Reed Coleman - The James Deans

The phone rang and I was transported back to the present, to the pain my knees felt now. I waited for Katy to pick up, but she must have been in her studio. Phones were strictly verboten down there. Katy thought telephones were the bane of creative thought. I’m not sure I would have gone quite that far, but I was no artist. I hobbled over to the nightstand and picked up.

“Hello.”

“He wants to talk to you.” It was Domino. I didn’t have to ask who he was.

“Put him on. I don’t think they make a baseball bat that stretches this far.”

She ignored that. “He wants me to talk to you first.”

“This is bullshit! If he wants to talk to-”

“He says it’s this way or no way.”

“All right. Where?”

“As far away from Glitters as-”

“You know Coney Island?”

“I’ve heard of it, but I don’t get out much.”

“Think you can find it?”

“Yeah, I’m a big girl. I pick out my own G-strings and everything.”

“Very funny. Meet me on the boardwalk at West Fifth Street in two hours.”

“But-”

I hung up before she could finish her objecting. All I knew was that I’d be there. The rest was up to her. Besides, I had to stop at the bank. Somehow I got the feeling this little talk wasn’t being arranged out of the goodness of anyone’s heart.

My car seemed to know the way, easing down Ocean Parkway, slipping beneath the el at Brighton Beach Avenue, and sliding finally around the smooth neck of Surf Avenue. I was plenty early, giving myself time enough to make sure I wasn’t being set up for John Heaton’s second at bat. First, I drove past my old precinct house across from Luna Park.

Sixty or seventy years ago, Luna Park, like the Steeplechase, had been its own amusement park. There were four or five separate parks back then, each with distinct character and attractions. Luna Park, for instance, was world famous for the thousands upon thousands of incandescent bulbs strung across every inch of the place. Scientists have speculated that it was so bright, it might have been visible from space. Luna Park burned to the ground three or four times. Now a collection of hideous apartment buildings stand disrespectfully on its ashes. You can’t see them from space, and the rest of the neighborhood wishes you couldn’t see them from across the street.

I thought about driving farther into the throat of Coney Island, past the abandoned factory building where the firemen and I had found Marina Conseco. The city had long since removed the water tank from its roof, and I hadn’t been there since I’d showed it to Katy five years ago. No, I decided, it was best to leave my past behind, even if the rest of the world wouldn’t let me. Instead, I parked in the shadow of the ugly apartment houses and walked back to the boardwalk.

It was another scorcher and sun was warm on my face, but in Coney Island there’s always more to the equation than just the sun. The breeze was blowing hard in off the Atlantic so that you could almost be fooled into believing the remainder of the day would be pleasant, even cool. The beach was still more crowded with gulls than people, and the boardwalk was quiet if not quite deserted. This would all change in a week or two, when schools let out for the summer. The handball courts were busy, as they always were.

From where I positioned myself I had a clear view of the boardwalk in either direction, of the steps leading up to it from the street, and of the steps leading from it down to the beach. To sneak up on me, someone would have had to parachute in or materialize out of thin air.

Domino took a more conventional route, strolling alone from the Brighton Beach end of the boardwalk. She wore denim cutoffs, a black bikini top, and those now famous sandals. They clacked against the wooden planks as they had against the cobblestones the night before. As she walked, the taut muscles in her legs and abdomen flexed and relaxed, flexed and relaxed. Just as she had at Glitters, she had injected a spark into things. The old Russian men stopped playing chess, stopped talking, to watch her approach and then pass. Even the gulls seemed to take notice.

What I noticed as she got close was the abject paleness of her skin and the faint red marks on her forearms. She wasn’t lying; she didn’t get out much. Not while the sun was up, anyway. It was an awkward moment. Neither of us knew quite how to greet one another. Maybe if I had been sure of what the hell it was we were really doing here, I might have been able to work out the proper protocol. In the end, we both sort of shrugged our shoulders and leaned over the guardrail.

“That’s a stupid game,” she said, pointing at the crowded handball courts below. “Men slapping a ball against a concrete wall.”

“Stupider than some, less stupid than others.”

“It must hurt their hands.”

“It’s like anything else, Domino. You get used to it.”

“Yeah,” she snickered, “tell me about it. Men and their fucking games. Look at them clowns down there.” Domino nodded at two men exchanging money. “They actually gamble on this shit?”

“Men gamble on anything, especially when women are watching. A lot of money has changed hands on West Fifth Street.”

“That old prick over there must be eighty. He’s gonna drop dead.”

“It’s been known to happen,” I said. “Anything worth gambling on is worth dying for. It’s an old Brooklyn rule.”

“Fuck the rules and Brooklyn, too.”

I didn’t argue the point, getting instead to the matter at hand. “You have a message for me?”

“John wanted me to say he was sorry.”

“Apology’s not accepted. Move on.”

“He was drunk.” Domino was going to plead his case even if court wasn’t in session. “He gets a little, you know, outta control when he’s had a few.”

“That’s too fucking bad for him.” I walked a few steps to show her how I was limping. “See this knee? I’ve had two major surgeries on it. That asshole coulda crippled me. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t cry in my beer for his drinking problem. All the fuck he had to do was talk to me.”

“But he can’t,” she said.

“Why, because Wit’s money says so?”

That confused her some. She didn’t say it with her mouth, but her eyes asked: How did you know about Wit? And suddenly I got the funny feeling Domino was trying to play me too. I began to wonder if Heaton had sent her here at all or if she’d gotten the bright idea to use her knowledge of the situation to her advantage. Maybe she thought she could squeeze me for a few hundred bucks in order to set up a meeting between Heaton and me that might or might not happen. You had to admire her entrepreneurial spirit.

I started walking away without saying a word.

“Where the fuck you going?” she called after me in a trembly voice.

“Cut the shit with the shaky voice, all right? You teed me up like a golf ball last night and I’m not gonna let you do it to me again. If John Heaton’s interested in me finding his daughter, he can find a way to talk to me.”

“He don’t trust you,” she said.

“He doesn’t trust me ! He doesn’t know me. Look, Domino, I’m not in the mood for games. I’m gonna tell you some truth. Then maybe you can tell me some back. We both know your boy John’s being paid by some big-shot journalist not to speak to me or anybody else about his daughter. It’s got nothing to do with him trusting me or not.”

“Whaddya want from the man? He’s got no money.”

“He gets a cop pension just like me.”

“It all goes to that bitch wife of his and their son down in Florida.”

I was getting tired and impatient. “So how much does he want?”