TWENTY-NINE

I’d been warned off cases before and, in the scheme of things, Fuqua had carried it off pretty well. He’d been fairly direct without getting all heavy-handed or nasty about it. There had been no direct threats to me or to the people close to me. He hadn’t gotten clichéd by listing the myriad ways the city or state could hurt my business. He didn’t try to bullshit me about it being his bright idea to make me get in line. In fact, I don’t think he enjoyed doing it at all. But he had the curse of ambition same as Larry McDonald. He saw big things for himself and didn’t think clean living was going to get him there. The fuck of it was, he was right. Larry Mac hadn’t climbed so high on the ladder by being a good cop—which he was, mostly. I believed Fuqua believed what he said about Delgado not being the murderer. Now maybe I was willing to believe it too.

That’s the thing about perspective. It had been what, two days since Delgado appeared on my radar screen? And in that short time, his initial appeal had lost much of its luster. Not all of it, most of it. That aria he had been singing to me, while not a faint whisper, was not exactly a siren’s song either. Did any of what Fuqua told me totally eliminate Delgado as a suspect? No, the late Mr. Delgado still had his charms. He’d hated Alta Conseco even before the incident at the High Line. He’d been angry enough to hire someone to maim if not kill her. And in spite of the fact that I trusted that Fuqua was telling me the truth, I was too familiar with the allure of ambition to trust him too much. If he could prove to the brass he had put me off Delgado, at least temporarily, there was probably a big reward—a bump up in grade or a plum assignment—coming his way. Apparently, a lot of powerful people had gone all in on making Delgado the next saint of New York. It wouldn’t do to have your new martyr found with a woman’s blood under his fingernails. Mostly I was clinging to Delgado’s possible guilt because I didn’t know where else to go.

Clinging to him as a suspect didn’t mean I wouldn’t keep my word to Fuqua. I wasn’t going to pursue Delgado until I got the all-clear from the detective. I meant what I said to him, that I didn’t need any shit before Sarah’s wedding. Anyway, by the time Delgado’s temporary sainthood had lapsed and his rep was primed for a bit of tarnishing, I might already be dead. If not dead, then certainly in treatment: losing my hair, my lunch, and my pride. I’d witnessed people go through surgery, radiation, and chemo. A doctor once told me that the kind of regimen I was in for was a kind of slow motion murder. That they sort of hoped the cancer would die before the rest of the patient, but that it didn’t always work out that way. Happy happy. Joy joy.

For now I needed to think and, more importantly, I needed a drink. I was depressed by the notion of having to go back to my list of hate-mailers. Christ, the thought of doing more grunt work, of spinning more tales out of lies, half-truths, and false threats was making me ill. I didn’t think I had the energy to go once more into the breach, not for this, maybe not for anything. And I couldn’t get Maya Watson’s parting words out of my head. That was a bad thing because it meant I wouldn’t get anywhere with it. I almost never made progress on a problem until I forgot about it. That was another good reason to have a drink. I backed out of my spot, away from the parking meter. I didn’t see that I was being followed, but just because I was looking for them now didn’t mean I’d spot the cops tailing me.

I didn’t figure on finding Flannery in McPhee’s, so I went to that other neighborhood place, the one with the name that I never knew. And there on a lonely barstool was the great man himself in all his guilt and glory. He didn’t turn, but saw me at the door in the mirror behind the bar. He tilted his head and slapped the barstool to his left.

“Dewar’s rocks,” I said to the barman as I nestled in beside Flannery.

He still did not turn my way, looking instead at my face in the mirror. “Rough day?”

“Rough month, but, yeah, today in particular.”

The bartender put up my drink and started a tab without asking.

“Any progress in the case?”

Shrugged my shoulders. “I thought so, but I’ve been warned off for the time being.”

He was confused. “Warned off?”

I explained about Delgado, but did it very quietly so that not even someone right next to Flannery would be able to hear. Flannery shook his head and laughed. It was the kind of laugh that had more to do with disgust than good humor.

“Great fireman,” Flannery said, “but a total prick, old Jorge. He tries to hire a leg-breaker to hurt a woman, then jumps before a speeding car to save a child. Go figure. Moe, I swear, I sometimes wonder if there is a God.”

“I don’t, not anymore. I was never much of a believer to begin with and with what I’ve seen …”

“The wife was a true believer. Madge went to mass every day and the rosary was like a sixth finger on her hand. I used to think she believed enough for all of us. Then, when she passed, I knew the lie of that. You can’t believe for somebody else. They bury your faith with you.”

“Then I guess my coffin will be light as a feather. No faith to bury with me.”

“There’s always the guilt to add the weight of absent faith. With the guilty cross I bear they’ll need a forklift to lower me down.”

“Maybe we can split the cost of the rental.”

He waved his hand at me. “Ah, listen to the two of us bellyaching about the weight of our guilt. Only two types of creatures without the weight of guilt on them: the newly born and the forgotten dead.”

Why did he have to use the word bellyaching? I hadn’t even finished two thirds of my drink and I was already feeling the fire burning in my gut. I asked for a glass of ice water.

“Are you okay, Moe?” Flannery asked, looking directly at me for the first time since I walked in.

“No, Flannery, I’m pretty far away from okay.” I gulped the water down and turned to the barman. “Get my friend here another.”

He nodded. I left enough on the bar to cover more than two more Jamesons and a nice tip.

“I need to rest,” I said, shaking Flannery’s hand.

“You know, Moe, there’s something I meant to talk to you about.”

“What’s that?”

“I hear there’s some guy fanning the flames over at McPhee’s,” he said. “You’ve pissed off a lot of folks poking around the way you have.”

“I have a talent for pissing people off.”

“Best to watch your back carefully for now.”

“For today, at least, I’ve got New York’s Finest doing that for me.”

“What?”

“Never mind and thanks for the heads up. Take good care.”

Out on the street, I nearly keeled over from the pain in my belly, but the pain didn’t last. It was only a tease, a calling card to say, “Welcome to the rest of your life.”