Sinner's Ball (21 page)

“Nothing to talk about,” he said. “We were shooting
hoops, and things just got out of control. I didn't mean to hit him. It just kind of happened.”

“And that's all you're gonna tell me.”

“Nothing more to say. Look, my father needs me. I can't stay here. He's expecting me home.”

“OK, Justin. I'll see what I can do. Anything I can get you?”

“Yeah. Out of here.”

Luce was waiting for me at her desk.

“What did he have to say?” she said.

“About what you'd expect. Just horsing around, and things sort of spun out of control.”

“You believe him?”

“No reason not to. At least until I talk to the vic.”

“Isn't the first time for Justin,” Luce said.

“What do you mean?”

“From what I've been able to find out, he's had some other brushes with the police.”

“You're not serious.”

“Fighting mostly. Shrinks call it acting out. And the cops have always cut him a break and turned him loose with warnings. The fact that he goes to Devereaux Academy carries some weight.”

“The kid has plenty to act out about,” I said. “Mother's dead. Father's paralyzed from the waist down. I met him. Depends on Justin for pretty much everything.”

“Doesn't excuse him, Jackson. Hard lives is something this city does real well.”

“I know.”

“But you're going to ask for a favor anyway.”

“I am. Any chance you can give Justin a desk appearance ticket and cut him loose? I promise I'll get to the bottom of this. The kid doesn't belong here.”

“Under normal circumstances, no. But for you, Jackson …”

“Appreciate it.”

“No problem,” she said. “But DeeDee sure has a lot to learn about men.”

“That she does,” I said.

“I'll get the paperwork going. Justin should be out of here in an hour or so.”

“One other thing.”

She gave an exasperated sigh.

“You're using up all your chits, Jackson. What now?”

“DeeDee is as close to a daughter as I'll probably ever have. And Justin's acting out bothers me. I just wonder if there's anything else that I don't know.”

“And you want me to run him through our computers.”

“Wouldn't hurt,” I said.

J
ustin was released forty-five minutes later. I put him in a cab and sent him home. He asked me not to tell DeeDee what had happened. It was a promise I couldn't make. I needed her to point out the kid he'd sparred with, Matt Gershon.

That evening I took DeeDee out to dinner and broke the news.

“I don't believe it, Steeg,” she said. “Not Justin. He's the kindest, most gentle person I've ever known.” She pulled out her cell phone. “I've got to call him.”

“Not a good idea. He's been through a lot, and has a lot more to think about.”

“But I care about him. And I want him to know.”

“Believe me, kiddo, he knows. But there is something you can do for me that would help Justin.”

“Anything. Just name it.”

“I want to talk to Matt Gershon. Can you point him out to me?”

“Matt? That's who Justin was fighting with? And they were playing basketball in this weather?”

“Seems so.”

“How dumb is that?”

“Way dumb.”

“Matt's a jerk. No one likes him.”

“And I'm sure with good reason. But I still need to talk to him.”

“He's in my English class. First period tomorrow.”

“I'll be there,” I said.

The next morning DeeDee and I hopped a cab down to Devereaux Academy. We got to the school fifteen minutes before first period and waited out front.

Five minutes later Matt Gershon showed up.

“That's him,” DeeDee said.

Turns out I didn't need DeeDee. Matt, a thin, little guy with really long hair, sported a major-league black eye, and a sizable bruise up near his right cheekbone.

I stopped him at the door.

“Matt?” I said, flashing my card. “My name is Steeg. I need to talk to you about Justin Hapner.”

He seemed annoyed.

“I told you people everything I know,” he said.

“Which was nothing. Justin may go to jail. Do you want that on your conscience?”

He put his hand to face. “Do you see what he did to me?”

“Doesn't look like it was fun.”

“Anything but,” Matt said. “But I don't want to talk about it. It's over and done with.”

“Not quite. I just have one question.”

“I'm late for a test.”

He tried to brush past me.

Fat chance.

“Matt, my friend,” I said. “You're going to be subpoenaed as a witness. That means testifying at Justin's trial. And his defense attorney will pull out all the stops to impeach you and your testimony. That means going through your life with a fine-tooth comb looking for anything that casts a shadow on your credibility. You wouldn't believe the stuff they can find. Maybe your weed stash. Maybe something else. It's the way things work in the real world. Do you really want that?”

“I have rights too.” The words were right, but the self-assurance was beginning to crack.

“Sure you do. You're a smart kid who seems to know how things work. And you know you can make life really easy if you just answer one question.”

He looked at his watch.

“I'm late for class.”

“Just one question, Matt.”

He checked his watch again.

“Fine,” he said.

“What provoked Justin into throwing a punch?”

“The whole thing was stupid. He drove for a layup and missed.”

“And?”

“I said it was a faggy shot.”

I
was tired of dancing at the Sinners' Ball. Anthony takes down Dave's warehouse because he can't take his father down. Angela dead, and Wanda right behind her because the Klempers put them there. Justin goes off on a classmate and winds up in jail because he can't maintain an erection. And the murderer of at least nine men still on the loose. It put me in mind of spending the rest of my life in a closet.

And then my cell phone chirped. I had dumped the George Jones ring days earlier. Too depressing.

It was Luce.

“What's up?” I said.

“You asked me to check on Justin. Remember?”

“For the sake of my sanity, please tell me you found nothing.”

“All right. I found nothing.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. Absolutely nothing.”

“Why don't you sound happy about it?”

