impromptu flea market being broken up by the cops, two officers ordering the people to pack up the clothes, jewelry, appliances, and books they'd laid out on the sidewalk for sale. I crossed the street and stopped for a Coke and a greasy slice of pizza. I chewed and considered my options.

I had a picture of the girl—or at least someone I thought was the girl. Celia Janssen could've told me if it was the same one, but it was too late to call her—even if she had put her phone back on the hook. I'd done a lot for one evening, I could've called it quits (maybe should've), but I felt like I was on a roll. And there was still one other place I could check: the scene of the crime, the first crime. The Outsiders Cafe.

It wasn't far away. I followed St. Marks east, past First Avenue toward Avenue A. While I was waiting for a light to change, a man with ashen-black skin came up to me, made eye contact, and asked, "Sense, man? You want some good sense?"

He was trying to peddle weed, but sense—-common sense—was really what I needed. I was fresh out, otherwise I would've looked behind me, just once, and noticed that there was someone dogging my trail.

A row of gleaming Harleys was parked in front of the Outsiders Cafe on the corner of East 6th Street. The tables out front, surrounded by a low white fence, were all occupied. A line of people waited anxiously for one to open up. I went inside where it was less crowded.

The harried woman making margaritas behind the bar pointed me to the manager, a young black man dressed in blue jeans and a green silk shirt open at the collar. He was ordering a busboy to clear a table for four as I came up to him. I asked if he knew anything about the purse-snatching on Tuesday, maybe the names of any waiters who'd witnessed it.

"It happened on my shift," he lamented. "Stuff like that always happenin' on my shift. You know, I once had a guy die of a brain aneurysm just as I came on."

"Tough."

"Not that it was his fault, but...well, take this lady. Just stupid. Comes down here, looking fine, flashing presidents. You'd think she had something on the ball, you know? But she goes and puts her bag down by her chair, right near the fence. Asking for trouble, you know? And I told her so, but she just shrugs, like, 'Big deal.'"

"See it happen?"

"I saw. Just didn't believe it right away the way she just sat there watching this kid take off. Where I grew up, if somebody stole from you, you let the whole world know."

"Was this the girl?"

I showed him the Polaroid snapshot. He took his time.

"Yeah, that's her. Same clothes and everything. You a cop?"

I shook my head, thanked him, and left somewhat distracted by an idea that was taking shape in my mind. I was trying to smooth its edges when I glanced to my left and saw Melissa Strich on the opposite corner of Avenue A.

I don't think I could have recognized her from either of the photos in my pocket if she hadn't still been wearing the leather jacket decorated with burning green skulls. Her dreadlocks had been chopped off and the remaining bristly hair dyed India ink black.

She stepped off the curb and cut across to my side of the street, but walking away from me. I followed.

Passing a fruitstand outside a Korean deli, she casually grabbed two oranges and kept walking at an even stride. I didn't bat an eye until the owner came running out after her, then suddenly all three of us were running up the avenue. The deli owner gave up at the first corner, but Missy didn't slow her pace, and neither did I. She hopped the short gate closing off the path into Tompkins Square Park and fled into darkness.

I went in after her.

The tar path snaked smoothly past trees and junglegyms and dry fountains reeking of urine. Irregular shadows cast from the arching branches whipped around my head. I couldn't see her anywhere at first, but a soft breeze blew up, carrying the sweet fragrance of orange. I stood sniffing the air like a golden retriever. As my eyes adjusted, I made her out, slumped on a park bench a few yards ahead. I crept toward her as she chewed.

Softly, I said, "Missy?"

She sprang up and spat out orange, barking a swear, but standing her ground.

"Don't come near me."

"It's okay," I said. "I'm a friend. I was hired by your parents."

She laughed.

"Yeah, my parents would have to hire friends."

"They hired me to find you."

"My parents? You're nuts."

"They're here. They want to take you home."

"Yeah, right."

