FORTY-EIGHT

There were at least two sleepless men in the borough of Brooklyn that night. I didn’t know what Fuqua was doing about his insomnia, though I was tempted to call and ask. Me, I had no intentions of staring up at the ceiling. I’d tried to get to bed early as a means of escaping the various spiders in my head. I’d even stooped to taking a pill to help me drift off. Yeah, I used to get high and drop acid when I was in college and until my recent adventures through the looking glass of oncology, I drank enough scotch and red wine to float the Spanish Armada. Yet somewhere in the bizarro mélange of cognitive dissonance that was my moral compass, I’d become downright puritanical about narcotics. But puritans have their breaking points too and I’d reached mine. Of course, all the damned pill did was make my head cottony and got me no closer to sleep than counting sheep.

I took a shower—my second in the last several hours if you counted the earlier drenching I got on the boardwalk—and considered doing something I hadn’t done in a very long time: driving over to the Grotto for a dish of pistachio gelato. Perhaps I’d risk a slice of mediocre pizza, I thought, as I took the ten-minute ride from my condo to 86th Street. One of the reasons for the Grotto’s continued popularity was that it stayed open late. The place was crowded as ever. There were no spots on 86th, so I drove around back and parked on West 10th Street at the foot of the entrance to the loading dock.

As I walked back around the corner, I noticed that June had pushed August back into the future where it belonged. The day’s vengeful storms had given way to cloudless, star-saturated skies and the dampness of the afternoon had been replaced by dry, gentle breezes. It smelled like June again and the temperature was very Goldilocks—just right. All this and the lingering cotton in my head were nearly enough to keep thoughts of Esmeralda Sutanto from ruining the glory of the night. Nearly.

After Fuqua and I parted, I’d tried convincing myself that he was wrong about Esme and that he was building a case out of his own demons. That he was horrified by the nakedness of his ambition and the lengths he had almost been willing to go to feed it. That his guilt over looking past Esme was driving his need for self-flagellation. While all of that may have been true, it was more true that Esme really was the perfect suspect for Alta’s murder.

I decided I’d have a slice of pizza and got on that line first. Even if I somehow managed to survive the surgery, chemo, and radiation, I knew that my days of eating whatever I wanted to eat whenever I wanted to eat it were dwindling to a precious few.

“Slice of Sicilian and a Bud,” I said to the kid at the pizza counter.

When the kid slid the tray my way and handed me my change, I asked if Nicky was around. I doubted he would be at this time of night, but I would have felt like an idiot if I hadn’t asked. Although it still bugged me a little that he’d lied to me, I owed him a thank-you for trying to help me with the case. I also wanted to let him know that it was good to reconnect. Over the years, I had shed so many friends that I felt like a snake that’d molted once too often and now had nothing left to replace its old skin.

“Sure,” he said. “He’s in back. You wanna talk to him?”

“Tell him Moe is here when you get a chance, okay? I’ll be sitting over there.” I pointed to a corner table by the railing.

I pulled the cell phone from my pocket, stared at it as if it might make the decision for me, and gave Fuqua a call. He wasn’t asleep nor was he terribly enthusiastic at hearing the sound of my voice.

“Come have a beer with me, a slice of pizza,” I said, after he got done grumbling. “I’m at the Grotto.”

“It is well after midnight.”

“You’re not gonna sleep tonight and neither am I. We can do it alone or together.”

“It would take a half hour for me to get there from Canarsie.”

“So what? We can have a beer here and then go somewhere else.”

“I am exhausted.”

“Look, I’m here. You wanna come, come. You don’t wanna come, don’t.”

I was done with my slice by the time Nick Roussis came to my table. Although the pizza lived down to its usual standard, I enjoyed it more than I had ever enjoyed any pizza. I was struck by the revelation that the menu for a condemned man’s last meal is almost beside the point. What matters in the scheme of things is that it is a last meal.

Nicky looked tired, but there was something else too. He seemed out of sorts, distracted.

“What’s up, Nick?”

“What? Oh, what’s up? You tell me,” he said. “I hear you were at the old offices today.”

“News travels fast.”

“Steve Schwartz called as a professional courtesy. Told me you was poking around.”

