Unknown - The Genius

Samantha and I stepped outside to give Annie the full run of the roost.

“You don’t have to stay,” I said.

“That’s funny,” she said. “I was just going to say the same thing to you.”

“Don’t you have to get back to work?”

“Eventually. Civil service isn’t as rigorous as you’d think.”

“I don’t think it’d be that rigorous at all.”

“Then you’d be right on the money. They’re still out to lunch. The guys in my office will do anything to avoid their jobs. You don’t know how much porn they send me on an hourly basis.”

“It’s a nice thing you’re doing,” I said. “For your father.”

She half smiled. “Thanks.” Her tone implied that I had no right to grade her behavior. “It’s hard to remember that when he calls up and tells me I have to be somewhere on Monday, noon sharp. He can be pretty overbearing. Tunnel vision. It’s not just this, it’s everything.”

“He probably doesn’t realize he’s putting you out.” I felt hypocritical defending McGrath; who better than I to sympathize with someone suffering under a father’s ridiculous demands? But things your own parents do to drive you crazy can seem piteous and understandable when it’s someone else’s parents doing them.

“Oh, he realizes it. Sure he does. He knows it’s a pain in the ass. That’s why he asks me. I’m the only one who’ll do it. If you don’t believe me, ask my mother. I’m sure she’ll be happy to share her war stories with you.”

I didn’t ask about Mrs. McGrath. I had a feeling she lived someplace far away.

Samantha leaned against the wall. “So you’re an art dealer. That must be fun.”

“It has its moments.”

“More glamorous than my job.”

“It really isn’t. Most of the time I’m sending e-mails and making phone calls.”

“You want to switch for the day? You can interview rape victims.”

“That sounds awful.”

“I hate to say it, but you get used to it pretty fast.” Her phone rang. “Excuse me.” She walked down the hall to take the call.

Boyfriend calling, I guessed. I tried to listen in but couldn’t, not unless I got up and followed her. She talked for a good fifteen minutes. Eventually, I opened the door to the apartment and poked my head in. I saw Annie crouched near the baseboards, slowly playing a flashlight back and forth.

“You really do like things neat,” she said.

Samantha appeared behind me. “Anything?”

“Hair, but I don’t think they belong to your man.”

“Why not?”

“Did your man have a pink dye job?”

“That would be Ruby,” I said. “My assistant.”

“I have to tell you,” Annie said, “I’ll keep looking, but I don’t think I’m going to get much here. What about that other stuff you told me about?”

“The storage locker?”

“Yeah. What’s there.”

“A hundred and fifty thousand pieces of paper,” I said. “And a pair of old shoes.”

“Delicious,” said Annie. “I can’t wait.”

TWO DAYS LATER I had another appointment with McGrath, but when I showed up nobody answered my knocks. I pounded and pounded, and then I tried the door. It was open. I went inside and called his name. From the bathroom came a weak Hang on. I sat at the dining-room table and waited. And waited. And finally I went to the bathroom door and knocked. I heard a retch. I tried the knob but it was locked.

“Lee? Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Another retch.

“Lee?”

“Hold your fucking horses.” He sounded awful; and when he opened the door, and I saw how he looked, and the blood on the rim of the toilet that he had not quite succeeded in mopping up, I said, “Jesus Christ.”

He shuffled past me. “Help me with the box.”

“You need to get to the hospital.”

He said nothing, went to the back room. I followed.

“Lee. Did you hear me?”

“You gonna give me a hand or you want me to lift this myself.”

“You need to see a doctor.”

He cackled.

“You look like shit,” I said.

“Thanks, you too.”

“You need to go to the hospital.”

“You want to drive me?”

“Fine.”

“You’re not supposed to say yes, you’re supposed to stop arguing with me.”

“I’m saying yes.”

“My guy, you need an appointment to see him, you can’t show up unannounced.”

“Then I’m calling an ambulance.”

“For crissake,” he said. He sounded grief-stricken. “Pick up the box and—” He erupted in coughs. His hand came away from his mouth bloody.

I picked up the phone on the desk, managing to dial 9-1 before McGrath hobbled over and wrestled the receiver away from me. He was surprisingly strong for someone in his condition, and he also had the protection of knowing that I wouldn’t fight back, for fear of hurting him. He unplugged the receiver and put it in the pocket of his robe. He pointed at the box.

I stood there, trying to decide whether to use my cell phone. He probably would have confiscated that, too, or thrown it out the window. I decided to give him a few minutes to calm down before saying anything. I picked up the box and carried it to the dining-room table. “Sit,” he said. I sat. Silently, we began spreading out our work. His nose ran and I handed him a tissue, which he used and then tossed on the floor with utter contempt—whether for me or his own condition, I couldn’t tell.

He said, “I called Rich Soto about those cases.”

The cases in question consisted of everything Soto could dig up with a similar MO. McGrath had grown fond of the notion that the Queens murderer had other notches in his belt, and that locating one of them might yield more information—a suspect, perhaps; or someone already doing time.

“And?”

“He’s getting the files together. He said two weeks, but don’t hold your breath.”

“All right.”

He closed his eyes then, and I could see how badly our struggle had worn him out.

“Lee.” I put my hand on his arm. It was warm and frail. “Maybe we shouldn’t work today.”

He nodded.

“Do you want to lie down?”

He nodded again, and I helped him to the back room, settling him into the La-Z-Boy.

“You want the TV on?”

He shook his head.

“You want some water?”

No.

“Are you going to be all right?”

Yes.

“Are you fixed for food? Is Samantha coming?”

ce-n ť

Tomorrow.

“What about tonight.” I tapped my foot. “Lee. What are you going to eat for dinner?”

“Fuck dinner,” he croaked.

“Do you want a joint?”

Yes.

I went to the kitchen, found his stash and his rolling papers. It had been a while since I’d rolled one myself, and I ended up spilling flakes all over the floor. I sponged up the debris, found a lighter, and brought McGrath his medicine.

“Thank you.” He groped around for an ashtray that had gotten moved across the room. I brought it to him and watched him smoke.

“Hungry yet?”

He laughed, a balloon losing air.

“I’m going to call Samantha and have her check in on you.”

“Don’t,” he said.

I said nothing. I waited until his eyes closed and his breathing changed, then went into the next room and made the call. I told her what had happened.

“I’m coming,” she said.

When I returned to the back room, I found McGrath feebly smiling.

“You’re a real buzzkill, you know that?”

“Well what do you want me to do?”

“Go home,” he said.

“No chance.”

“Go to hell,” he mumbled.

I sat on the floor at his feet and waited.

It would take Samantha a while to get over from Borough Hall, and I considered calling the paramedics in the interim. But I didn’t. McGrath looked a little better now; he had stopped coughing, and I knew that waking up in the back of an ambulance would be the ultimate assault on his dignity. He wanted to stay where he was, wanted to make his own decisions. I chose to respect that.