Vincent Zandri - The Innocent

Bucky Pizzarelli filled the silence for a time, until the music was drowned out by the Cessnas taking off from the Stormville airstrip. It felt good to be eating a meal in my own home and sitting at my kitchen table with Val.

Man, it just felt good to be free and clear.

“What about you, Keeper?” Val said. “What are you going to do now that things are going back to normal?”

“Things will never be normal.”

“You know what I mean, boss.”

“I’m not going back to the iron house. You can count on that.”

“What will you do?” Setting down her fork. “You’re a prison man. You can’t just start a new career at your-”

I reached across the table and pressed my hand against her mouth.

“Don’t say it,” I said. “Don’t say the A word.”

She smiled and it felt good looking at her tan, chiseled face and her brown hair and the way it hung down on the smooth skin of her exposed neck.

“Don’t worry,” I added, “I’m not about to leave town or anything crazy like that.”

Using her thumb and index finger, Val twisted her wine glass by its stem.

“Of course, that’s none of my business,” she said.

“Look, Val,” I said, “I’m toying with the idea of going out on my own. You know, like a private investigator. Only a guy who specializes in prison-related crime. Drug trafficking, money laundering, murder, breakouts. The whole ball of beeswax.”

Val took a breath as if relieved. She nodded her head with approval.

“Only makes sense,” she said. “The prison is a society unto its own. Its own rules and laws. Its own government and social order. No one knows it better than you, boss. Except maybe the COs and inmates themselves. Certainly not the governor, certainly not the politicians. Makes sense you taking it on privately. You know the system like the back of your hand.”

I reached across the table, took Val’s hand in mine.

“Just like I want to get to know the back of yours,” I said. I felt that good feeling in my stomach. The feeling that comes when things between a man and a woman are new and wonderful.

Val smiled like an angel and she squeezed my hand then gently pulled away.

“We’ll work on that a little, too,” she said.

IN THE DARKNESS OF the early morning, Tony Angelino’s black fedora made him look more like a shadow than a man. Sometimes I wondered if he really was more shadow than man. We stood outside the Miss Albany Diner on Broadway on the first cool morning since spring had begun that year. Through the window of the diner, you could see a single exposed light bulb burning brightly over the counter. I couldn’t see him from where I stood, but I knew Cliff was inside prepping the grill. It was four-thirty on a Monday morning. For obvious reasons, Broadway was even emptier than usual.

“Sorry to get you out of bed again,” I said to Tony, handing him a manila envelope. “This should make it worth the trip.”

In the darkness it was hard to make out Tony’s face. But I could feel his smile and I could see his breath as it vaporized in the cool morning air.

“And this is for you,” he said in a low whisper voice. He handed me a brown paper bag that contained an undersized videotape, along with a few things I had asked him and his Guinea Pigs to get for me at the last minute.

“Think they’ll start a full-scale investigation into the missing porn video?”

“They might, paisan,” Tony said, shrugging his shoulders. “And on the other hand, they might not bother. That video is the least of Pelton’s problems now.”

“The second video, the one Cassandra and I made at the cabin, is the important one,” I said. “That should be enough to make a conviction stick.”

“Cassandra wants to see the porn film destroyed, huh?” Tony posed.

“Can you blame her, Tone?” I said, gripping the video tightly with my right hand.

Tony nodded empathetically.

“So,” I said, “what do you think the DA’s gonna say when he finds out that the Commissioner of Corrections’ favorite home movie is gone?”

“He’ll say something smart, like, ‘What do you mean my porn flick is missing?’ “

Tony and I shook hands like paisans. Behind him I saw Cliff through the picture window. He was moving in and out of the light, setting up the booths with ketchup bottles, knives, and forks. By now I could smell the good smell of peppers and onions and home-fried potatoes sizzling on the grill. Tony released my hand. I tucked the package into my leather jacket, zipped it up.

“You’re not going back, are you?” Tony said, obviously referring to Green Haven.

“I don’t see the use in it,” I said.

“I heard you handed it all to Dan Sloat?”

“Dan’ll make an excellent warden.”

“What are you gonna do, paisan?”

“Keep busy,” I said. “I’ve got Val and her kid. I’ve got my drums.”

“What are you gonna do for money, I mean?”

“Work for myself,” I said. “Private investigations. That and quit smoking…maybe.”

“Word’s out the attorney general’s office is looking for an unbiased special investigator with prior prison experience, in light of recent tragedies, that is.”

“I’m their man,” I said.

“Call me if you need a lawyer or the Guinea Pigs, Mister Visionary. Call me for lunch or call me for dinner. But, Keeper, don’t call me before breakfast.”

“Sure,” I said.

Tony tugged on the brim of his fedora. He turned and jogged up the three steps to the door of the diner. In the bit of light that leaked out through the diner window, I could finally make out his face when he turned to me one last time and winked. He opened the glass-and-wood door and went in. “The usual, Clifford,” he said, his deep voice booming loud and clear through the plate glass. “Sunny-side up with coffee. And hey, paisan, let’s have a smile. Turn that frown upside down!”

I WAS DRIVING THE Toyota as the sun came up over the mountains beyond the Hudson River directly to the east. My cup of coffee sat in the holder on the dash; I held a cigarette in my left hand. I blew a stream of white smoke out the window, turned onto Marian Avenue, and found the house that now belonged to the widow of the cop slain by Eduard Vasquez in 1988. She had moved back to Albany with her young son to live with her mother, who, the record showed, was also a widow.

I rang the doorbell to a yellow, single-story, clapboard house that needed a paint job in the worst way. A young woman, dressed in a frayed pink robe, came to the door. Poking his head out from behind his mother’s robe was a little boy of about eight or nine. The young woman with cropped black hair and brown eyes did not recognize me. Not at first anyway.

“Can I help you with something?” she said, making a conscious effort to keep the boy behind her where he was protected.

“I have a package for you, ma’am,” I said. “May I?”

I opened the screen door and handed her a manila folder, exactly like the one I had handed Tony Angelino earlier. This package also contained a hundred thousand dollars. Money that Cassandra insisted belonged to this woman and her son.

“A hundred grand won’t bring back her husband or that kid’s father,” Cassandra had told me during the drive from Ironville to Albany, “but it will give her back some of her life.”

I agreed.

The woman took the package from my hand, opened it.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Money from an overlooked policemen’s fund,” I fibbed. “But there’s one catch.”

Now the woman pressed her son into her leg with one hand, gripped the manila envelope with the other.