Turning Idolater (31 page)

“Or where?” Thomas said. “I was surprised you even
wanted to see me again, but I guess you must be in dire straits. Is
it money?”

Philip glanced toward the bench, and then back at
Tee. “What are you talking about? I mean, it’s nice to see you
again — difficult, but we’re not enemies.”

Thomas grinned. “Enemies? Never, but when I got your
note . . .”

“What note?” Philip tensed. “I didn’t send you a
note. You wanted to see me.” He fished around his backpack,
grabbing the envelope.

Thomas winced. He pulled a postcard from his jacket
pocket. “You sent me this.”

Philip yanked the card from Tee’s hand. “I did no
such thing.”

Thomas took the envelope, pulled out his stationary
and pawed it. “What the fuck? Who has gotten into my private
stationary?” He read, his eyes as wide as Philip’s now. “Philip, I
would never use a computer on this stationary.”

“So Uncle Dean thought.”

“Damn. What a mess.”

Philip finished reading similar content on the
postcard. “Who would want to screw with us like this?”

Thomas crumbled the note. “Perhaps, my stalker.”

“Let’s go,” Philip said. He suddenly had a sinking
feeling. He felt the lamplight dim, although it didn’t. There was
rustling in the undergrowth. The Needle felt more tombstone than
tribute. He bent to retrieve his backpack, which had slipped to the
ground while he was reading. As he bent, he heard.

Philip heard many things. A crack. A snap. He felt a
wind jet past him, something evil and fast. He thought he saw a
flash — flame bright like a Roman candle — bright in the darkness.
He saw shadows — shapes. He heard the sound of voices, the murmur
of people on nearby 5
^th
Avenue. He turned to Thomas to
ask if he could hear too, but . . . Thomas was stiff, his eyes full
wide, his pupils rolled back — the whites shining.

“Tee,” Philip screamed.

He grasped Thomas’ shoulders, but the weight of the
man was too much. He collapsed, knees buckling. It was beyond
Philip’s strength to keep Tee upright. Thomas Dye was down — as
down as a man could be, his breathing labored, his face ashen.

“Tee!”

Philip cradled Thomas’ head. He shook him in an
attempt to rouse him. Philip glanced around, his eyes poking
through the shadows. He saw many things, but nothing that could aid
him. His heart raced. Sweat mingled with his tears. Panic.

“Help!” he screamed. He fished for his cell phone.
He should call for help. He then tried to lift Tee, but Thomas’
back oozed.
Blood
. Blood now on Philip’s hand — on the
phone.
Bloody 9-1-1
. Philip gasped, his weeping unplugged.
“Help,” he screamed into the cell phone. “My man’s been shot. Get
someone here. He needs help. He’s going . . . going . . . fast.
Help me.” Philip whimpered. “Help me . . . help him.” Philip gazed
at Tee’s lips. They burbled. He was still breathing.
If they get
here fucking fast they could save him,
he thought. He spit. “If
you get here fucking fast you can save him. You can save him. Yes.
Yes. No one. Central Park. By Cleopatra’s Needle. Get here.”

Philip dropped the cell phone on Tee’s chest. He
embraced this great heart. He pawed across the man and prayed his
best prayer. He found religion fast and sweet and desperately.
Thomas was still breathing, but Philip sensed each breath
shallowing. He feared the ebbing of the tide. Suddenly, he heard
footsteps.
Someone was coming to help. They were here already.
Please, come fast.
He looked toward the main path. There
were
people. They must have heard the shot.
Yes.
Then, Philip glanced toward the Needle. There a man stood — tall
and ugly, a mere shadow. Philip knew him.

“Flo,” Philip said. Philip trembled. Fists balled.
Teeth gnashed. “You bastard. He was your friend. You fucking
bastard.”

Florian Townsend, in a wraith-like stance, held a
gun in his right hand. He said but one word. “No.”

Philip would have lurched at the man, if he had not
feared leaving Thomas alone — even for a moment. Then, it suddenly
dawned on Philip that the gun was cocked and ready — ready for him.
It was ending here. He was about to join Tee in this blood bath.
Philip was frightened, his stomach crimping into a ball, yet he was
resolved to stay — ready to close the circle. He watched Florian
raise the gun. Philip prepared to die. Flo’s hand snapped upward,
but it wasn’t aimed at Philip. It was swallowed — muzzle end to
soft palate.

