Everybody Dies (Matthew Scudder) Read online

  “You always had a reason.”

  “Everybody can always find a reason. The point is I’ve done illegal acts, and I’ve worked for and with criminals, but I’ve never thought of myself as a criminal.”

  “Well, of course not. You’re not a criminal.”

  “I’m not sure what I am. I tell myself I try to do what’s right, but I don’t know how I make that determination. The phrase that comes to mind is ‘moral compass,’ but I’m not sure I know exactly what a moral compass is, or if I have one.”

  “Of course you do, honey. But the needle keeps spinning around, doesn’t it?”

  “The only rule I’ve got to live by,” I said, “is ‘Don’t drink and go to meetings.’ Jim says if I do that much everything else’ll work out the way it’s supposed to.”

  “So you do and it does.”

  “Oh, it works out. That’s another thing he told me, things always work out. And God’s will always gets done. That’s how you find out God’s will. You wait and see what happens.”

  “You’ve quoted that line before.”

  “I’ve always liked it,” I said. “I guess it was God’s will for Jim to die tonight, and for me to live. Otherwise it wouldn’t have happened, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Sometimes,” I said, “it’s hard to figure out what God has in mind. Sometimes you have to wonder if He’s paying attention.”

  We talked for a long time. Ages ago, in another lifetime, when she was a hooker and I was a cop married to somebody else, part of what drew me to her was that she was so easy to talk to. In a sense I suppose that was part of the job description in her chosen field. A call girl, after all, ought to put men at ease. But it seemed to go beyond that for us. I sensed that I could be entirely myself in her presence, that it was me she liked, not the man I pretended to be, not the man I thought the world wanted me to be.

  Maybe that, too, was part of the job description.

  I drank coffee and she sipped her herb tea and I talked about Jim. I told stories from early sobriety, before she and I had found each other again after having been out of touch for years. “At first I figured he was a nice enough fellow,” I told her, “but I wished to God he would leave me alone, because I knew I wasn’t going to stay sober and he was just one more person to disappoint. Then I started to look forward to seeing him at meetings. As far as I was concerned he was Mister AA himself, the voice of sobriety. As a matter of fact he came into the program less than two years before I did. I was in my first ninety days when I heard him speak on his second anniversary. I look back now, and what’s two years? A person with two years is just beginning to clear the cobwebs out of his head. So he was actually pretty new himself, but from my perspective he was dry enough to be a fire hazard.”

  “What would he tell you now?”

  “What would he tell me? He’ll never tell me anything again.”

  “But if he could.”

  I sighed. “’Don’t drink. And go to meetings.’”

  “Do you want to go to a meeting now?”

  “It’s too late for the midnight meeting on Houston Street. They’ve got another one at two a.m., but that’s too late for me. So no, I don’t want to go, but I don’t want to drink, either, so I guess it evens out.”

  “What else would he tell you?”

  “I can’t read his mind.”

  “No, but you can use your imagination. What would he say?”

  Grudgingly I said, “’Get on with your life.’”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And are you going to?”

  “Get on with my life? I don’t really have a choice, do I? But it’s not that easy.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told those two bozos the other night that I was done working for Ballou, and I told Mick the same thing. And that was that.”

  “But?”

  “But I must have known it wasn’t going to be that easy,” I said, “or I wouldn’t have gone straight to Jovine’s for a shoulder rig. I told myself if I stayed away from Mick and kept close to home they’d find it easy to forget about me. But obviously they’d already made a decision to kill me, and tonight was the first chance they got, and they took it.” I frowned. “It shouldn’t change anything. Oh, I’m raging inside over Jim’s death. Most of my anger’s at myself for getting him killed, but—”

  “You didn’t get him killed.”

  “I put him in harm’s way. Blame or no blame, that’s hard to argue with. He was killed because someone mistook him for me, and that happened because I met him for dinner. And because I’d given someone cause to want me dead.”

  “I could argue with you, but I won’t.”

  “Good. As I was saying, most of my anger’s with myself. But there’s some left over for the shooter, and for whoever sicced him on me.”

  “Two different people?”

  “Two minimum. Somebody made the decision, either the slugger with the slicked-down hair or the guy who gave him his orders. Somebody else staked out our building and followed me from here to the Chinese restaurant. He could have been the slugger or his chum—they’d both recognize me without trouble—or there could have been a third person, someone who wouldn’t have to worry that I might recognize him.”

  “If so, maybe he doubled as the shooter.”

  “Maybe, but I’d bet against it. I think he followed me to the restaurant, then posted himself across the street, making a quick call on his cell phone. . . .”

  “I guess they’ve all got cell phones these days.”

  “Everybody but you and me, it seems like. Even Mick’s got one, if you can believe that. He used it the other night to call ahead to the farm and say we were on our way.”

  “’Leave a light burning, and a shovel on the back steps.’”

  “The tail calls the shooter, who gets in his car and hurries to the scene. They meet on the street and the tail points to the Lucky Panda. ‘Red shirt, tan jacket, Gap khakis, sneakers,’ he says. ‘You can’t miss him.’

