Everybody Dies (Matthew Scudder) Read online

  “Who was he?”

  “His name was Florian.”

  “Florian? First name or last?’

  “First, I assume. ‘Matt, this is Florian. Florian, this is Matt.’”

  “Snappy dialogue. Florian. Did he have long hair and play a Gypsy violin?”

  “He had a wedding ring.”

  “He did and she didn’t.”

  “Right.”

  “So he was married and she wasn’t, and maybe that’s why they were in a low-down boozer instead of some more gentrified establishment.” She put her hand on mine. “First Jim and then Lisa. This has been quite a night for you, hasn’t it?”

  “There were a lot of others killed at Grogan’s, too.”

  “You mentioned the bartender. Burke?”

  “And people I knew by sight, and others I didn’t know at all. So much death.”

  “I’m reeling from it myself and I wasn’t even there. You were there both times.”

  “It doesn’t feel real.”

  “Of course not. It’s too much to take in. And you must be exhausted. Did you get any sleep at all before you went out to get shot at?”

  “That’s not why I went out. And no, I couldn’t even keep my eyes closed.”

  “I bet you could now.”

  “I think you’re right,” I said, and got to my feet. “You know, I used to be able to miss a night’s sleep now and then and just keep going. Of course I had an engine back then that burned alcohol for fuel.”

  “Your engine didn’t have quite so many miles on it then, either.”

  “You think that’s got something to do with it?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “You haven’t lost a step. Get some sleep, slugger. Now.”

  I dropped off right away, and I don’t think I so much as changed position until my eyes snapped open a little past noon. I hadn’t awakened that abruptly in years. It wasn’t like waking up, it was like coming out of a blackout.

  When I’d showered and shaved, Elaine met me with a cup of coffee and told me the phone had been ringing all morning. “I let the machine pick up,” she said. “A lot of people who wanted to know about Jim, or who wanted to tell you about Jim. And other people, too. Names I didn’t recognize and some I did. Joe Durkin, and that other cop, the one from last night.”

  “George Wister?”

  “That’s the one. He called twice. The second time I thought he could see me. ‘Please pick up the phone if you’re listening to this.’ Very stern, very parent-to-child, and just the sort of thing guaranteed to elicit a strong fuck-you response from moi. Needless to say, I did not pick up.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “I didn’t even pick up when it was for me. It was Monica, and I wasn’t in the mood to hear about her latest married boyfriend. The one time I did pick up, though, was when TJ called. He’d seen the news and he wanted to make sure you were all right. I told him you were, and I also told him not to open up today. In fact I had him put a sign in the window.”

  “’We Be Closed for the Month So’s We Can Be Buyin’ Some New Stock, Jock.’”

  “I also called Beverly Faber. You can imagine how much I wanted to make that call, but I figured I had to. She sounded sedated, or maybe she was just groggy from shock and lack of sleep. The cops had her up until all hours answering questions. The impression they left her with, or maybe it’s the one she wanted to be left with, is that Jim’s murder was a case of mistaken identity.”

  “Well, it was.”

  “Right now she seems to see it as the workings of random fate. Do you remember when that actress dropped something out a window? I think it was a flower pot.”

  “God, that was ages ago. I was a cop when it happened. In fact I was still in Brooklyn, I hadn’t transferred to the Sixth. That’s how long ago it was.”

  “The flower pot fell something like sixteen stories and killed a guy walking home from dinner. Wasn’t that it?”

  “Something like that. The question at the time was how the flower pot got out the window. Not that she was aiming at the poor jerk, but did it really just happen to fall or did she pick it up and throw it at somebody?”

  “And he ducked and it went out the window?”

  “Maybe. Whatever it was, it was a hell of a long time ago.”

  “Well, Beverly remembers it like it was yesterday. Her Jim was like the guy who got hit with the flower pot, just minding his business until God’s thumb came down and squashed him like a bug.” She made a face. “You know,” she said, “I never liked Beverly. But I certainly felt for her, and I really wanted to like her for the duration of the phone call.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “She’s not an easy woman to like. I think it’s her voice, she sounds like she’s whining even when she’s not. Listen, are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Well, thank God, because I was afraid I was going to have to tie you down and force-feed you. Go listen to your messages while I fix you something.”

  I played the messages and jotted down names and numbers, even though I didn’t much want to return any of the calls, especially the ones from either of the cops. Wister’s second message was as Elaine had described it, and drew much the same response from me as it had from her. Joe Durkin’s call, logged in just half an hour before I’d opened my eyes, sounded at once urgent and irritated, and didn’t make me eager to get him on the phone.

  I deleted the messages—you can’t really erase them, it’s digital, so there’s no tape to erase. I went into the kitchen and ate everything Elaine put in front of me, and when the phone rang again I let the machine screen it. The caller hung up without leaving a message.

  “There were a lot of those,” she said. “Hangups.”

  “There always are. A lot of the time it’s telemarketers.”

  “God, do you remember my brief career as a telemarketer? What a washout I was.”