Blast
.

Philip gasped. He felt the rush of people around him
— many people, and the blare of sirens. Philip was alive, and
Thomas might be saved now, but Mr. Florian Townsend, Dean Cardoza’s
nephew, had plummeted to the ground, his brains splattering the
crabs at the base of Cleopatra’s Needle.

God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave
him again.

The ride to Lenox Hill Hospital was interminable, or
so Philip thought as he grasped Tee’s hand in the back of the
ambulance. They told Philip he couldn’t ride back there, but he
wept so hard, the EMT’s gave in.

God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave
him again.

Philip clutched Tee’s hand. The emergency worker
pushed him aside several times, the IV’s and oxygen tubes
cluttering both sides of the gurney. Philip just went with the
flow. Still, no matter how many times he adjusted to let the medics
work, Philip never let Tee’s hand go — not until the ambulance
halted in front of the Emergency Room, the vehicle’s doors flying
open, the gurney sledging out.

“Tee.”

The medic grasped Philip’s shoulders. “He’s in good
hands. Wait in the Emergency Room. They’ll let you in after the
doctors have given him a look. Okay?”

Philip felt like saying,
not okay. I’m not
leaving him for anything or anyone
, but the medic’s eyes were
kind, yet final. “Okay,” Philip said.

God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave
him again.

The world spun about Philip’s head, or was it just
the cycling red beam atop the ambulance? He drifted through the
automatic doors of the great white, brick hospital. He was lost.
Where did they take him?
He looked for a doctor, a nurse —
anyone. The broad admission’s desk was busy as if there was a run
on emergencies. However, Philip only cared about one. He knew that
he had witnessed a crime and had watched the criminal take his own
life. Somewhere in his mind, he knew there would be questions, but
now he just wanted one thing.

God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave
him again.

He approached the desk. There were three people in
queue.

“Excuse me,” he said to a scrawny volunteer behind
the desk.

“Have a seat,” she said, gazing at him over her ruby
glasses, and then noting the other people in queue with her eyes.
“I’ll get to you in turn.”

“But you don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

The people in queue stared at Philip. An older man
growled, but the others appeared sympathetic.

“My lover has been brought here,” Philip
stammered.

The attendant shrugged, almost losing her grey,
button-downed sweater. “Please have a seat.”

Philip was about to blow.

“What’s his name?” came a voice. A security guard
suddenly sprouted up beside the volunteer.

“Dye,” Philip said. That raised an eyebrow. “Thomas
Dye. His name is Thomas . . .”

“Dye,” said the guard. He scanned the monitor with
his mahogany fingers. “Yes. Just came in, son. It’s too early to
see him. He . . .”

“But will he be okay?”

The guard shook his head, and then came around from
behind the counter. “Come, have a seat.”

God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave
him again.

Philip trembled. The guard gently ushered him to a
bench. The room was filled with benches that held the dire and the
worn, the worried and the praying. This could have been a
church.

“Listen here, Sonny Jim,” the Guard said. Philip
winced. He recalled the
concierge
at
The Papillon
Arms
. “Says on the screen that he was shot, but I’m sure
they’ll stabilize him. Then, we’ll see. There’s nothin’ you can
do.”

“I can be with him.”

“Now, how’s that goin’ to do anythin’ for him? That
might do somethin’ for you, and I certainly appreciate that, but
trust me, Sonny Jim, I’ve seen a lot worse and seen many folk just
as stressed as you. You can’t do anythin’ better than rest yourself
here, calm yourself down and say your prayers.”

Philip’s lower lip trembled. His hand shook. He
suddenly came apart, not that he was together to begin with, but
this kind man — this stranger, who cared enough to trump the bitch
at the admissions desk, was sent to him as a lighthouse on a stormy
sea.
Anchor yourself here. You’re in the harbor and must wait
for a sign from ashore.

The guard handed him a handkerchief. “Here,” he
said. “Give it a good blow and rest a while. Is there someone you
wanna call? A friend? A relative?”

There was.
Uncle Dean.
“Thanks.” Philip took
the soft cloth between his fingers and wiped his eyes. He retrieved
his cell phone from the backpack.

“That’s better. You’ll be okay now.”