  “Then he gets behind the wheel, unless there’s already a driver in addition to the shooter. Whoever’s doing the driving puts the car someplace handy and keeps the motor running, and the shooter goes in with a gun and comes out without it, and he jumps in the car and they’re gone.”

  “And a man’s dead,” she said.

  “And a man’s dead.”

  “It could have been you.”

  “It was supposed to be me.”

  “But God had other ideas.”

  That was one way to look at it. I said, “Two men on Ninth Avenue the night before last. A third who ordered the hit. A fourth man to trail me to the Lucky Panda, and a fifth to walk in and pull the trigger. And maybe a sixth man to drive the car.” I looked at her. “That’s a lot of people to get even with.”

  “Is that what you want to do?”

  “You can’t help wanting to,” I said. “The urge is pretty basic, and I suppose it’s instinctive, even cellular. ‘They did it to us, we’re gonna do it to them.’ Look at human history.”

  “Look at Bosnia,” she said.

  “But it’s five or six people, as I said, and I don’t even know who they are. And I can’t make myself believe Jim’s spirit is crying out for vengeance. If there’s a part of you that survives, I’m inclined to believe it’s not the part that takes things personally. Didn’t you ask what Jim would tell me now? Well, what he wouldn’t tell me is to get out there and kill one for the Gipper.”

  “No, that doesn’t sound like Jim.”

  “I hate the idea of sitting back and letting them get away with it,” I said, “but I’m not sure anybody ever really gets away with anything, and I think I’ve largely outgrown the notion that the world can’t get along without my help.”

  “It’s a pretty common delusion,” she said, “and the more religious a person is, the more he’ll subscribe to it. If there’s one thing the fundamentalists of the world have in common it’s the convicti
on that God’s work won’t get done unless they pitch in and do it. Their God’s all-powerful, but He’s screwed unless they help Him out.”

  I drank some coffee. I said, “It’s not my job to punish them. I’m not appointing myself judge and jury, and I’m not volunteering for the firing squad, either. I told them I was off the case, and I told Mick the same thing, and Jim’s death doesn’t change that. I still want to walk away from it.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “But there’s a problem. See, I don’t think I can.”

  “Why not?”

  “I walked away from it two nights ago,” I said, “and it didn’t do me any good. Their response was to send somebody to kill me. As far as they were concerned I was still on the case. Or maybe they didn’t care. On or off, I was the son of a. bitch who kicked their asses, and maybe that’s all you have to do around here to get Madame Defarge to knit your name in the shawl. Because one way or another I got my name on the Death List, and Jim’s dying isn’t going to get me off it.”

  “So even if you don’t do a thing . . .”

  “I’m still marked for death. By now they probably know they killed the wrong guy, and if not they’ll know by morning. I may be inclined to think of Jim as having died for my sins, but that won’t make them accept his death as a substitute for mine.”

  “Your name’s still in the shawl.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She looked at me. “So? What do we do?”

  What we tried to do was make love, but that didn’t really work, so we just held each other. I told a few stories about Jim, some she’d heard before, others that were new to her. A couple of them were funny, and we laughed.

  She said, “I probably shouldn’t say this, but it’s rattling around in my head and making me crazy. I’m terribly sorry for what happened to Jim. I’m sorry for him and I’m sorry for Beverly, and of course I’m sorry for you.

  “But sorry isn’t all I feel. I’m glad it was him and not you.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “It’s something I find myself thinking all the time,” she said. “It’s what the voice in my head says every time I read the obituaries, and sometimes I think that’s why I read the obituaries. So I can say ‘Better her than me’ whenever some dame my age dies of breast cancer. ‘Better him than Matt’ when some poor guy drops dead on the golf course. ‘Better them than us’ whenever there’s an earthquake or a flood or a plague or a plane crash. Whoever they were, whatever happened to them, better them than us.”

  “It’s a pretty natural response.”

  “But for a change it really resonates, doesn’t it? Because it was pretty much a case of one or the other. If Jim went to the bathroom and you stayed at the table . . .”

  “It might have turned out differently. I’d have been facing the door when he walked in. And I had a gun.”

  “And would you have gone for it in time?”

  If I’d looked up when the door opened, I’d have seen a stranger, a black man who looked not at all like the pair of white guys who jumped me. And that’s if I looked up. I might well have been engrossed in the menu, or reading Jim’s magazine.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But probably not.”

  “So better him than you is what I say. My heart aches for Beverly, it makes me sick to think of what she’s going through right now, but better her than me. These aren’t noble sentiments, are they?”

  “I don’t suppose they are.”

  “But God knows they’re heartfelt And you have to feel the same way, baby. Because you can tell yourself it should have been you there slumped in your own blood, but it wasn’t you and in your heart you’re glad of it. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” I said after a moment. “I guess you are. I almost wish it weren’t so, but it is.”

  “All that means is you’re glad to be alive, sweetie.”

  “I guess so.”

  “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

  “I guess not.”

  “You know,” she said, “it probably wouldn’t hurt you to cry.”

