Bruce DeSilva - Cliff Walk

The something was Maalox chugged straight from the bottle. Earlier, I’d retrieved my Nikon’s memory card from its hiding place. Now I carried my laptop to a vacant office off the newsroom for privacy, slipped the card in a card reader, plugged it into the computer, and downloaded the photographs. I spent ten minutes studying them, jotting down a few notes for my chat with Mason. When I was done, I sprinted for the bathroom. The dry heaves reminded me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

When I finally got home it was after ten. I picked up a Michael Connelly novel, hoping it would take my mind off the snuff film. It didn’t work, but I kept reading anyway. Harry Bosch was about to lose his temper with his by-the-book boss when “Bitch” started playing on my cell phone. Not even Dorcas could make this day any worse, so I picked up the phone and said, “Hello.”

“You sent them, didn’t you, you sonuvabitch!”

“Sent who?”

“You know who!”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I thought they were gonna kill me.”

“What? Okay, why don’t you calm down and tell me what happened?”

“Like you don’t fuckin’ know!”

“I really don’t.”

She drew a deep breath. “There were two of them,” she said. “They knocked on the door, and when I opened it they pushed me aside and forced their way in.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, but I’m still shaking.”

“What did they look like?”

“Big. Really, really big.”

“John Goodman big or WWF SmackDown! big?”

“You trying to tell me you don’t know anything about this?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“You’re a fucking liar,” she said. And then she hung up.

What the hell was that about?

I went to my bedroom window, opened it, sucked in a lungful of frigid air, and slowly let it out. I’m not sure how long I stood there before I heard a police siren cut the dark. It sounded close, but all I could see were the black windows of the tenement next door. I closed the window, flopped on my bed, and read for an hour. Then I put down the book and fiddled with the cell phone, trying to decide on a ringtone for Yolanda. I finally settled on a spare acoustic version of “Dance with Me” by Tuck & Patti. Of course, I had no reason to think Yolanda would call.

First thing next morning, she did.

“Mulligan? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Yolanda.”

“You don’t sound fine. Where are you?”

I was slumped on a stool at my favorite diner, reading Mason’s update about the murders on the paper’s Web site and struggling to keep Charlie’s scrambled eggs down.

“Sit tight,” she said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I finished Mason’s story and then checked the other headlines. The bishop was enraged at an enterprising young man who had leased an abandoned Fotomat drive-through across the street from St. Mark’s in Cranston, laid in a new line of merchandise, and renamed it the Condom Shed. According to a survey of top fashion designers, cleavage was back in style again. And a national newsmagazine was reporting that New Jersey was the most corrupt state in the Union but that Little Rhody led the nation in scandals per capita. Finally we were number one at something besides doughnut shops. I was checking the betting line for the Patriots-Panthers game when Yolanda strolled in on those long, long legs.

She was wearing a frown and a gray business suit with the top two buttons of her blouse undone. When she bent to kiss my cheek, Charlie sneaked a peek. She plopped her alligator tote on the counter, took the stool next to mine, and asked for black coffee.

“I read the story on the Web this morning,” she said.

“The one about how cleavage is in this season?”

“Good news for the fry cook,” she said, “but it’s not the one I meant.”

Mason had done a fine job with the murder update, laying out the facts and going easy on the gore. Still, it was grim reading.

“It must have been horrible for you,” she said.

“A police reporter sees lots of blood, Yolanda. You get used to it.”

“Bullshit. This wasn’t a car crash or a Mob hit. A murdered child is not something you get used to. It’s haunting you. I can hear it in your voice.”

My phone was on the counter beside my cold, half-empty mug of coffee. It began to play “Dirty Laundry.” I reached for it and grabbed a fistful of air.

“Mr. Mulligan’s office,” Yolanda said. “How may I be of assistance?… I’m a friend of his… Yes, I’m with him now… He says he’s fine, but he’s not… Actually, I think a couple of days would be better… Okay, I’ll let him know,” she said, and flipped the cell closed.

“What did Lomax want?” I asked.

“He said to take today off. I tried to get you a couple of days, but he insisted he can’t spare you that long.”

“Of course he can’t. I’m indispensable.”

“Is ‘Dirty Laundry’ your ringtone for everything, or just for your editor?”

“Just him.”

“Perfect choice,” she said. “Do you have a special one for me, too?”

“Maybe I do.”

She dug her BlackBerry out of her purse and punched in my number.

“That sounds like ‘Dance with Me’ by Tuck and Patti,” she said.

“It is.”

“She’s black and he’s white,” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Aren’t they married?”

“To one another, yeah.”

She let out a long sigh. “I told you-”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t date white guys. But you do dance, don’t you?”

She averted her eyes and sipped her joe.

Charlie turned from the grill, swept my cold coffee off the counter, dumped it, and gave me a refill. When I picked up the cup, my hand was shaking. As I raised the coffee to my lips, a few drops slopped over the rim and fell on the front of my Bruins sweatshirt.

“Still got that klutzy charm,” I said.

I thought that would get a smile out of her, but it didn’t. She plucked napkins from the dispenser and patted me dry. Then she called her office, told her secretary to cancel her afternoon appointments, and spun on her stool to face me.

“I’ve got a couple of things this morning that I can’t get out of,” she said, “but when I’m done, I’m buying you lunch.”

Charlie watched me watch her as she exited the diner and strode down the sidewalk toward the Textron Tower, where she had an office on the fourteenth floor. I kept looking until she was out of sight.

“Classy dame,” he said.

“I agree.”

“And she’s black.”

“Very.”

“The little doll you used to come in here with last year was Asian,” he said.

“She was.”

“Got something against white girls?”

“I like ’em all, Charlie. White, black, yellow, and brown are my favorite colors.”

“I like ’em all, too,” he said, “but you seem to have a taste for the exotic.” He put his hands on the counter and leaned toward me, wanting a serious answer.

“It’s not about skin color, Charlie. Most guys want a woman who votes like they do, cheers for the same team, likes the same kind of movies, drinks the same brand of beer. I prefer women who aren’t like me. They’re more interesting both in and out of bed.”

Charlie furrowed his brow and thought it over. Then he nodded to show he understood and turned back to the grill.

I wandered over to the Biltmore, bought The New York Times and Sports Illustrated at the newsstand off the lobby, carried them back to the diner, and read them over cups of Charlie’s decaf. I was admiring the magazine’s photo spread on the ten greatest fights of all time when Yolanda called and said to meet her at the Capital Grille.