Reed Coleman - The James Deans

Katy was still buzzing halfway back home to Sheepshead Bay. For her the night had been a coming-out party, and not only because it helped put the miscarriage behind her. Politics, though not particularly her calling, were definitely in her blood. She had watched her father work it so well for so long that the thrill of events like this evening’s were inescapable. That scared me a little. Any similarities between Katy and her dad scared me.

“Brightman’s a natural,” Katy said as we passed under the Verrazano Bridge. “I can see why Mr. Geary is so anxious to back him. He’s worth the gamble.”

“You liked him? Brightman, I mean?”

“As a candidate, of course. What’s not to like? His wife alone is worth a bump in the vote. She’s unearthly.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Katy punched me playfully. “Liar. She was the talk of the powder room.”

“Was she? I thought she’d more likely be the talk of the boys’ locker room.”

“God knows I love you, Moses Prager, but what you don’t know about women … Besides, I thought you hadn’t noticed.”

“Oops! So what were they saying?”

“That while he was single, Brightman had bedded half the models in the city. Apparently, he had a sweet tooth for all things beautiful, especially women.”

“The fat guy sitting next to me said the same thing. Good thing you hadn’t met Brightman until this evening.”

“Thank you.” Katy leaned over and softly kissed my neck. “By the way, that fat guy sitting next to you was Scott Schare, the CEO of Schare, Light, Cohen, and Halter.”

“The big ad agency?”

“The very big ad agency. Him I knew before. Remember the company I was working for when we met?”

“I remember everything about when we met.”

“We did some of the subcontract design work for their less significant clients. We were always invited to their holiday parties.”

“You think he was there by accident?”

“My dad always said nothing in politics happens by accident.”

I was inclined to believe that.

Katy faded, drifting quickly off into silence and light sleep. The colored lights of Coney Island, even without the dazzling incandescence of Luna Park, were clearly visible out the right side of the car. I usually found comfort in the sights and sounds of my old precinct, but not tonight. I felt oddly uneasy. I thought back to earlier in the day, to my meeting with Domino and the deal we had made. Maybe John Heaton would call. Maybe not. I don’t know, maybe I was finally feeling the pressure of the case. Brightman and Geary had certainly gone out of their way to pile it on me. But there was something else eating at me, something like a dull ache I couldn’t quite pinpoint or describe.

As the lights of Coney Island disappeared behind the tall buildings of Trump Village, I looked over at my sleeping wife and decided tonight was not a night to dwell on aches and pains.

I did what any sane man would have done given the pressure I was under. I took my daughter to her first Mets game. The Astros had finished pounding them, as had the Dodgers. Today’s game, an afternoon affair, was the last of the series against the Padres and of the homestand. The teams had split the first two games. The heat and humidity were a bit less oppressive than they’d been in recent days, but the cloudlessness of the sky gave the sun license to roast the two of us and the 27,322 other knuckleheads who thought an afternoon getaway game at Shea was a good way to spend their time.

Sarah, less than two months away from her third birthday, was beside herself with excitement. I think she loved the subway ride and the crush of people and that first rush you get from stepping out of the tunnel into a gigantic stadium. The Mets cap, hot dog, and cotton candy didn’t hurt either.

“Look, Daddy!” she shrieked. “The men are watering the lawn like you.”

“That’s right, kiddo, just like me.”

She asked me a million whys and I answered them all as if I really knew what the hell I was talking about. Soon enough she would be able to see through that ploy, to see that there were many more things in the world that Daddy didn’t understand than he did. It hurt a little just to think about her seeing any bits of clay, no matter how small, falling from my feet. But it would be good for her in the end, I rationalized, to see the faults in people. She would see her parents’ faults first of all.

Sarah stayed with the game for the first two and a half innings, during which time the Mets built a 3–0 lead. Then her concentration faded, giving way to a fit of antsiness and a chorus of “I’m bored.” By the top of the fourth, she was conked out.

“That’s a beautiful little girl you got there, mister,” the man in the seat behind me said as the Padre pitcher grounded to first for the last out of the top half of the inning.

I tilted my head to see his face, but the blinding sun forced me to turn away. “Thanks.”

“Such pretty red hair,” he kept the conversation going. “Irish?”

“On her mother’s side, yeah.”

The cop in me was wary of these unsolicited comments about my daughter, but there was nothing remotely threatening or inappropriate in his tone.

“I had a daughter once too,” he kept on.

His use of the past tense was not lost on me, nor was the smell of alcohol on his breath. More than a few beers, I guessed, with a scotch mixed in there somewhere.

“Girls are great,” I said, now a bit more concerned than I had been only a moment ago.

“They sure are.”

Curious, I asked: “What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Moira.”

I turned back to look at him again, this time using my right hand as a visor against the sun. John Heaton was a sloppy, red-faced man, his cheeks covered in peppery gray stubble. Though he was potbellied, he had big, round shoulders and the kind of thickness of limb which no amount of weight lifting could replicate. His face was not unfamiliar. I recognized him from the 7 train, and he had stood directly behind us on the ticket line. So, Domino had kept her end of the deal.

“How’s the knee? I’m sorry about that. I was … You know.”

“Keep your apologies for someone who might be interested.”

“So what are you so anxious to talk to me about?”

“Don’t be dense, Heaton,” I groused. “I wanna talk to you about Moira.”

“Why? If I had anything worthwhile to say, the cops and that dick Spivack would have already used it.”

“It’s the way I work. I need to get a feel for her, what Moira liked and didn’t like, stuff like that.”

He tilted himself forward and whispered cruelly in my ear: “My daughter’s dead, Prager, and you know it.”

I wasn’t hypocrite enough to debate the point. “More than likely.”

He was skeptical. “What you gonna find that the cops and Spivack couldn’t?”

“Maybe nothing. I’ve been lucky in cases like this before.” There, I’d said it. I was lucky. I wondered if Geary’s ears were burning.

The Mets were up at bat now, the people around us paying even less attention to my conversation with Heaton than before. Sarah was fast fast asleep.

“I’m risking a lot by-”

“Save it, Heaton. I know all about Wit paying you to keep quiet. I bet you didn’t tell him you had nothing worthwhile to say. What kinda bullshit you been feeding him to keep the paychecks rolling in?”

“Nothin'. I swear. He hasn’t even interviewed me yet. He just don’t want me to talk to nobody is all.”

“But you’re taking his money.”

“And yours, too, boyo. I need it. My son’s starting college in the fall and my wife’s milking my tits dry.”

“We’re here about Moira,” I reminded him.