  “That wasn’t telemarketing.”

  “Of course it was.”

  “It was phone sex,” I said.

  “Well, it’s the same thing. Either way you’re jerking people off over the phone. God, that was funny, wasn’t it?”

  “You didn’t think so at the time.”

  “I thought it was something I could do, and it turned out it wasn’t. That was around the time I met Lisa.”

  “Right.”

  “Before you and I moved in together, and before I opened the shop. I’d stopped seeing clients and I couldn’t figure out what to do with the rest of my life.”

  “I remember.”

  “Matt?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  I rinsed my plate at the sink, put it in the rack to dry.

  She said, “You’ll want to call TJ.”

  “In a little while.”

  “And did you want to catch the TV news? New York One had a lot of crime scene footage.”

  “It’ll keep.”

  She was silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Then she said, “You and Lisa were close, weren’t you?”

  “Close?”

  “Look, do me a favor, okay? Tell me to shut up and mind my own business.”

  “I’m not going to tell you that.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “Ask your question.”

  “Was she the one you were sleeping with? God, I can’t believe I said that.”

  “The answer’s yes.”

  “I know the answer’s yes. It ended awhile ago, didn’t it?”

  “Quite a while ago. I hadn’t seen her since before the two of us saw her at Armstrong’s.”

  “That’s what I thought. I knew you were seeing somebody. That’s what I meant when I said . . .”

  “I know.”

  “That marriage didn’t have to change anything. And I meant it. Did you think I was being noble? Because I wasn’t.”

  “I figured you meant it.”

  “And I did, and I was not for one minute
being noble. I was being realistic. Men and women are different, and one of the ways they’re different is sex. They can throw me out of the Sisterhood for saying so, but I don’t care. It’s true. And I ought to know, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Men screw around, and for years I made a very nice living being somebody they screwed around with. And most of them were married, and none of it had anything to do with their marriages. They screwed around for a lot of reasons, but all of them added up to one reason: Men are like that.”

  She picked up my hand, turned my wedding ring around and around.

  She said, “I think it’s probably biological. Other animals are the same way, and don’t tell me they’re all neurotic or responding to peer pressure. So why should I expect you to be different, or why should I even want you to be different? The only thing to worry about is if you found somebody else you liked better than me, and I didn’t think that would happen.”

  “It never will.”

  “That’s what I decided, because I know what we’ve got. Did you fall in love with her?”

  “No.”

  “It was never a threat, was it? To us.”

  “Not for a minute.”

  “Look at me,” she said. “I’ve got tears in my eyes. Can you believe it?”

  “I can believe it”

  “The wife crying over the death of the mistress. You’d think they’d be tears of joy, wouldn’t you?”

  “Not from you.”

  “And ‘mistress’ is the wrong word for her. You’d have to be paying her rent, and seeing her every afternoon from five to seven. Isn’t that how the French manage these things?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person.”

  “Cinq à sept, that’s what they call it. What’ll we call her? How about the Designated Girlfriend?”

  “That’s not bad.”

  “I just feel so sad. Oh, yes, hold me. That’s better. You know how I feel, baby? Like we lost a member of the family. Isn’t that ridiculous? Isn’t that nuts?”

  * * *

  One of the first calls I returned was from Ray Gruliow. “I need your professional services,” he said, “and for a change I’ve got a client with reasonably deep pockets, which means you can bill at your full hourly rate.”

  “I don’t suppose he can wait a couple of weeks.”

  “I wouldn’t even want to wait a couple days on this one. Don’t tell me you’re booked up.”

  “That’s what I just told another member of your profession. I’ll be a little more candid with you.”

  “In light of our warm personal and professional relationship.”

  “That’s the idea. I’ve got some personal business, Ray, and I can’t even think about work for the time being.”

  “Personal business.”

  “Right.”

  “Some would call that oxymoronic, don’t you think? If it’s personal, how can it be business?”

  “How indeed?”

  “Wait a minute. This wouldn’t have anything to do with something that happened last night in your part of town, would it?”

  “Like what?”

  “You see the headline in the Post? ‘Slaughter on Tenth Avenue,’ they called it, with the originality for which they’re famous.”

  “I haven’t seen the papers yet.”

  “Or the TV?”

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I see,” he said. “Very interesting.”

  I was silent for a moment. Then I said, “I think I need legal advice.”

  “Well, young man, today’s your lucky day. I just happen to be an attorney.”

  “I was there last night.”

  “Are we talking about Tenth Avenue?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were there when the excrement hit the ventilating system?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus Christ. You know the body count? The last I heard it stood at twelve dead and seven wounded, and at least one of the wounded is circling the drain. One of the morning news shows had an interior shot of the bar, and it looked a lot like Rotterdam after the Luftwaffe paid a call.”

  “It looked pretty bad when I saw it last.”

  “But you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “And you got out before the cops turned up.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Earlier in the evening I had dinner with a friend at a Chinese restaurant.”

