Lawrence Block - A Ticket To The Boneyard

This time, though, all that was waiting for me in the bathroom was the tub, and I couldn't wait to get into it. But first I braced myself and looked in the mirror.

It wasn't as bad as I'd feared. I was carrying some bruises and superficial scrapes and scratches, and some of the grit I'd rolled in, but I hadn't lost any teeth or broken anything or sustained any bad cuts.

I looked like hell all the same.

I got out of my clothes. My suit was beyond salvage; I emptied the pockets and stripped the belt from the slacks and stuffed them and the jacket into the wastebasket. My shirt was ripped and my tie was a mess. I tossed them both.

I drew a hot tub and soaked in it for a long time, let the water drain out and filled it up again. I sat there and soaked while I picked bits of glass and gravel out of the palms of my hands.

I don't know what time it was when I finally got to bed. I never did look at the clock.

I had swallowed some aspirin before I went to bed, and I took some more as soon as I got up, and another hot bath to draw some of the ache out of muscle and bones. I needed a shave but knew better than to scrape a blade over my face. I found the electric shaver my kids gave me a few Christmases back and did what I could with it.

There was blood in my urine. It's always a shock to see that, but I'd taken kidney punches before and knew what they did to you. It was unlikely he'd done me any lasting damage. My kidney ached where he'd poked me, and it would probably pain me for a while, but I figured I'd get over it.

I went out and had coffee and a roll and read Newsday . Breslin's column was all about the criminal justice system, and he wasn't giving it any raves. Another columnist got slightly hysterical on the subject of a death penalty for major narcotics dealers, as if that would make them all weigh the consequences of their actions and turn their talents to investment banking instead.

If the previous day was up to the year's average to date, there had been seven homicides within the five boroughs in the course of its twenty-four hours. Newsday had four of them covered. None were in my neighborhood, and none of the victims had names I found familiar. I couldn't say for sure, but from what I read it didn't look as though any of my friends had been murdered yesterday.

I went over to Midtown North but Durkin wasn't around. I caught the noon meeting at the West Side Y on Sixty-third. The speaker was an actor who'd sobered up on the Coast, and his energy gave a California rah-rah quality to the hour. I walked back to the station house, stopping on the way to get a slice of pizza and a Coke and eat on the street. When I got to Midtown North Durkin was back, holding the phone to his ear and juggling a cigarette and a cup of coffee. He motioned me to a chair and I sat down and waited while he did a lot of listening and not much talking.

He hung up, leaned forward to scribble something on a pad, then straightened up and looked at me. "You look like you walked into a fan," he said. "What happened?"

"I got in with bad company," I said. "Joe, I want that bastard picked up. I want to swear out a complaint."

"Against Motley?" I nodded. "He did that to you?"

"Most of what he did is where it doesn't show. I let myself get suckered into an alley on the Lower East Side late last night." I gave him a condensed version, and his dark eyes narrowed as he took it in.

He said, "So what do you want to charge him with?"

"I don't know. Assault, I suppose. Assault, coercion, menacing. I suppose assault's the most effective charge to bring."

"Any witnesses to the alleged assault?"

"Alleged?"

"You have any witnesses, Matt?"

"Of course not," I said. "We didn't meet in Macy's window, we were in an empty lot on Ridge Street."

"I thought you said it was an alley."

"What's the difference? It was a space between two buildings with a fence across it and a gap in the fence. If it was a passage to anything, I suppose you could call it an alley. I didn't get far enough into it to find out where it went."

"Uh-huh." He picked up a pencil, looked at it. "I thought you said Attorney Street before."

"That's right."

"Then a minute ago you said Ridge Street."

"Did I? I met the hooker on Ridge, in a toilet of a place called the Garden Grill. I don't know why they call it that. There's no garden, and I don't think there's a grill, either." I shook my head at the memory. "Then she took me around the block to Attorney."

"She? I thought you said a transsexual."

"I've learned to use female pronouns for them."

"Uh-huh."

"I suppose she's a witness," I said, "but it might be a trick to find her, let alone get her to testify."

"I can see where it might. You get a name?"

"Candy. That would be a street name, of course, and it might have been made up for the occasion. Most of them have a lot of names."

"Tell me about it."

"What's the problem, Joe? He assaulted me and I have a bona fide complaint to file."

"You'd never make it stick."

"That's not the point. It's enough to get a warrant issued and pull the son of a bitch off the street."

"Uh-huh."

"Before he kills somebody else."

"Uh-huh. What time was it when you got in the alley with him?"

"I met her at midnight, so—"

"Candy, you mean. The transsexual."

"Right. So it was probably half an hour after that by the time the assault took place."

"Say twelve-thirty."

"Roughly."

"And then you went to a hospital?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I didn't think it was necessary. He caused a lot of pain but I knew I didn't have any broken bones and I wasn't bleeding. I figured I'd be better off going straight home."

"So there's no hospital record."

"Of course not," I said. "I didn't go to a hospital, so how the hell could there be a hospital record?"

"I guess there couldn't."

"My cabdriver wanted to take me to a hospital," I said. "I must have looked as though I belonged there."

"It's a shame you didn't listen to him. You see what I'm getting at, don't you, Matt? If there was an emergency-room record, it would tend to confirm your story."

I didn't know what to say to that.

"How about the cabdriver?" he went on. "I don't suppose you got his hack license number?"

"No."

"Or his name? Or the number of his cab?"

"It never occurred to me."

"Because he could place you in the neighborhood and give evidence of your appearance and physical condition. As it is, all we've got is your statement."

I felt anger rising, and I made an effort to keep a lid on it. Evenly I said, "Well, isn't that worth something? Here's a guy who went away for aggravated assault on a police officer. After sentencing he threatened that officer in open court. He served twelve years, during which time he committed other acts of violence. Now, a few months after his release, you've got a sworn statement charging him with assault on that same police officer, and—"

"You're not a police officer now, Matt."

"No, but—"

"You haven't been a police officer for quite some time now." He lit a cigarette, shook the match out, went on shaking it after the flame had died. Without looking at me he said, "What you are, you want to get technical about it, you're an ex-cop with no visible means of support."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, what else are you? You're a sort of half-assed private detective, but you don't carry a license and you get paid off the books, so what do you think that looks like when you write it up?" He sighed, shook his head. "Late last night," he said. "Was that the first time you saw Motley yesterday?"

"It's the first time I saw him since his sentencing."

"You didn't go over to his hotel earlier?"