Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

Time passed. The disc spun. He sat completely still and watched Gerald Hayes tumble through the air and strike the sidewalk. He was shocked by the violence of the act, but not repelled by it. He viewed the scene again and again, marveling at the woman’s cool as she smashed in one side of Hayes’ head and then led him to the open window and shoved him through.

And of course the woman’s words, over and over the woman’s words: “Wolfhagen was your closest friend and you betrayed him. You told all his secrets in court, you sent him to prison for three years, and you’ve never regretted it. Did you really think he’d let you get away with it forever?”

Wolfhagen rewound the DVD, watched it a fifth time. Hayes had just been shoved through his office window when the bedroom door snapped shut.

Startled, Wolfhagen turned.

Carra was at the rear of the room, looking at the television screen, her decorated lips twisted back, her body rigid. He’d been so intent on Hayes’ murder, he didn’t hear her come in.

Immediately, he stood and shut off the television. How much had she seen? Why had she come back? His mind raced. “It was sent to me,” he blurted. “It came in the box with Wood’s head. There was a note-it told me to take it. Someone’s trying to frame me.”

But Carra, whose hat was now in her hand, took a step back.

“It’s the truth,” he said.

Carra’s eyes said it wasn’t and she shook her head firmly. She was a woman known for her composure and she didn’t lose it now.

She reached out a hand and gripped the doorknob. “I was standing right here,” she said. “I heard what that woman said. You killed Gerald. You killed Wood. You’ve killed every one of them.”

Carmen’s face glowed in the light of the computer.

She was in the safe house on Avenue A, reading the information she’d downloaded from Maggie Cain’s computer. Her eyes skimmed the information Cain had been compiling since the death of her lover, Mark Andrews.

When she was finished, she sat back in her chair. In all her years in this business, she’d seen some sick shit, usually created by her own hands, but this was a new low. This would be enough for Wolfhagen. Cain and her private investigator were as good as dead.

Carmen picked up her cell and hit Spocatti’s number. The line rang, but he didn’t answer. She hung up the phone and opened another file, this one marked “Marty Spellman.” She read quickly and then stopped at one paragraph. She read it again-and again.

Could this be true?

Again, she tried Spocatti and this time he answered. She told him what she knew and Spocatti told her where to meet him. “His name is Marty Spellman?”

“That’s right.”

“And he’s working with Cain?”

“They’re investigating Wolfhagen. They’ve already involved the police.”

“Run a check on him. Find out where he lives.”

“I already know.”

“That’s resourceful, Carmen, good for you. What do you recommend?”

“It’s no longer just Cain. We take both out. Now.”

“Agreed. Let me call Wolfhagen and tell him our priorities have shifted.”

The light in Manhattan had changed to the deeper glow of late afternoon when Marty left Roberta’s. The sun had dipped below the jagged skyline and now deep shadows were stretching across the city, thick fingers reaching out, perhaps in search of a breeze.

Or a neck.

He walked on auto pilot to Washington Square Park, his own shadow dancing before him on the pavement. He watched people he didn’t know step all over him, cars race over his head, a city bus cut him in half, a kid on a skateboard sever his legs. His invincible shadow collided with all of New York and it didn’t hesitate or flinch. It simply charged forward without feeling, rippling over curbs, growing slowly by inches.

Wolfhagen.

Now this was an interesting turn of events. Marty had to smile. So the man might not be out, after all. He put his hands in his pockets and strolled across the park’s wide expanse of cracked cement. Had Wolfhagen really flown 3,000 miles to attend a party given by the woman he was suing for thousands a week in alimony?

Marty read the Post. Like the rest of New York, he knew the Wolfhagens were in the middle of a bitter divorce battle. Carra was fighting him with a team of lawyers hell-bent on giving him nothing of her personal, inherited fortune. She had publicly spoken out against him. Editors continued to showcase the unfolding story with headlines that demanded attention. Had they come to some sort of reconciliation in the few days that had passed since he read the last story? Unlikely. But even if they had, would Carra really have invited him to come cross country to one of her parties? To spend the night at her home? That he couldn’t believe.

He left the park and started up Fifth, allowing his thoughts to wander around the possibilities. If Carra hadn’t invited Wolfhagen to her party, then why had he flown to New York? To confront her face to face about their divorce? That was a possibility. But if it was the case, then why had Carra allowed him to stay with her now?

Did she have a choice?

He turned onto West 8th Street. Ahead of him and to the right, the Click Click Camera Shop reared its ugly face to the world. Marty stepped inside.

A shirtless Jo Jo Wilson looked up as Marty strolled toward him. He dropped the tattered issue of Big Jugs he was holding and scowled, his pitted lips parting in protest. “This better not be about your camera,” he said. “I sent it to you, just like you asked.”

“The camera’s fine,” Marty said. “I need to use your phone.”

“You need to use my what?”

He continued across the narrow, dingy little store and put his hands down on the dusty glass countertop. Jo Jo leaned back on his rusty metal stool. “Your phone,” Marty said. “I need to use it. My cell is almost dead.”

Wilson’s hand skidded left, behind a stack of boxes that had the words “POISON” and “! DANGER-LIVE ANIMALS!” stamped in red all over them, and came back with a dirty gray cordless phone that once had been beige. He handed it to Marty, who dialed Maggie Cain. Again, he got her machine. Still, she wasn’t home. He left another message, this time asking her to call his cell immediately. He hung up the phone and stood there, wondering where she could be. He needed to speak to her. She knew the Wolfhagens.

“Trying to reach somebody?” Jo Jo asked.

“Oh, that’s brilliant, Jo Jo. That’s smart.”

“Tense as usual?”

“I’m not tense.”

“Right. And I’m not sittin’ here dyin’ right in front of you.” He paused to take a breath. Even the shortest conversation could leave him winded. He glanced down at the oxygen tank beside him and put a hand on the cloudy mask. “So, what’s the problem? Ex-wife givin’ you shit again?”

“You could say that.”

“Sorry you divorced her?”

“She divorced me, Jo Jo. Twice. Remember? And no, I’m not sorry. In fact, today I’m particularly happy that she did.”

“Miss your girls, don’t you?”

Marty looked at him.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You’re missing your girls.”

How could this unfeeling, sloppy grotesque be so intuitive? It made no sense, but it was one of the reasons Marty had come around for the better part of fifteen years. Every once in a while, Jo Jo Wilson tapped into whatever worldly experience he had and was able to see straight through him, cutting right to the core of whatever was bothering him. But Marty wasn’t willing to go there now. “I think you need a hit of oxygen, Jo Jo.”

Jo Jo took a hit. “I’ll show you what else I need.” He reached down and retrieved the half-empty bottle of Scotch from the open drawer at his feet, put it between them on the cluttered counter. “Want a drink?” He unscrewed the bottle cap and clicked it down on the glass counter. “I guarantee you this little honey will take care of all your problems.”