“I apologize, okay? Whatever. Just give me back the five or keep it, whatever. No bad blood. Annyeonghi gyeseyo.”
The old dude is patriotically unimpressed by my mangling of his birdsong language.
“Stop talking, cue ball. Your words hurt my brain.”
For some reason, getting into it with this ancient Korean brings on something of a mini-breakdown. I think it’s partly the randomness of it—this guy doesn’t have a beef with me—and partly the cue-ball thing. Sure I have a forehead the size of JFK’s proposed new runway, but thanks to Zeb’s surgical skills my bald patch is gone, so I thought my hair wouldn’t be such a target. Yet this restroom-waiting, empty-cup-holding, angry old motherfucker has nailed me twice already. Would it pain Jesus so much to send a few more decent people my way every once in a while? I know they’re out there. Jason is one. Evelyn is another, underneath the layer of pickling.
Yeah. And Edit was one too. Remember?
I want to bawl like a drunken aunt. I wanna grind my teeth to stumps and punch the wall, but I don’t and the effort of containing it starts me shaking all over. For a moment I think I might actually be having a heart attack, then the moment passes and I collapse onto a chair beside the Korean guy.
He drapes his spindly arm around my shoulder and says:
“My son.”
And I think: Wow. Is this guy going to surprise me by playing into his stereotype and delivering a nugget of wisdom?
“I never see a man shake after taking a dump before.” He pats me on the back. “That must have been a hell of a dump. Hollowed you right out. I think maybe I’ll wait here a few minutes, let the extractor fan do its work.”
Clever but not very wise. I pluck my five dollars from his cup and go back outside, into my life.
Predawn lasts a little longer in Manhattan because of the urban topography and what light does manage to find a through line is faded and whittled until it arrives gray and limpid on the sidewalks.
Yeah, I know. You’re thinking that maybe I should concentrate on the problems I got instead of contemplating early-morning light in Manhattan.
Limpid? Fuck me.
The Broadway Park House is exactly where I left it last night, standing sentry over Central Park, built on money so old it started off as goats. Ronelle pulls her Lincoln in hard, bumping the front wheel up on the sidewalk, letting the doormen know who’s in charge before she even steps out of the vehicle.
The experienced guys get the message and hang back, but one young buck bristles at how the Broadway Park bay has been defiled and is over like a shot.
“Can I park that for you, ma’am?” he asks, pronouncing ma’am like his pops owns a plantation somewhere.
Ronnie doesn’t even look at him. “You don’t touch my car, kid. And if anyone does touch it, I’m holding you responsible. Got it?”
The kid may have blurted out some kind of reply, but at that stage we are already through the door.
Ronnie has a menace about her that is particularly effective in post offices or hotels. Wherever people are responsible for shit. They take one look at Ronelle Deacon with her game face on and they start thinking, Not me, please God, not me.
Ronnie strides through the lobby making a beeline for the concierge desk, snapping her fingers at a lady trying to hide behind the monitor.
“Hey, hey, sweetie,” she says. “Get me Edit Costello on the phone.”
The lady makes a perfunctory attempt to uphold the hotel’s privacy policy.
“Miss Vikander-Costello does not wish to be disturbed. She sent a memo.”
Ronnie flashes her badge. “See this, sweetie? This trumps the shit out of your memo. This takes your memo out back and beats the crap out of it. This bends your memo over and—”
“Very well, Officer,” says the lady, rightly guessing that Ronnie would continue with her graphic memo-defiling imagery for as long as was necessary. “I’m dialing right now. Look, I’m dialing.”
Edit picks up and the concierge speaks to her in that enthusiastic yet deferential manner that makes rich folk feel good about having people serve them, then hands the phone to Ronnie.
“Miss Vikander-Costello has kindly agreed to speak with you.”
Ronnie takes the phone and winks at me. This is not a friendly wink like a person might get from Fonzie. This particular wink says, See how smooth I am? Now keep on keeping quiet and let me do my thing.
Okay. Let me do my thing might be a little bit of stereotyping on my part, but that Korean guy knocked my powers of interpretation for six.
Ronnie tucks the phone under her ear and puts on a sad face.
“Yes, Mrs. Costello, thank you so much for agreeing to speak with me.”
Thank you so much?
That ain’t the Ronelle I know. She’s running some kinda game.
