Reed Coleman - Hurt machine

“I see. So even though these two women weren’t on the job, the real firefighters get tainted by what they did. The public isn’t big on making subtle distinctions.”

“The media neither, but it’s even more complicated than that, Moe.” He looked around to make sure no one was in earshot. “Here’s the deal. The department has never been the most welcoming place for certain kinds of people, if you catch my drift.”

“I do.”

“Going back to my days in the department, the blacks always sued over the test to get on the job, saying it discriminates against them. Even though I think that’s all a crock of shit myself, when you look at the numbers… And these days, the FDNY gets federal money too. So someone inside the union got the bright idea to get EMTs counted with the FDNY’s numbers because a lot of the EMTs are women and minorities.”

“Holy shit!”

“That’s right, Moe. They wanna use the big minority numbers from the ranks of the EMTs to make the department’s racial profile look better and more balanced for the feds and the courts, but they want them to remain civilian employees. Of course, the EMTs ain’t exactly thrilled by this plan.”

“There’s a perverse kind of symmetry to that way of thinking. It unskews the curve, but without really changing anything.”

“Bingo! When those two EMTs fucked up, they pissed everybody off. They really rocked the boat. It’s a big-stakes game and everyone on all sides got a dog in the fight, so emotions are running high. People are edgy and like you found out back at McPhee’s, just asking questions about it is risky business.”

“Risky enough to get someone killed?”

Flannery didn’t answer right away. I checked his eyes in the mirror. They were focused now, but seemed to be locked in on something in the distance, beyond my field of vision.

“Maybe,” he said. “People don’t think sometimes before they do shit. There’s been a lot of grumbling. I think it’s talk mostly, but let’s face it, no one I know sent flowers or sympathy cards when that EMT got hers. Before you start pointing fingers, remember there are just as many EMTs as firemen pissed off at what those two did. Why do you care, anyhow? What’s it to you?”

I figured I owed him the truth. “Alta Conseco, the EMT who was murdered, I was married to her little sister once. They were estranged for a long time and now I guess she feels sort of overwhelmed by guilt about all the time they lost.”

“Guilt,” he said, “a mighty curse to bear. I’ll drink to that.”

And drink he did, but he stopped talking. I finished my Guinness in silence and slid my card across the bar to Flannery.

“Leaving?”

“Yeah,” I said, shaking his hand. “My stomach’s killing me. Pleasure meeting you and thanks for saving my ass before.”

“Forget it.” When I turned to go, he called after me, waving my card between his fingers. “I hear anything, I’ll call.”

I nodded. As I walked to my car, I heard myself laughing. My stomach was killing me.

I didn’t enjoy myself for very long because I got thumped in the ribs as I turned the corner to where my car was parked. The wind went out of me, my laughter transformed to gasping as I collapsed to the sidewalk. I suppose I might’ve tried to get up if I didn’t get a kick in the back.

“Not so tough without your boyfriend to protect ya, are ya, old man?” It was Hickey.

I was preoccupied with trying to get my lungs restarted, so I didn’t answer or reach for my. 38. Breathing is easy to take for granted, but the rest of the machinery won’t work without it. Funny, I thought about the tumor again, how it too was probably rooting for me to catch my breath. Nothing in this world likes getting cheated out of the chance to fulfill its destiny. It’s pretty fucked up what you think about sometimes.

“Consider yourself warned, grandpa.”

Grandpa. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever hear that name spoken in love.

I had two nasty bruises and a headache for my troubles. The hurt in my gut had diminished to the level I had grown accustomed to. The pain, which had so frightened me at first, was now just like background noise. Still, I couldn’t sleep. The possible reasons were legion, so I didn’t waste time considering them. What I did instead was read through a box full of hate mail. About halfway through, it occurred to me that people with hearts so full of hate must have no room in their brains for spelling or syntax. The drab sameness of the vulgarity and racism was mind-numbing. It was kind of like my pain; after a while it became noise. None of it made sense, really. Then again, when did reason ever have anything to do with racism or hate? It was a dumb question for a Jew to ask, even to himself. I imagined Mr. Roth showing me the number on his forearm and shaking his head at me in disapproval.

I pulled a few letters out of the pile. These were the ones that moved beyond simple expressions of hate or vague hopes for terrible fates to befall Alta and Maya and their families. They were the letters in which the writers made specific threats of violence, some alluding to stabbing and throat slitting. I wondered just how hard Detective Fuqua had worked at looking into the origin of these. As he said, many, if not most, New Yorkers felt as though Alta had gotten what she deserved. And no matter how determined Fuqua seemed, I doubted the NYPD was willing to spend the money and manpower it would take to investigate hundreds, maybe thousands of anonymous letters and emails. But things sent electronically weren’t as anonymous as people thought. Sure, there were clever computer geeks and hackers who could bury their cyber-footprints, but I somehow doubted that people who could barely spell fuck or use it in a proper sentence were likely candidates for jobs at Intel, Cisco, or the NSA.

I called Brian Doyle’s cell. Doyle was an ex-cop. When he was on the job, he had a nasty rep for taking shortcuts and dishing out uppercuts. He was a stubborn, impatient prick who liked using his knuckles more than his noggin, but what made him a bad cop helped make him a good PI. When Carm and I owned our security firm together, we took Brian on and made a damned fine investigator of him. Then in 2002, after Carm and I split and dissolved the partnership, Brian and our tech guy Devo opened up their own shop in lower Manhattan. They had helped me with the Sashi Bluntstone case and I was hoping they could help me again.

“What? It’s three in the fucking morning,” Brian answered with his usual Old World charm.

“You doing surveillance?”

“What the fuck else would I be doing answering my cell phone at three a.m.?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re just lonely.”

“Loneliness was never my problem, Boss.” Brian had never gotten out of the habit of calling me that. “So what can I do you for?”

“Can you meet me tomorrow? I got a job for you and Devo.”

“Where and when?”

“Lunch at noon,” I said. “You pick the place.”

“O’Hearn’s on Church Street. I’m in a corned beef and cabbage kinda mood.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Click.

I realized I hadn’t called Pam or Sarah in a few days. I’d call Sarah in the morning. Although Pam was still a PI, she wasn’t Brian Doyle’s type of PI. She wasn’t big on late-night surveillance, but she did kick the occasional ass. I wasn’t going to risk waking her, not at this hour. So I looked out my front window at Sheepshead Bay and thought back to when I was a kid and crossing the Ocean Avenue footbridge over the bay to Manhattan Beach seemed like a walk into another world. I was thinking about that kind of walk a lot lately, a walk into another world.