  “And in Beijing I understand everybody’s favorite place is McDonald’s. Go figure, huh?”

  “I guess it didn’t make the news.”

  “You guess what didn’t make the—This is a restaurant in the same neighborhood as the other place?”

  “More or less. Eighth Avenue.”

  “It made the news, all right, probably because it was in the same neighborhood. Lone gunman shoots a lone diner for no reason at all. He ran a copy shop in the neighborhood, if I remember correctly.”

  “Well, a printshop.”

  “Close enough. So?”

  “You met the guy.”

  “I met him?”

  “You heard him qualify six months ago at St. Luke’s,” I said. “He had seventeen years. Jim F.”

  “Your sponsor.”

  “Right.”

  “He’s the guy you have dinner with every Sunday. They said he was a lone diner, but I guess he wasn’t.”

  “He was alone when it happened. I was washing my hands. Ray, the two things are related and I’m the link. I held out on the cops last night, and then I got the hell out of Grogan’s before they arrived on the scene. They’ve been leaving messages on my machine and I don’t want to talk to them.”

  “So don’t talk to them. You’re under no obligation to do so.”

  “I’m a licensed private investigator.”

  “Oh, that’s a point. That does obligate you in certain ways, doesn’t it? On the other hand, if you’re working for an attorney, you’re shielded to a degree by lawyer-client privilege.”

  “You want to hire me?”

  “No, this time around I’m going to be your lawyer. Is your friend still ably represented by the resourceful Mark Rosenstein?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Have him call Mark,” he said, “and have him tell Mark to hire you to investigate various matters in connection with pending legal action. Can you remember all this?”

  “I’m writing it down. The only thing is, my guy could be hard to reach.”

  “I’ll call Mark. It’s not as though he has to do anything. Meanwhile, you might want to read the papers and look at the television.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to.”

  “New York One profiled your friend in the course of a stand-up in front of what’s left of his place of business. They made him sound like Al Capone out of Damon Runyon. Bloodthirsty but somehow engaging.”

  “That’s fair enough.”

  “That great piece of theater with the bowling ball. Did that really happen?”

  “I wasn’t there,” I said. “And you never get a straight answer from him on the subject.”

  “If it didn’t happen,” he said, “it damn well should have. Remember, don’t tell them a thing. And call me if you need me.”

  I called TJ, and he picked up the papers and brought them over. We sat in front of the TV and he channel-surfed while I saw what the tabloids had to say. They both gave it the front page—the News just slugged it hell’s kitchen—but it had broken too late to get the full treatment inside, and must have missed the early editions altogether. The columnists and feature writers would be all over it tomorrow morning, but for now there were just the bare facts. The body count varied, the Post had one more dead than the News, and names were withheld pending notification of kin.

  The TV reporters didn’t have a whole lot more hard news, aside from more recent numbers for the casualties. But they had names and ph
otos of some of the dead. Some of the photos looked familiar, but otherwise none were of people I knew. They evidently hadn’t identified Lisa or her friend yet, or hadn’t managed to notify family members.

  The interior shots of Grogan’s were as described, and as I remembered the place when Mick was dragging me out of it. And the exteriors were what you’d expect, with one reporter after another doing a stand-up in front of the sweet old saloon, its windows swathed in sheets of plywood now, the sidewalk in front still carpeted with debris and broken glass.

  TV’s edge was in sidebars and backgrounders, in interviews with survivors and neighborhood residents, in profiles of Michael “The Butcher” Ballou, Grogan’s legendary unofficial proprietor, and heir to a long-standing tradition of savage Hell’s Kitchen barkeeps. They trotted out the old stories, some truer than others, and of course they didn’t fail to include the one about the bowling ball.

  “That happen?” TJ wanted to know.

  According to all versions of the tale, Mick Ballou had had a serious difference of opinion with another neighborhood character named Paddy Farrelly, who disappeared one day and was never seen again. The day after Farrelly was last sighted, Mick allegedly made the rounds of the neighborhood ginmills (including Grogan’s, no doubt, which had not yet come into his hands) carrying the sort of bag in which a bowler carries his ball.

  What he did in the various saloons, aside from having a glass of whiskey, depended on which version of the story you were hearing. In some he simply made a show of setting the bag significantly on top of the bar, then asking after the absent Farrelly and drinking his health “wherever the dear lad may be.”

  In other renditions he opened the bag, offering a look within to those who wanted it. And in one over-the-top version he went door to door, saloon to saloon, each time yanking the severed head of Paddy Farrelly out by the hair and showing it around. “Doesn’t he look grand?” he said. “When did he ever look so fine?” And then he invited people to buy old Paddy a drink.

  “I don’t know what happened,” I told TJ. “I was over in Brooklyn, still in uniform, and I’d never heard of Paddy Farrelly or of Mick, either. If I had to guess, I’d say he did make the rounds and he did have a bowling bag with him, but I don’t believe he opened it. He might have, if he was wild and drunk enough, but I don’t think he did.”