Lisa Miscione - Twice

“Remember your promise,” said Rain to Jeff, moving away from them.

“Wait a second. We didn’t get what we came for.”

“That’s not my problem,” he threw behind him as he continued on his way with a thug’s saunter.

“I think it is,” called Jeff. “All we have to do is tell the FBI that we know he’s down here somewhere and they’ll tear this place apart.”

Rain stopped in his tracks and Dax smiled. “Won’t be much of a mayor without your city, will you?” he said.

“What do you want from me?” he said, turning around. “Goddammit, I knew that one was going to be trouble the minute I heard about him.”

“Then why didn’t you take care of it yourself?” asked Jeff.

“Because that’s the code down here, man. Everybody gets a chance to be a part of this community. Up there, they’re losers-drug addicts, prostitutes, criminals, nuts. They got nothing and no one to give them respect. Down here, there’s a place for everyone, as long as you obey the rules, don’t hurt nobody, and don’t ever talk to the police or anyone topside about what goes on down here.”

“This man is a murderer, Rain,” said Jeff. “He’s going to hurt more people. All we want is a line on him and we’ll take care of the rest. When you know where he is, let us know. That’s all we ask.”

“And you’re gonna take care of it? Like you did today?”

“You have a week,” said Dax. “If we don’t hear from you, we come down here with the Feds and you can kiss your little kingdom good-bye. You’ll be in a shelter or a nuthouse or wherever it is that you belong.”

Jeff shot Dax a look that was lost on him in the darkness and probably would have been anyway. They had different ways of dealing with people. Jeff believed that all people, regardless of their circumstances, deserved to be treated with respect until they proved themselves unworthy. Dax felt exactly the opposite. Dax was fiercely loyal to a few people and everyone else could just go to hell as far as he was concerned.

“Look,” said Jeff, hoping to soften the blow of Dax’s words-but Rain was walking away. “Rain, let’s talk about this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Dax, moving through the opening and stepping onto the comparatively bright track on the other side. “He’ll get in touch with us.”

“Fuck,” said Jeff, watching the only lead he had on Jed McIntyre disappear into the darkness of the tunnels.

“Trust me, mate,” said Dax with the winning smile that always made Jeff forget what an asshole and a wild card he could be. “I know these people. If he’d promised to get in touch with us, then I’d be worried. Let’s get topside so we can call Lydia. She’s going to kick your ass back fifty feet underground. And I want to be there to see it.”

There were few things Lydia hated more than arguing in front of other people. She hated the feel of eyes on her at the best of times but least of all when she was angry and vulnerable. People were judgmental and she didn’t want the baggage of someone else’s energy in her personal life. It was for this reason and this reason alone that she kept her voice light and measured as she spoke to Jeffrey on her cell phone. Her whole body had felt electrified with relief when she’d seen his number on her caller ID. When the relief drained her, anger and dread filled her back up.

“Hi,” she’d answered. She was conscious of Ford sitting next to her and Detectives Piselli and Malone riding in the backseat. In the dark silence of the car all ears were on her.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he said, voice tentative, guilty. The line crackled and he sounded like he was on the moon. And he might as well be, for as close as she felt to him right now.

“Fine. What’s happening with you?” Her voice lilted, but the words felt like rocks in her throat.

“Not much,” he lied. “Are you with Ford?”

“Yeah. Are you with Dax?”

“Yeah. Can we meet up with you guys?”

“Sure. We’re heading over to the Ross building. We saw something on a surveillance tape and we’re going to check it out. Meet us in the laundry room.”

“The laundry room?”

She tried a joke, but it came out sounding harsh and angry. “Is there an echo in here?” She never was any good at hiding her emotions.

“You’re pissed,” he said.

“Why would I be?” Her voice sounded crisp and sarcastic even to her own ears, and she saw Ford turn to look at her out of the corner of her eye.

“We have a lot to talk about later.”

She let his words hang in the air, tried to tell from his tone how things had gone.

“Is it settled?” she asked finally. There was a pause during which the specter of hope that had been lurking beneath the negative emotions swirling inside her faded and was lost.

“No. It’s not.”

“I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Lydia-”

But she hung up. She wasn’t really angry at Jeffrey. She wasn’t really angry. She was scared and tired. But anger was always easier to deal with because anger was power. Anger made you do something, made you act. Anger made you strong. Fear made you weak, made you cower, made you a victim. And that was just not acceptable to Lydia. It just wasn’t an option at all.

“Everything all right?” Ford asked as if he were sticking his hand into the lion’s cage at the Bronx Zoo.

She didn’t even know how to answer that question anymore. So she just nodded and looked out the window as they pulled up to the building on Park Avenue.

“ Hardly anybody ever uses this laundry room, you know,” said the doorman as he took them down in the service elevator. His Yonkers accent was thick and he seemed out of place in the maroon tails with gold piping on the cuffs and collar that were the uniform for the building. It was probably the only suit he owned and even this was too short in the legs and wrinkled. He was affable and a little on the goofy side and his name was Anthony Donofrio.

“These people got the cash, you know,” he said, quickly rubbing the fingers on his right hand together. He smiled, revealing crooked, yellowing teeth. “Most of them have washers and dryers in their apartments. Some of the old-timers, too cheap to buy their own, still come down here. But mostly the maids and nannies, if they have more than one load to do, they run down here to save time. I got the monitor in the office behind the front desk and I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I seen the actual tenant down there. But I work the night shift, mostly.”

Ford could tell that Anthony was enjoying this a little bit. Ever since those cop shows had started to make it big on prime-time television, people were a lot more cooperative. They felt like they were part of something when the police came to ask questions unless, of course, they had something to hide. Anthony Donofrio impressed Ford as the kind of guy who visited his mother, had a hard time with the ladies, and still hung out with the same guys he went to grade school with. If he had something to hide, maybe it was that he jerked off every night with a copy of Hustler . And who didn’t?

“So how did the camera get turned off that night, Anthony?” asked Ford, taking out his notepad.

“I don’t know,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. His eyes were wide and innocent, but Ford saw it. A quick shift of the pupils. “I never noticed it go off. Only when you guys looked at the tape did they find that it had been turned off and back on.”

Ford didn’t say anything for a minute, just looked down at his pad as if deep in thought. He let the silence grow thick and uncomfortable between them.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Anthony said again, this time with a nervous chuckle. Ford cocked his head to one side and gave Anthony a thoughtful frown. Suddenly he sensed Anthony wasn’t enjoying himself as much anymore.