“Not poking around. Actually, I was coming to say thanks for the assist with the case. That’s all.”

Drumming his fingers on the table, he asked, “How’d that pan out?”

“Not like I hoped,” I said.

“That’s too bad. Listen, Moe, can you excuse me for a minute? I’ve gotta delivery comin’ in and—”

“Don’t worry about it. Go ahead. I’m gonna get a gelato.”

“Good. I’ll tell the kid to take care of you. It’s on the house.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem, Moe. Just don’t go nowhere.”

“I’ll be here.”

The pistachio gelato was just how I remembered it: rich, buttery, but not too sweet. I hated things that were so sweet that the sweetness obscured the complexity of the flavor and texture. Savoring the gelato, my mind drifted off to the other food experiences that defined old Brooklyn to me: the pineapple ices at Adesso’s Bakery on Avenue X, the pastrami at Max’s Deli on Sheepshead Bay Road, the ruglach from Leon’s Bakery, the roast beef from Brennan & Carr on Nostrand, the french fries at Nathan’s.

“Earth to Moe. Earth to Moe.” Nicky had returned, snapping his fingers in front of my face.

I looked at my watch. Twenty minutes had passed as if in a second. Who says time travel is impossible?

“Sorry. Just lost in the past.”

Nick sat down across from me. We chatted for a few more minutes, neither of us really saying anything. I was feeling tired at last and Nick was even more distracted than he had been earlier. We shook hands and agreed to have dinner again soon, but this time it was a hollow promise. My prognosis notwithstanding, it was Nick who seemed uncomfortable at the suggestion. It was a familiar story. Rekindling long-dormant friendships doesn’t usually work unless both parties are equally committed. Otherwise, it’s like a one-armed man trying to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together. I remembered thinking the very same thing twenty years before. I guess I’d been hemorrhaging friends for a very long time.

When I looked around, I noticed that most of the tables were empty and that the red and green neon Gelato Grotto sign had been shut off. Closing time. I walked back around the corner, tired but sated, my head much less foggy than it had been since I’d taken the pill. When I got back to my rented SUV, I realized that I was parked in exactly the same spot Alta Conseco had parked in the night she was killed. A lot of things were suddenly clearer to me and I stopped stone still in my tracks. It got quiet—no, not quiet, silent. Silent so the only thing I could hear were my own thoughts in between the suddenly quickening beats of my heart.

I looked at the rear of the Grotto and, sure enough, a van was backed up to the loading dock. But the van didn’t have commercial license plates and the doors were unmarked. There was no company name on the doors, no DOT number, no company logo, nothing. Anyway, who gets a food delivery after midnight? And why did the owner have to be here to take in a simple food delivery? It made no sense. Then, in a single breath, I went from clear-headed to lightheaded, as a thousand images and questions rushed to mind all at once.

I walked twenty feet back toward the corner, the spot where Alta’s blood trail began. I tried to remember details from the coroner’s report Fuqua had shown me. Alta was stabbed once in the back; the remainder of the wounds were to her right side and the front of her torso. She had many defensive wounds on her arms and hands. I returned to where I was parked, tried to time how long it might take someone running from the loading dock to catch up to someone walking around the corner. I flashed back to the night Nicky had invited me back to his office, the night we left through the prep kitchen onto the loading dock. I pictured the wall of the prep kitchen—rows of knives neatly lined up on magnetic strips.

Fuqua’s training officer had been right all along: only fools ignore the obvious. And I was the biggest fool of them all. I saw Nicky’s eagerness to reconnect, to go to dinner, to help with the case in a new light. Who had so conveniently supplied me with a witness against Delgado? Who kept calling me to see how things were progressing? What was one of the first questions out of Nicky’s mouth tonight? I thought back to Nick’s silly lie about going into the office a few days a week. I thought about what both the security guard and Steve Schwartz had said about the family business nearly going under and that sudden infusion of cash.

I laughed. It was a laugh disconnected from joy. I reached for my cell phone to call Fuqua. He would be relieved, I thought, to know that Esme might have been a blackmailing sociopath, but not a murderer, not yet anyway. I stopped laughing when I felt the cold steel press against the nape of my neck.