SEVEN

Some things it’s just better not to know. Like about mermaids, for instance. As a kid, I loved the notion of mermaids and of sirens singing suicide songs to ancient sailors. The images of beautiful winged or fish-tailed women luring men to their deaths were potent things in the head of a teenage boy. But somebody’s always waiting to piss on your fantasies. I don’t think I’ll ever get over Mr. Blumenthal, my ninth-grade English teacher, pissing on mine. He delighted in explaining to the class that those svelte and seductive mermaids of myth were really just dugongs, sea cows, manatees. That, as he put it, a peculiar quirk of dugong and human female anatomy combined with the deprivation and desperation of men who had been too many years on the bounding main led to the stories of sea maidens and sirens. So it was with the image of blunt-nosed and blubbery sea cows that I was confronted when I had to walk a beat on Mermaid Avenue in Coney Island. And now, parked as I was in front of Brooklyn South Homicide on Mermaid Avenue, I was confronted with those images yet again. I hesitated outside the door, remembering that there were some things it was just better not to know.

The detective in charge of the Alta Conseco case was a hotshot named Jean Jacques Fuqua. Fuqua was a dark-skinned black man in his mid-thirties. He was six-two if an inch, with shoulders so broad it looked like the hanger was still inside his light pink shirt. He was handsome, with a mouth full of white teeth, a flat nose, and dazzlingly bright eyes. He spoke fairly formal English with just a pinch of Port-au-Prince. I wasn’t surprised. There was a huge Haitian community in Brooklyn and it was only a matter of time until Haitians, like every immigrant group before them, began moving up the ranks of the NYPD.

I hadn’t been looking at a mirror when my oncologist gave me the bad news, but I imagine my expression wasn’t too dissimilar from Fuqua’s when I told him who I was and why I was there. There had been a time when I would have simply whipped out my old badge or my license—still lost in my condo somewhere—or mentioned all my friends who were now bosses in the department, but the shelf life on all of those options had expired. I was over sixty years old and flashing my tin or my PI license would have seemed pathetic, and I wasn’t in the mood to get laughed at. Is anybody ever in the mood to get laughed at? And those friends of mine who had ascended the brass ladder were now either dead, disgraced, or retired. I had about as much pull in the NYPD as a three-legged draft horse.

“So, Mr. … Prager,” he said, voice drifting off as he looked down at my card. “Someone has asked you to look into the Conseco homicide, but you will not say whom nor why. Well, mon ami, I don’t know who you think you are, but that is not the way it works. You have some information for me, I will be quite overjoyed to listen, but this is not a two-way street.”

“Two-way street, huh? Nice to see you’ve mastered the art of the cliché.”

If I thought that was going to endear me to Fuqua, I was wrong.

“Here are a few old phrases you may be familiar with, Mr. Prager. Fuck you and farewell.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard those once or twice.”

“You understand them, non?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you continue standing here?”

“Because a little professional courtesy might be nice.”

“Professional courtesy! You must have wandered into the wrong office. We do not process Medicare claims here.” His mocking laugh was fingernails on the blackboard. “Shoo, Mr. Prager, before I lose my patience and respect for my elders.”

As a last resort, I reached around my back for my badge, but the leather case never made it out of my pocket. Another detective walked over to Fuqua’s desk. I recognized his face. I drew a blank on his name. I wasn’t sure his presence was going to improve things with Fuqua, but I figured, what the hell, they couldn’t get much worse.

“Moses Prager, isn’t it?” He held his hand out to me and said, “Sherman, Detective Sherman. I worked the—”

“—Tierney homicide,” I said, shaking his hand and finishing his sentence. “I thought I recognized you.”

Sherman was shorter, paler, and thinner than Fuqua, but had a few years on him. Detective Sherman was all handshakes and smiles now. It wasn’t that way when we’d met two years ago, when he, two other detectives, and an assistant district attorney took turns interviewing me for hours on end.

“You know who this guy is, Frenchie?” Sherman looked to Fuqua, who frowned at being called Frenchie. Sherman didn’t care and he didn’t wait for an answer. “Mr. Prager here is not only an ex-cop, but a certified USDA hero.”

By the sour look on Fuqua’s face, it was difficult to tell whether he was simply unimpressed or still getting over Sherman calling him Frenchie. Cops are asshole geniuses. They are brilliant at finding their fellow cops’ buttons and then pushing them really, really hard. That much hadn’t changed since I was a cop. On the job, you either get past your sore spots or life can be pretty fucking miserable. Almost everyone toughens to the constant button pushing, but I had my doubts about Fuqua. He looked like a proud son of a bitch who didn’t give up on things very easily.

Sherman was undaunted. “A few years back—you were probably still in uniform, giving out parking tickets—this little girl artist got snatched. Her name was Sashi Bluntstone. You remember hearing about it?” Fuqua deigned to nod yes. “Anyways, we thought we had the guy who did it, some nut job named Tierney who lived over in Gerritsen Beach. Well, Prager didn’t buy it and proved us wrong. He saved the girl and this department a lot of embarrassment, so maybe you wanna give the man a break instead of busting his balls.”

Detective Fuqua didn’t exactly give me a standing ovation, but he did begin tapping his keyboard. Over his shoulder, he said, “Thank you for the testimonial, Sherman.” Then Fuqua stopped typing, turning around to face the other detective. “And Sherman, watch your mouth or we shall have some business together. Now you may leave us alone.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you, Frenchie, and help the man.” Sherman walked away, laughing. It was whistling in the graveyard. He would have been no match for Fuqua. I know I wouldn’t have wanted to tangle with him even in my younger, fitter days.

“Frenchie Fuqua was a pretty good running back for the Pittsburgh Steelers in the ’70s. He was just as famous for his style off the field as his play on the field,” I said when Sherman was out of earshot. “You shouldn’t let him see he gets to you like that.”

“I shall take it under advisement. So, what is it you wish to know?”

“Everything, for starters.”

That got a smile. He pulled a chair over next to his, motioning for me to sit. I hesitated, thinking once again about things it was better not to know.