Pete Hamill - Tabloid City

Malachy Devlin is a good cop, a good partner, a Fed, smart, cool. The other guys say they are a typical Morgan Freeman — Colin Farrell movie. Sometimes Ali feels that way too. But the partners are not close friends. The younger guy has a wife and a little kid. He likes regular hours, and then goes home. But they work hard on the trail of knuckleheads who might be terrorists. If the evidence is more than just bullshitting, they lock them up, search the dumps where they live, track down their former wives and abandoned sons wherever they might be, set one free and follow him around, and if they realize it’s just another case of three assholes bullshitting in a bar, which ain’t a felony, they let them go. They process tips, calls, anonymous notes, rumors, and the Feds’ reporting once a month about “chatter.” In all of this, there is little to be found about Malik.

And here is Ali Watson, on his own block, caressing the gun in his holster before getting out of the car. Afraid Malik has come to visit. Afraid he called Mary Lou, out of the blue. Afraid she let him in. Afraid she said something that he thought dissed Allah. The world is full of nutso shit. Maybe it’s a lot simpler. Just some junkie on the prowl. Maybe.

Ali unlocks the gate under the stoop, pauses, hears nothing, then opens the two doors leading to the garden floor and the kitchen. He does not turn on a light, but he knows every inch of this house, and in each room there are small plug-ins that throw pinpoints of light across the floors. He moves to the rear windows, holds one curtain aside, gazes into the garden. Empty.

Don’t be here, Malik. Please. Be in fucking Pakistan. Be in Afghanistan. Be in Jersey fucking City.

Silently, he moves through the house, up two flights of stairs, inhaling the familiar odors of home, of food and old books and couches, of the place where he lives with his woman, the home place. His gun is now in his right hand. He passes the room that once was Malik’s, but the door is open and the shades half drawn. Nobody there. He lifts a leg over the one step that creaks and then is on the second landing. Waits.

Nothing.

In the top-floor bedroom he takes the flashlight from beside the bed, turns it on. The bed is crisply made. All clothes are hung in the closets. Books and a clock beside the bed on Mary Lou’s side. The bathroom is as it always is: gleaming and clean. No scrawled message on the mirror or walls. Watson exhales. Warmer here. Heat rising. But no human presence. His mouth is dry now. Holding the flashlight, he turns and hurries downstairs. There are no signs of alarm anywhere. No Arabic graffiti. No blood.

In the kitchen he takes a Diet Coke from the refrigerator, leaves the door open, stands in the cold shaft of light and swallows a long draft. He screws the cap back on the bottle, places it on the door shelf, closes the door, and stands there in the dark.

Malik, Malik.

And oh, my Mary Lou.

He exhales hard, then switches on the ceiling light.

1:55 a.m. Bobby Fonseca. Nighttown restaurant, Stone Street, Manhattan.

When he walks in, the place is almost empty. A pair of bulky guys are at the bar. Maybe off-duty firemen. Laughing with a blonde barmaid. Three Japanese guys are at one table in the front room, looking gloomy in suits and loosened ties. What time zones do their bosses live in? They look like gamblers waiting for results. From the Nikkei, for sure. One has a laptop on his knee, flicking, mumbling to the others. All news all the time. Irish music plays from the sound system, the volume down low. The Chieftains. There is still light in the kitchen. No sign of Leopold Bloom. Or Stephen Daedalus. The large framed photograph of Mr. Joyce looks pensive in the gloom of the empty second room.

But there’s Victoria, her arms folded, shoulder leaning against an arch. Lost in thought. Jesus Christ, Fonseca thinks, she is so fucking beautiful.

He peels off his dripping raincoat, drapes it on the back of one chair, lays his wool hat on another, sits at a table. His scraping of a chair against the floor wakes Victoria. She comes to him, smiling broadly.

— Hey! she says.

Her eyes are bright. Her breasts masked with the top of a dark green apron bearing the name of the restaurant.

— Hey, Victoria.

— You eating? Ya got five minutes to order.

— First things first, I guess. Three scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, rye toast, and a beer.

She touches his shoulder, hurries to the kitchen.

Victoria Collins, he thinks. Why would anyone in Bayside call an Irish kid Victoria? The mother must have picked the name. Or maybe Victoria did. Was she really baptized Bridget? They graduated from J-school at the same time. Last year. Except she was at Columbia and Fonseca at NYU. He got a shot at the World. She was still looking. Her father some kind of union boss. Operating Engineers? Won’t let her be an unpaid intern. Isn’t in favor of free blogging. So she’s a waitress. Waiting. Maybe envious of me.

She returns.

— So whattaya working on for tomorrow? she says.

— A murder. Sad. A bright kid shot dead. A kid from Stuyvesant.

— Chinese?

— No, black. When I left the paper, it was the wood. Who knows by tomorrow? The night is young.

— It is, she says, then hurries to the kitchen.

He thinks: Forget the eggs. Let me lick your thighs.

Victoria Collins returns with eggs, toast, beer on a tray. She lays each item gently in front of Fonseca.

— Heard anything? he says.

— A friend called, says there might be an opening at the Daily News. I sent a follow-up to my résumé. They must have three of them on file.

Fonseca lifts some egg on his fork.

— Maybe call the editor, Victoria. You know, follow-up with a voice attached. Try to see him.

A pause. She stands there.

— Want to celebrate the wood? she says. Without a smile.

Fonseca stops eating.

— Sure.

— Eat fast, she says. We’re almost closing.

She walks back toward the kitchen and turns into a back room. Fonseca crunches a piece of toast. He has been here five times in the past month, and she always laughed when he came on to her. Now… now? Tonight?

The firemen start arguing with a third man. A short red-haired guy. A regular. Fonseca can hear the names Lee and Gallinari and knows they are arguing about the Knicks. God. Don’t they know that life is short? He eats quickly. Too quickly. Belches. And sees Victoria Collins come out of the back room. The apron is gone but she is carrying a thick coat under one arm. She hands him a bill. He hands her his Visa card.

— Right back, she says.

The three Japanese guys are standing now. Fonseca hears a sentence from the bar: You kiddin’ me, Charlie? Nate is great! He sips his beer. And then she is back with the green plastic wallet that holds the check and a pen.

He opens it, starts calculating.

— No tip, she says.

— But I—

— My turn.

A minute later, they are out on cobblestones in the rain. Her down jacket has a hood. His wool hat is pulled tight on his skull. They walk toward light but there are no cabs.

— Where do you live, anyway? Fonseca says.

— East Village. Avenue B and Twelfth Street. And hey, Fonseca, what do I call ya?

— Fonseca’s fine.

— I like Fonseca. Three Latin syllables! But, hey, Fonseca: whatever ya do, don’t call me Vicky.

Victoria Collins laughs.

— Okay, Collins. Whatever you say.

A taxi turns the corner. They start waving and shouting. The taxi stops and they get in. The backseat is wet, but so are they.

As they are crossing Houston Street, Fonseca feels the cell phone thumping in his trouser pocket.

2:07 a.m. Helen Loomis. Second Avenue at 9th Street, Manhattan.