Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [20]
He works his way up to it by flashing, or maybe just rubbing against a girl. You know, in the subway, elevator, crap like that.
Then what?
Then he … gets violent.
How violent?
So far, assault. But pretty bad ones. The last time, the girl nearly died. He got seven years.
Ever used a gun?
No.
A sip of Glenfiddich.
Then he’s not our man.
At 93rd and Amsterdam, the rain sweeps in waves down the tavern window, Paulie Cerrello watching Jack Plato step out of the cab, taking a sip from his glass as Plato comes through the door, slapping water from his leather jacket.
Fucking storm. Jesus.
So? Gorsh?
I showed him everything. The whole deal.
And?
He ain’t in, Paulie. He’s scared of the slammer.
Paulie knocks back the drink, unhappy with the scheme of things, some old geezer scared of the slammer, the whole deal a bust.
So what now, Paulie? You want I should get another guy?
A shake of the head.
No, I got another problem.
He nods for one more shot.
You know my wife, right?
The rain sees no way out, no right decision, nothing that can slow the encroaching vise. It falls on bad judgment and poor choice and the clenched fist of things half thought through. At Park and 104th, it slaps against a closing window, water on the ledge dripping down onto the bare floor.
Shit.
Charlie Landrew tosses his soggy hat onto the small wooden table that is his office and dining room. Misses. The hat now on the frayed rug beneath the table.
Shit.
Leaves it.
Phone.
Yeah?
Charlie, it’s me. Lennie.
This fucking storm flooded my goddamn apartment. Water all over the fucking floor.
Listen, Charlie. I need to borrow some cash. You know, from the guy you … from him.
A hard laugh.
You barely got away with your thumbs last time, Lennie.
But I made good, that’s all that matters, right?
How much?
Twenty-five.
Charlie thinks. Old accounts. Too many of them. Past due. Lots of heavy leaning ahead. And if the leaning doesn’t work, and somebody skips? His neck in a noose already.
So what about it, Charlie?
Not a hard decision.
No.
The rain sees last options, called bluffs, final scores, silenced bells, snuffed candles, books abruptly closed. At Broadway and 110th, the windshield wipers screech as they toss it from the glass.
Listen to that, will ya?
Yeah, what a piece of shit.
A fucking BMW, and shit wipers like that.
Might as well be a goddamn Saturn.
The box shifts slightly on Luis’s lap.
I think it’s taking a crap, Angelo.
So?
So? What if it craps through the box?
It won’t crap through the box.
Okay, so it don’t. What we gonna do?
I’m thinking.
You been thinking since we left the Village.
So what’s your idea, Luis? And don’t say cops, because we ain’t showing up at no cop-house with a fucking stolen car and a baby we don’t know whose it is.
A leftward glance, toward a looming spire.
A church. Maybe a church.
The rain falls on quick solutions, available means, a way out that relieves the burden. It falls on homeless shelters and SROs and into the creaky, precariously hanging drains of old cathedrals.
At 112th and Broadway, a blast of wind hits as the bus’ hydraulic doors open.
Eddie Gorsh rises.
Good luck with the garden.
A smile back at the kid.
Thanks.
I got a daughter, too.
Then take care of her, and maybe she’ll take care of you.
Out onto the rain-pelted sidewalk, head down, toward the building, Edna waiting for him there, relieved to have him back, the years they have left, a road he’s determined to keep straight. This, he knows, will make Rebecca happy, and that is all he’s after now.
The rain moves on, northward, toward the Bronx, leaving behind new beginnings, things learned, lessons applied. At 116th and Broadway, Jamie Rourke steps out into the million, million drops, thinking of Tracey and his daughter, how he shouldn’t have said what he said, made her mad, determined to call her now, tell her how everything is going to be okay, how it’s going to be the three of them against the world, a family.
The rain falls on lost hopes and futile resolutions, redemptions