"It's true," I said. "But first, we have a few things to sort out. Tell me about the purse, what did you do with the keys?"

She stiffened, tensed for either fight or flight.

She said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Look, I don't care about the purse. I just need to know who you gave the keys to."

She started to say something, then checked herself. In the dark I couldn't tell what was passing over her face.

"Wise up," I said, "if I found you, the cops will too. Maybe I can help."

She swore. "You're not 5-0, so what's it to you if I lifted that bitch's purse?"

"The keys, Missy?"

"What keys? There weren't any. Not even a wallet, just a wad of bills, no change, not even a stick of gum. No friggin' keys, mister!"

I was starting to get a bad feeling about things. A little too late as it turned out.

"Never mind," I said. "Come on."

She stiffened. "Come on where?"

"You've got to talk to the police."

"Like hell I do!"

She started to run, but I was close enough to grab one wrist. A feral noise in her throat, she clawed at my face with her free hand, her blunt, broken fingernails scented of orange. I knocked her arm away.

I'd just succeed in getting both her narrow wrists into one hand when a number 6 train hit me low from behind. I didn't remember falling, just my cheek skidding across the tar, sparking my attention. I was eye level with the earth, listening to Melissa's running feet receding.

I sat up, tried to stand, but my legs wobbled under me like collapsible poker chairs.

A voice behind me warned, "Don't get up."

"Don't worry," I said, but tried again anyway.

"I'm telling you, don't get up."

I turned. A sweat-soaked man in jogging shorts was standing over me, fists clenched, chest pumping. He started yelling for the cops. He had a powerful voice, but suddenly it was like a whisper, blotted out by another of much greater urgency.

The girl's scream ripped across the evening sounds of the city, paralyzing time. I thought it would never end. But when it finally did the void it left was a hundred times worse.

By the time we found her, she was already dead, lying near the handball courts in a gathering moat of her own blood. So much of it. A neck wound. The short-bladed knife still inserted in her throat, her chin propped up by its blunt handle.

I couldn't bear the sight of her eyes.

Stepping closer I saw a piece of paper in her hand. An age-yellowed sheet inscribed with a cramped, ornate writing, one word foremost on the page: "Cupid."

My torn pants and scraped face didn't discourage the responding officers from jumping to the wrong conclusion. They handcuffed me and left me in the backseat of their cruiser while they went off to direct the arrival of the EMS van and the crowd forming around the park's northeast entrance.

More police, uniformed and plainclothes, converged on the scene. Through the side window of the cruiser I watched two sour-faced detectives question the jogger who'd attacked me. It obviously helped my situation that he'd been standing over me at the moment the girl was killed, because when the detectives came over to talk, they removed my handcuffs.

Before I answered any questions, I asked them to call Billie Mallow at the 9th (the precinct was just a few blocks away). Not only would she be a good character reference, but I knew she'd get a kick out of seeing me raked over the coals.

Then I told them what I knew, what I thought I knew, and one way I hoped I could prove it. During my third telling, Billie arrived. They asked if she knew "this yo-yo."

Reluctantly, she admitted it. Gritting her teeth, she vouched for me.

She looked sensational. She'd cut her long red-brown hair to neck length, the silky tresses forming around her cheeks. I wanted to say something, but there was no time—if what I believed was true, proving it meant acting fast.

Nobody liked my idea, except for its expediency. The police wanted to send one of their own men, but I convinced them I had a better chance of getting in. If I saw anything incriminating, something that might be destroyed before they could get a warrant, I could admit them to the Gramercy townhouse.

I climbed the marble steps for a second time that evening and pushed the intercom buzzer several times to the tune of "Fur Elise."

A scratchy voice came back, "Who is it?"

"Payton Sherwood. More questions."

"Go away."

I didn't know if she was listening, but I said, "You never lost your keys."

Silence. A curtain moved behind a narrow stained-glass window of the upper floor. I saw a distorted view of her face behind one ruby panel. Seeing if I was alone.