Reed Coleman - Hurt machine

“What, you think because I got forced out, I don’t hear things? You hang out at McPhee’s, you hear plenty.”

I shook my head. “That place again. What is it with you guys and that bar?”

“You know McPhee’s?”

“I know it. But we’re getting off the subject here. You haven’t said one word that disputes my math, Scanlon. I still got the same problem.”

He dipped his head like a little kid who’d been caught boosting a pack of gum at the local candy store. “I sold that knife months ago, way before that-before what’s-her-name was murdered. I can prove it.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“It wasn’t my knife to sell. It belonged to one of my old hunting buddies. We had a falling out, but I kept it and then I sold it.”

“Do you think I give a shit? I’m not from the stolen knife squad, for chrissakes!”

That was a dumb thing to say because now Scanlon was taking his first good look at me. I hadn’t quite told him before who I was and what the exact nature of my business was. The old badge had worked well enough and I had let his drunken mind fill in the blanks. Now fear was sobering him up pretty fast. I had to get his mind off me and back on the subject.

“Okay, so you sold that knife, but you got lots more here and probably dozens more I don’t see.” I picked up the Nazi knife with the fancy handle. It was probably some bonus gift to an SS man for killing the largest number of my relatives in a single month. “What about this one?” I asked, twirling it in my hand and then dropping it.

He cringed. “Hey, cut that out. That’s worth a lotta-”

“Or this one?” I knocked a hunting knife to the floor.

“Cut it out. Cut it out! Those are worth-”

I knocked another one to the floor. That did it. He came at me, swinging wildly, blindly and missing by a mile. I sidestepped, leaving my right leg out for him to stagger over. He tripped, sprawling into a leather recliner and then to the floor. He rolled over, but didn’t get up for a second run at me. He probably wanted to, but the thing of it was I was now showing him some hardware of my own. I had my old. 38 out and pointed straight at his belly.

“That’s enough of that, shithead. I couldn’t miss you from here even if I was blindfolded.”

He held his hands up, palms out in surrender. “I swear I didn’t do nothing to her. I was mad, sure. We was all mad at them, but I didn’t kill nobody.”

“Not like you haven’t hit a woman before,” I said. “You were arrested a few months ago for-”

“It wasn’t like that. She hit me first. We had a fender bender on Bay Parkway and the bitch gets out of the car and slaps me in the face. I grabbed her wrists and then some passersby grabbed me and called 911. It was all fucked up. The charges were dropped. You can check it out. I done some shitty things in my life, but I ain’t never hit a woman.”

“Okay, get up.” I put my gun away. “I’m leaving now. If I were you-god forbid-I would try real hard to find someone who could alibi you for the night Alta Conseco was murdered. Someone other than a relative.”

“I didn’t touch that dyke, I swear.”

I let myself out. Problem was, I believed the prick. I had nothing to back it up beyond the sense that he was telling me the truth. He was a bad liar and it was my experience that it was hard for people to fake being bad at something. Scanlon was just a bag of leaves: all puffed up, but ultimately weak and full of hot air and decay. I suppose he’d be worth taking a second look at and I would call Fuqua to let him know what I’d found. What bothered me more was him calling Alta a dyke. I mean, that’s what guys on the job do. If a woman doesn’t swoon at the sight of them or keeps to herself or doesn’t wear enough makeup to suit them, she gets labeled as gay. It happened when I was on the cops and it hadn’t changed. I didn’t care one way or the other but if it was true that Alta was gay, it added yet another ingredient to the mix that might complicate things more than they already seemed to be. With every step, the slippery slope got steeper and more slippery.

The address was on Havemeyer Street in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Before evolving into hipster central, Williamsburg had once been a German, Italian, and Jewish immigrant stronghold. By the late sixties and early seventies, White Flight had emptied the neighborhood of its more traditional residents and that void was filled by the oddest of ethnic odd couples: Puerto Ricans and Hasidic Jews. Even as the area was transforming into its present incarnation as hipster heaven, the Puerto Ricans and Hasidim stayed on, if in somewhat smaller numbers than during the last two decades before the new millennium.

The uneasiness hit me before I got to Jorge Delgado’s street. I’m not sure why that was. Probably had to do with the dubious pleasure of starting my morning rounds with Mrs. Anthony Marinello and Patrick Scanlon, but maybe not. My unease intensified as I pulled into the spot across from Delgado’s address and it grew stronger still as I got out of my car. It was, I thought, an omen. I’m not one for omens except when I am. I mean, you don’t believe in God, it’s tough to believe in omens. Fuck that! Logical consistency only counts if you care about what other people think and my oncologist had given me license not to care.

Although his hate mail to Alta and Maya was just as scathing and cruel as the others, Jorge Delgado was a distinct creature, unlike Marinello, Scanlon, and the other douche bags on my list. He had been part of the FDNY for nearly twenty years. Delgado was highly decorated and very well-respected, if not exactly beloved. His fury at Alta and Maya-Alta in particular-came from a different place than almost all of the other hate-mailers. Not only was he good at his job, but his was a strong minority voice in the union and Delgado was a leading member of a Puerto Rican fraternal organization. He had fought long hard struggles for equality and fair representation of women and minorities on the job. Although he did, apparently, sometimes let his temper get the better of him. There were reports of the occasional shoving match and shout-down with fellow firefighters who stood on the opposite side of the issues.

Entering the building, I held the front door open for a big guy on the way out. It didn’t hit me immediately, but the man who nodded his appreciation as he passed was wearing a blue FDNY T-shirt.

After 9/11, half the men in New York City were wearing T-shirts just like his. They’d been sold to raise money for the families of the dead. I had a few myself. Those shirts, like my old PI license, hadn’t seen much action in the last several years and had been consigned to the bottom of a drawer somewhere. The man who walked by me was black, which didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t Puerto Rican, but he was about ten years too young to have been Delgado.

“Excuse me,” I called to him.

He stopped and about-faced. “What’s up?”

“The Delgados?” I asked, hoping the question in my voice would suffice.

He nodded, his rugged face drooping in sadness. “You here to pay respects too, huh?”

“No, I’m sorry, I hadn’t heard, but I’m glad I ran into you,” I said, furiously working out my cover story in my head. “I had an appointment with Jorge to discuss retirement investments. God, it would have been awful to walk in on his grieving family. What happened?”

“Traffic accident about three weeks ago. Georgie was walking to his car after a shift and this little girl was crossing the street. He saw a car blowing through a stop sign, so Georgie ran for the kid. Knocked her out of the way, but he took it full on. Wound up nearly a hundred feet away. He was totally fucked. Brain dead. The family finally gave up and pulled the plug a few days ago.”