Out on the Cutting Edge Read online

Page 24

 

  "No. "

  "Very different from me, Dennis was. He had our mothers looks. She was Irish. The old man was French, he came from a fishing village half an hour from Marseilles. I went there once, a couple of years ago, just to see what it looked like. I could see why he left. There was nothing there. " He took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, lit one, blew out smoke. "I look just like the old man," he said. "Except for the eyes. Dennis and I both got our mothers eyes. "

  "Eddie said Dennis was killed in Vietnam. "

  He turned the green eyes on me. "I dont know why the hell he went. It would have been nothing at all to get him out of it. I told him, I said, Dennis, for Christs sake, all I have to do is pick up a phone. He wouldnt have it. " He took the cigarette and ground it out in an ashtray. "So he went over there," he said, "and they shot his ass off for him, the dumb bastard. "

  I didnt say anything, and we let the silence stretch. For a moment I had the thought that the room was filling up with dead people- Eddie, Dennis, Ballous parents, and a few ghosts of my own, all the people whod passed on but still lingered on the edge of consciousness. If I turned my head quickly, I thought, I might see my aunt Peg, or my own dead parents.

  "Dennis was gentle," he said. "Maybe that was why he went, to prove a hardness he didnt have. He was Eddies friend, and Eddie came to the service for him. After that he would come around sometimes. I never had much for him to do. "

  "He told me he watched you beat a man to death one night. "

  He looked at me. Surprise showed in his eyes. I didnt know if it was surprise that Eddie had told me this or that I was repeating it. He said, "He told you that, did he?"

  "In a basement somewhere around here, he said it was. He said you were in a furnace room and you had some guy tied to a post with a length of clothesline, and you beat him to death with a baseball bat. "

  "Who was it?"

  "He didnt say. "

  "And when did it happen?"

  "Some years ago. He didnt get any more specific than that. "

  "And was he there?"

  "So he said. "

  "Or do you suppose he just put himself into the story?" He picked up his glass but didnt drink from it. "Though I dont think much of it as a story, do you? One man beats another with a ball bat. Its nasty, but it doesnt make much of a story. You couldnt dine out on a story like that. "

  "There was a better story going around a couple of years ago. "

  "Oh?"

  "A fellow disappeared, a man named Farrelly. "

  "Paddy Farrelly," he said. "A difficult man. "

  "They said he gave you trouble, and then he disappeared. "

  "Is that what they said?"

  "And they said you went into half the saloons on Ninth and Tenth Avenues carrying a bowling bag, and you would open the bag and show everybody Farrellys head. "

  He drank some whiskey. "The stories they tell," he said.

  "Was Eddie around when that happened?"

  He looked at me. There was no one anywhere near us now. The bartender was all the way down at the end of the bar, and the men whod been closest had left. "Its godawful warm in here," he said. "What do you need that suit jacket for?"

  He was wearing a jacket himself, tweed, heavier than mine. "Im comfortable," I said.

  "Take it off. "

  I looked at him, took off the jacket. I hung it over the back of the stool next to me.

  "The shirt, too," he said.

  I took it off, and the T-shirt after it. "Good man," he said. "Gods sake, put your clothes back on before you catch cold. You got to be careful, a bastardll come in and start talking about old times, and the next thing you know its all recorded, hes wearing a fucking wire. Paddy Farrellys head? My mothers father was from Sligo, he used to say it was the hardest thing in the world to find a man alive in Dublin that wasnt in the GPO during the Easter Rising. Twenty brave men marched into that post office, he said, and thirty thousand marched out. Well, its that hard to find a son of a bitch on Tenth Avenue who didnt see me showing round the bloody head of poor Farrelly. "

  "Are you saying it didnt happen?"

  "Oh, Jesus," he said. "What happened and what didnt? Maybe I never opened the fucking bowling bag. Maybe a fucking bowling ball was all it ever contained. They all love a story, you know. They love to hear it, they love to tell it, they love the little shiver it puts between their shoulder blades. The Irish are the worst that way. Especially in this fucking neighborhood. " He drank, set the glass down. "Its rich soil around here, you know. Plant a seed and a story grows like weeds. "

  "What happened to Farrelly?"

  "Why should I know? Maybe hes in Tahiti, drinking the milk of coconuts and fucking little brown-skinned girls. Did anyone ever find his body? Or the legendary fucking head?"

  "What did Eddie know that made him dangerous?"

  "Nothing. He didnt know a damn thing. He was no danger to me. "

  "Who could he have been a danger to?"

  "Nobody I can think of. What did he ever do? He did some thieving. He went along with some boys who took a load of furs out of a loft on Twenty-seventh Street. Thats the biggest thing I can think of that he was a part of, and thered be no stink coming off that one. It was all arranged, the owner let them have the key. He wanted the insurance. And it was years ago, years ago. Who was he a danger to? Jesus, didnt he hang himself? Wasnt it himself he was a danger to?"