“My name is Lieutenant Deacon, with the Jersey State Police. And the thing is, we found a relative of yours down by the docks. His wallet identifies him as one Daniel McEvoy and, believe it or not, you are this bum . . . eh, this guy’s next of kin. I was wondering if my associate and I could come up and talk to you about him. It won’t take more than a minute, then I’m outta your morning.” Ronnie nods for a couple seconds, then smiles her dangerous, beautiful smile. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Costello. I appreciate you taking the time.”
She hangs up and points a stiff finger at me. Maybe I’m supposed to suck it. I honestly don’t know any more. Obviously I can’t read signs for shit.
“Okay, Associate. We are in. I do all the talking up there and I don’t want to hear a peep outta your face.”
I’m glad I didn’t suck the finger now. I’m pretty sure it would have been the wrong move.
Someone who is not Edit opens the door, which is good news for me, as I get a pass into the apartment. The door opener is a fit-looking fecker in his thirties wearing hemp shorts, and the name Pablo pops into my memory. Perhaps Edit is getting a work-out session in before the business day kicks off.
Ronnie brusquely emasculates the guy.
“This is confidential police business, sir,” she says. “I want you to point me in Mrs. Costello’s direction and then stay out here in the hall. If I need you to massage my glutes or something, I’ll whistle, got it?”
The guy is wearing a Buddha T-shirt and a couple of string bracelets, so I’m guessing he’s not used to his space being violated by such negativity. I see in his eyes that he’s about to lay some kind of bio-energy, chi, ask-the-universe line on Ronnie, and that could put him in the hospital, so I intervene.
“Pablo’s fine, aren’t you Pablo? He’s at peace, right?”
Pablo blinks. “Yes. Of course. Miss Edit is waiting in her office. Just down the corridor.”
“Past the gorilla,” I say. “I’ve been here before.”
Edit has that same desperately hopeful look strapped to her face that she wore in the Parker Meridien. It’s a good look and only hardens a fraction when she sees who’s waltzing in her door very much not dead.
“Lieutenant Deacon,” she says. “I somehow got the impression that Mr. McEvoy had been found drowned down by some docks or other.”
Deacon doesn’t bother hiding her grin. Ronnie once told me that screwing with rich folks’ schedules is the runner-up in her top five list of on-the-job perks. Buying drug-dealer bling in police auctions was number one. Couple of months ago Ronelle picked up a jewel-encrusted samurai sword for a hundred bucks, which she is just dying to baptize with blood. I haven’t visited since then.
“I don’t know how you inferred that. It’s certainly not the impression I intended to convey.”
This is a pretty pat statement and I get the feeling Ronnie has trotted it out before.
Edit nods slowly, taking her time signing some contracts on her desk. She is dressed in her gym gear, which seems a little out of place in the office, but she looks healthy and calm, and if I had to take her word over mine I’d need to think about it for a minute.
Finally she l
ays the pen in a groove carved into her desktop.
“So, Lieutenant Deacon, if Mr. McEvoy is not actually dead, what are you doing here?”
Ronnie isn’t cowed by the wealth on display around her; in fact she thrives on this level of confrontation, which is why she might not rise much further in any police department.
“You have no idea why I’m here?”
Edit’s smile acknowledges that she recognizes an adversary.
“No. Why don’t you tell me?”
Ronnie brushes some papers aside and perches on a corner of the desk.
“Mr. McEvoy here . . .”
“Your associate.”
“Yes, my associate, swears that you hired two police officers to kidnap and possibly murder him.”
Edit has had a moment to compose herself and so does not overreact.
“Do the police provide those services? Surely not.”
“I don’t, you can bet on that, but some of my brother officers don’t have my scruples.”
“What do the officers in question say for themselves?”
“Nothing yet, but they will, you can bet on that too.”
“More betting? You appear to be gambling quite a lot, Lieutenant.”
“So you deny knowing these officers?”
“You are the first police officer ever to grace this office, apart from Commissioner Salazar, but that was a social occasion.”
I want to dive in at this point. I want to grab this woman by the throat and shake the truth out of her. I want to wrap Evelyn in a sheet and carry her to a hospital. Ronnie seems to sense my frustration and shoots me a warning look. I shoot her a look back that says, Get on with it. You have five minutes.
Or if Ronnie’s interpretation of looks and gestures is as bad as mine, my look could say, Potato, potato, whiskey, potato, to her.