“Jackson, you're not following me here. There are no records. No birth certificate. Nothing.”

“How can that be?”

“I don't know. He either arose spontaneously or his records fell through the bureaucratic cracks somewhere along the way, or someone's lying. Damndest thing I ever saw.”

I tried calling Justin several times, but no one answered.

T
o jump-start my happy place, I had dinner with Allie at a quaint little French/Vietnamese restaurant in the village. But this time I was the one picking at the food.

“You look like you need a friend, Steeg,” she said.

I reached over and took her hand.

“You're my friend,” I said.

“Don't ever doubt it.”

“Then cheer me with stories of the advertising whirl. Fill my heart with laughter, and snap me out of this damned blue funk I'm hopelessly mired in.”

“The last few months have been bad, haven't they?”

“That's putting too fine a point on it.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Wouldn't it be a wonderful world if kids could pick their parents? Something like an online dating service where couples are forced to post their life résumés, warts
and all, and kids get to interview them and try them out before they commit.”

“Are we talking about your brother and his son?”

“And my father. And tons of other screwed-up people walking the streets who have kids and then actively destroy their lives.”

I didn't want to weigh her down with the tragic tale of Wanda and Angela.

“I find that difficult to relate to,” Allie said.

“So you had a happy childhood?”

“Ecstatic.”

“And you had Herbie Aronson.”

“Old Herbie. You remembered!”

“How could I forget your first love serenading you on the piano on warm summer nights.”

“Yes, but his repertoire was limited to one song. ‘Big Rock Candy Mountain.' That's all he knew, but he played it gloriously.”

That triggered my memory of what Sailor had said.

“It's funny you mention that. I ran into a panhandler down in the Bowery. He didn't say much except that he hoped to see the deceased, a guy named Walter Cady, at the Big Rock Candy Mountain one day. Had no idea what he was talking about. As I remember, it's a kid's folk song.”

“It is now. But it didn't start out that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Since Herbie played it so well, I wanted to learn the lyrics so I could sing along. I had this vision of Herbie
playing it at concerts. And me, in my evening gown, leaning against the piano, belting it out.”

“All this at ten?”

“Told you I was precocious. So I went to the Brooklyn Public Library and found the lyrics. And guess what?”

“What?”

“There are two sets. The original, and the sanitized version which eventually was recorded. Most people think the song is a merry little ditty about a place where your birthday's every week and it's Christmas every day. But it's not.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“It's a ballad about a child being lured with magical stories of the Big Rock Candy Mountain, and ultimately being kidnapped into a hobo camp. Want to hear an original verse?”

“After all these years you remember?”

“Impossible to forget. It was my first hint that the world could be an awful place. When you hear it, you'll see why. Here goes.

“‘To be buggered sore like a hobo's whore'?” I said.

“Not pretty, is it?”

Suddenly everything fit.

Troy Hapner's shiner. No infant photos of Justin. No photos of his mother. His inability to perform with DeeDee. The fag comment from Matt Gershon. The shrinking intervals between the killings. The connection to Dave's warehouse. Spinning out of control. Working his way back to …

I bolted from the table.

“Allie,” I said. “Find DeeDee and stay with her until you hear from me.”

A
ll the lights in the Hapner's apartment were out and the door was locked.

I kicked it in, switched on the lights, and moved quickly past the kitchen into the living room.

Troy Hapner was lying on the floor in a widening pool of blood. His eyes were closed. But he was breathing.

I knelt down and smacked him awake.

“Where's Justin, you son of a bitch?”

His eyes blinked open and tried to focus.

“Help … me! Please.”

I grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head up.

“Where's Justin, you sick bastard?”

His hand strayed to his bloody crotch. “Don't … know. Look … did … this … to me.”

I got to my feet and went looking for Justin.

I didn't have far to go.

He was hanging from a chinning bar he had set up in the doorway of the closet in his room.

Another ghost to haunt my nights.

His body was cold.

I checked for a pulse.

An ineffable sadness swept over me.

I walked past Troy Hapner and into the kitchen. Snatched a bread knife from the counter, went back to the bedroom, and cut Justin down. After gathering him in my arms, I laid him on his bed, and covered him with a blanket.

Then I sat down next to him.

It was a deathwatch. A mourning for a kid who never had a chance.

A long time passed before I finally got up to leave.

In the living room, Troy Hapner lay where I had left him.

His eyes followed me as I moved toward the door.

“Please,” he begged. “Help … me!”

I closed the door behind me.

A
week later, Luce called. Wanted me to meet her at the precinct house. Said she had some information for me.

We met in an interrogation room on the second floor. A pile of file folders sat in the middle of the table.

“How're you holding up, Jackson?”

“Better than DeeDee. Hooked her up with a therapist.”

“How's that going?”

“She said it's going to take a while, but DeeDee should come out the other end reasonably OK.”

“Do you believe her?”

“Time'll tell,” I said. “But I had a sit-down with her father.”

“How'd that go?”

“Kept it pretty basic. Told him DeeDee needs a father,
not a habitual recidivist. Told him I'd throw him off a roof if he ever strayed off the reservation again.”

“Did he promise to behave?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Absolutely not. Fucking cretin! I've also been to the Dominican embassy trying to get a line on her mother.”

“Any luck?”

“Not yet.”

“Anything I can do?”

“What you have been doing. Be her friend. Any word on the departmental trial?”

“Went
poof!”

“What a surprise.”