  Something happened between us, something that I find hard to explain, or even to understand. We were silent for a few minutes, having run out of things to say about Eddie Dunphy. Then he told a story about his brother Dennis, how hed taken the blame for something Dennis had done when they were children. Then I told a couple of cop stories from when I was attached to the Sixth Precinct in the Village.

  Somehow or other something bonded us. At one point he walked all the way to the back end of the bar and came around behind it. He filled two glasses with ice cubes, then ran them both full of Coca-Cola and passed them over the bar to me. He took a fresh fifth of the twelve-year-old Jameson from the back bar, put a couple of ice cubes in a clean glass, and came around the bar again, leading me to a booth in the corner. I put my two Cokes on the table in front of me, and he cracked the seal on the whiskey bottle and filled his glass, and we sat there for the next hour or so, telling stories, sharing silences.

  It didnt happen all that often in the drinking days and it hasnt happened often since. I dont think you could say that we became friends. Friendship is something different. It was as if some inner barrier that each of us ordinarily maintained was, for the moment, dissolved. Some internal truce had been declared, with hostilities suspended for the holidays. For an hour we were easier with each other than old friends, than brothers. It was not the sort of thing that could last much longer than an hour, but that made it no less real.

  At length he said, "By God, I wish you drank. "

  "Sometimes I wish it myself. But most of the time Im glad I dont. "

  "You must miss it. "

  "Now and then. "

  "Id miss it like fury. I dont know if I could live without it. "

  "I had more trouble living with it," I said. "The last time I drank I wound up with a grand mal seizure. I fell down in the street and woke up in the hospital with no idea of where I was or how I got there. "

  "Christ," he said, and shook his head. "But until then," he said, "you had a good long run at it. "

  "That I did. "

  "Then you cant complain," he said. "We cant any of us complain, can we?"

  Around midnight it began to wear thin. I was starting to have the feeling that Id stayed too long at the dance. I stood up and told Ballou I had to get on home.

  "Are you all right to walk? Do you want me to call a car for you?" He caught himself and laughed. He said, "Jesus, all youve been drinking is Coca-Cola. Why shouldnt you be all right to get home under your own power?"

  "Im fine. "

  He hauled h
imself to his feet. "Now that you know where we are," he said, "come back and see us again. "

  "Ill do that. "

  "I enjoyed this, Scudder. " He laid a hand on my shoulder. "Youre all right. "

  "Youre all right yourself. "

  "Its a damn shame about Eddie. Did he have any family at all? Will there be a wake for him, do you know?"

  "I dont know. The citys holding the body for the time being. "

  "Hell of a way to end up. " He sighed, then straightened up. "Well talk again, you and I. "

  "Id like that. "

  "Im here most nights, off and on. Or they know how to reach me. "

  "Your early-shift bartender wouldnt even admit he knew who you were. "

  He laughed. "Thats Tom. Hes a close one, isnt he? But he gave me your message, and so did Neil. Whoevers behind the bar here can get word to me. "

  I reached into my pocket, got out a card. "Im at the Northwestern Hotel," I said. "Heres the number. Im not there much, but theyll take messages. "

  "Whats this?"

  "My number. "

  "This," he said. I looked, and he had the card turned and was looking at the picture of Paula Hoeldtke. "The girl," he said. "Who is she?"

  "Her names Paula Hoeldtke. Shes from Indiana, and she disappeared over the summer. She lived in the neighborhood, she worked at a few restaurants nearby. Her father hired me to find her. "

  "Why give me her picture?"

  "Its the only thing Ive got with my name and number on it. Why? Do you know her?"

  He studied her picture, then raised his green eyes to meet mine. "No," he said. "I never saw her. "

  The phone woke me, wrenching me out of a dream. I sat up in bed, grabbed for the phone, got it to my ear. A voice, half in a whisper, said, "Scudder?"

  "Who is this?"

  "Forget about the girl. "

  Thered been a girl in the dream but the dream was melting off like snow in the sun. I couldnt bring her image into focus. I didnt know where the dream ended and the phone call began. I said, "What girl? I dont know what youre talking about. "

  "Forget about Paula. Youll never find her, you cant bring her back. "

  "From where? What happened to her?"

  "Quit looking for her, quit showing her picture around. Drop the whole thing. "

  "Who is this?"

  The phone clicked in my ear. I said hello a couple of times, but it was useless. He was gone.

  I switched on the bedside lamp, found my watch. It was a quarter to five. It had been past two by the time I turned the light out, so Id had less than three hours. I sat on the edge of the bed and went over the conversation in my mind, trying to find a deeper message behind the words, trying to place the voice. I had the feeling Id heard it before but couldnt draw a bead on it.

  I went into the bathroom and caught sight of my reflection in the mirror over the sink. All my years looked back at me, and I could feel their weight, pressing down on my shoulders. I ran the shower hot and stood under it for a long time, got out, toweled dry, got back into bed.