Philip bobbed his head. The guard retreated. Philip
went to his speed dial to call Dean Cardoza. He almost lost it
again upon seeing the dried blood spread over the keys. The phone
worked, despite the signs saying he couldn’t make cell phone calls
in a hospital.
Didn’t the guard tell him to make it?
It
connected and rang, but no one answered, not even Dean’s voice
mail. Suddenly, the automatic doors opened and through them came an
old man supported by a cane.

“Uncle Dean,” Philip said.

Dean Cardoza appeared ten years older than when
Philip left him this afternoon. He didn’t seem to hear Philip.
Befuddled. Lost. Philip scurried to the man.

“Uncle Dean.”

“Dear boy,” the old man said. They embraced. “This
is terrible. Terrible.”

“Over here,” Philip said. “They won’t let me see him
yet.”

Dean Cardoza shuffled to the bench, and then sat
beside the backpack. He stared into nothingness. The world of his
own making. “I’ve outlived them all,” he muttered. “And that’s not
right. They’re all gone.”

Suddenly, Philip realized that Tee was not the only
concern on Uncle Dean’s mind. Flo was dead.
Oh God.
He
hunkered down, resting his chin on Dean’s knee.

“I’m sorry,” Philip said. “Florian. It was
awful.”

“Florian,” Dean whimpered. “Jemmy too, and now
Thomas. Dear, dear Thomas.”

Philip looked up. “Tee isn’t dead. He’s not going to
die. I won’t let him. I won’t”

God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave
him again.

Two hours passed leaving Philip and Dean aching on
the bench. Philip checked every ten minutes or so at the admissions
desk, but he was told that Tee had been stabilized, but was not
out of the woods
yet. He would be admitted and prepped for
surgery. Philip was told that the bullet was lodged in Tee’s spine.
Ten minutes later, Thomas Dye went under the knife.

“I cannot believe Florian would do such a thing,”
Dean said.

“Believe it,” Philip said. “I mean, I don’t want to
be harsh, but I was there. I saw it.”

“So you did, Mr. Flaxen,” came a deep voice. Philip
careened around on the bench. “Sterling. Do you remember me, Mr.
Flaxen?”

“Detective Kuss . . . Kussman.”

“Kusslow. And this is . . .”

“Dean Cardoza,” Uncle Dean said. “Is this the
law?”

Kusslow grasped Dean’s hand and nodded. “A friend of
Mr. Flaxen? Relative, perhaps?”

“A friend,” Dean said.

Detective Kusslow opened his ubiquitous note pad and
scratched a note. Philip looked for
the other one
, Detective
Karnes, and spied him chatting with the friendly security
guard.

“Looking for someone, Mr. Flaxen?”

“No. I just remembered that you had a partner.”

“Good memory. Now, Mr. Cardoza did you know the
victim — Thomas Dye?”

Philip winced. “He’s not a victim. He’s still
alive.” Then, Philip sensed that something else might have
happened. Kusslow was a homicide detective. No homicide had been
committed, unless . . . “God, Almighty,” Philip said, his hand
going to his mouth. “Tee hasn’t . . . he hasn’t . . .”

“Tee? You mean Mr. Dye. No. It’s not anything like
that, Mr. Flaxen. I assure you. However, it’s not routine either.
It’s part of an on-going investigation. Mr. Cardoza, you didn’t
answer my question.”

“Am I under suspicion?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, in that case, I’m related to the other
one.”

“The other one?”

“Florian Townsend.”

“Oh, the suicide. Sorry about that.” He gazed at
Philip appearing to assess the situation. “I know that this may be
a bad time for you, Mr. Flaxen, but do you think you could answer a
few questions?”

Philip sighed. He had expected this. He was there,
after all. “Now?”

“If you would?” Kusslow looked toward Karnes, who
walked to an open door — an office. The security guard stood
sentry.

Philip sighed again. “Uncle Dean, if there’s any
word, come get me.”

“At once.”

“Uncle Dean?” Kusslow gave Dean the fish eye. “We
won’t be long.”

The office was an examination room, and in more ways
than one. Philip sat at the edge of a paper-lined exam table, while
Kusslow took the doctor’s seat. Karnes hovered outside the door.
Philip wondered about this interview. Wasn’t this an
open and
shut
case?

“Mr. Flaxen,” Kusslow began, his pad embraced, his
pencil in readiness. “Where were you when Mr. Dye was shot?”