  She may have been right about that, too, but we weren’t going to find out. The last time I remember crying was at an early AA meeting, when I spoke up for the first time to identify myself as an alcoholic. The tears that followed took me completely by surprise. My eyes have stayed dry ever since, except for the occasional movie, and I don’t think that counts. Those aren’t real tears, any more than the fear that grips you at a horror film is genuine fear.

  So I couldn’t cry and I couldn’t make love, and it turned out I couldn’t sleep, either. I almost drifted off and then I didn’t, and finally I gave up and got out of bed and got dressed. I put the vest on under my shirt, and the holster over it. I zipped the windbreaker just far enough to conceal the gun.

  Then I went into the other room and made a phone call.

  “A black man,” Mick said, looking across the table at me.

  “According to the witnesses.”

  “But you never saw him yourself.”

  “No, and I didn’t get to question the witnesses, either, but I understand they all agreed the shooter was black. Medium height, medium build, twenties or thirties or forties—”

  “Narrows it down.”

  “And he had a beard or a mustache.”

  “One or the other?”

  “Or both,” I said. “Or neither, I suppose. He was in and out in less time than it takes to tell about it, and nobody had any reason to look at him before the shooting started, and then all they wanted to do was keep from getting shot themselves.”

  “But he was black,” Mick said. “On that point they’re in rare agreement.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it niggers then? And what am I to them, or they to me?” He picked up his glass of whiskey, looked at it, set it down untouched. “The two men who gave you a beating,” he said, “or tried to. Were they black?”

  “They were both white. The one with the gun sounded like a born New Yorker. I didn’t get a good look at the other one, or hear him talk, but he was white.”

  “And the man who shot your friend . . .”

  “Was black.”

  “A white man could hire a black assassin,” he said thoughtfully. “But would this man bring in someone from outside? Wouldn’t he use one of his own?”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But someone’s trying to . . .”

  “Take it all away,” he said. “And I don’t know who he is, or why it’s me he’s after.”

  I didn’t really think there’d be anyone staked out at the Parc Vendôme, but I’d just had my horse stolen and I wasn’t about to leave the barn door unlocked. I went down to the basement and slipped out of the building by the rear service entrance. On my way to Grogan’s I looked over my shoulder a lot. Nobody tailed me, and no one popped up out of the shadows in front of me.

  Mick had said he’d make a pot of coffee, and he was at a table when I got there, with a bottle and glass in front of him and a stoneware coffee mug across from him. I scanned the room from the doorway. It was getting on for closing, but there were a fair number of people who didn’t want the weekend to end, pairs and singles at the bar, a few couples at the tables. I spotted Andy Buckley and Tom Heaney way in back at the dartboard, Burke behind the bar, and old Eamonn Dougherty on the other side of it. Mick had pointed him out once as a legendary IRA gunman. He was killing men before you were born, he’d said.

  There were a couple of other familiar faces, too.

  I walked to where Mick was sitting, picked up my coffee mug, and carried it to a table along the wall. His eyes widened at this, but when I motioned for him he joined me, bringing his bottle and glass.

  “You didn’t care for the other table?”

  “Too close to those folks,” I said. “I didn’t want to listen to their conversation, or for them to be listening to ours.”

  “I already heard enough of theirs,�
�� he said, amusement in his eyes. “It’s a serious discussion of their relationship that they’re having.”

  “I thought it might be,” I said, and then I told him about my visit to the Lucky Panda, and his eyes hardened and his face turned serious.

  And now he said, “I was wrong to get you involved.”

  “I could have turned you down.”

  “And would have, had you known what you were getting into. I’d no idea myself I’d be putting you in danger. But you’re in it now, man.”

  “I know it.”

  “They didn’t believe you’d heed their warning. Or didn’t care. You embarrassed them, made them look bad. That’s more than my two did, for Jesus’ sake.”

  “Kenny and McCartney.”

  “Executed, the poor lads.”

  Two tables away, the fellow got up and went to the bar for fresh drinks. The woman looked sidelong at me, the trace of a smile on her lips. Then she lowered her eyes.

  “And Peter Rooney,” Mick said.

  “That’s a familiar name. Do I know him?”

  “You might have met him here. Let me see, how would you know him? Well, now, he had the tattoo of a ship’s anchor on the back of his left hand, just below the wrist.”

  I nodded. “Long, narrow face, balding in front.”

  “That’s the man.”

  “He had the look of a sailor, too.”

  “And what sort of look is that? Ah, never mind. The ferry to Staten Island is all the sailing he ever did. Or will do.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He regarded his glass of whiskey He said, “You know I always have some money on the street. The Jews taught me that. It’s like bread upon the water, isn’t it? You put your money on the street and it comes back to you multiplied. Peter worked for me, at the job sites and the union halls. Making loans, you know, and receiving payments. He did none of the heavy work, you understand, as he was not cut out for it. A strong warning was as far as he’d go. After that I’d have to send someone else. Or go myself, as likely as not.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “They found him stuffed head first into a trash bin in an alley off Eleventh Avenue. He’d been beaten so that his own mother wouldn’t know him, were she alive to see him, which thanks be to God she’s not. Beaten half to death, and then stabbed dead in the bargain.”