The Law Fought Me - Ch. 4

So there I was, having given Rocco Bianchi the means to escape prison. Not that he necessarily would. I walked briskly out of the hospital ward into the visitors lobby, a small area devoid of chairs or anything that might be used as a weapon, beside your fists. I gave the guard at the counter my nicest smile. “How long are you cooped up here for?”

The guard scrunched his mustache like a jumpy caterpillar, then itched it. “Five.” He knocked his hand on the big notebook on the desk. “What’s your name, son?”

If I was going to give Bianchi a fair chance, I’d have to choose a different name than on the pass I’d left him. “Fates. F-A-T-E-S.”

He dragged his finger. “Client, huh? What’s the first?”

“Hm? Bradford.” I almost didn’t recall. I had a flash of speaking to him in his office, Vaness seated beside me.

The man pointed. “Sign.” I took the pen and, slowly, imitated Fates’ signature. He nodded and made eye contact, smiled. “You’re set.”

I drifted to the elevator. When the doors opened, only the operator stood there. “Been here before?” he asked, cocky.

We descended.

I hiked a long broad corridor of concrete and direct lights, much like a bunker, and smiled, imagining Bianchi on the same path. The faces of prison doctors and nurses, walking in to work, warmed me. Nothing could trace to me. Except the fake name, which I gave on my way in. It was my worst mistake. I lost the smile until I reached the desk, which stretched from one end of the hall to the other. The officer there had his own book. “Your pass?”

“The name is Bradford Fates.”

“Pass?”

I reached into my pocket. The cop went lazily over his papers. I turned out my pockets. “Excuse me, I think I must have dropped mine.”

His eyes rolled over slowly. “What’s your name again?”

I kept digging. “Bradford Fates. Shoot. Should I just go back and get one?”

He grunted. “I oughta strap the guy upstairs. He’s supposed to look at your pass before he lets you leave.” He reached for the phone. “Ah, Christ.”

“I’m a lawyer.” I let it hang for a beat. “Guess he figured–”

“Well he figured dumb.” He hesitated. “Wait. Fates–” He thought for a moment. “Nah…”

“Yes?”

He hung up the phone and folded his arms across. “You wouldn’t happen to do divorces?”

“No, sorry.”

“That’s alright.” He waved his big hand. “Go on, before I get any more bad ideas.”

I tipped my fedora brim and went out the swing gate, to the exits down to the street. I sped up as I neared the sun. When my worn brown leather shoes hit the pavement, I wanted to sprint, but I restrained myself until I had cleared the corner, and then a street, and a bus rolled past me on a route I knew. I lunged on when it braked, then rode to work. I punched in at eight.

I filed witness statements and police reports until lunchtime, when Lieutenant Carbone dropped by with more paperwork. Not long after I ate my homemade sandwich did the phone ring. I considered ignoring it as long as I was licking my fingers, but thought if I did that somebody on the main floor might notice the sound and wonder why I wasn’t doing my job.

“Hello. Lieutenant Carbone’s office.”

“You bad dream you,” sneered the voice. It was a man. Low and theatrical.

Another nutcase desperate to get news. “Let me know how I may assist you, beyond apologizing for any nightmares you may have experienced while dialing.”

“You had an appointment at my office. Or have you forgotten?”

“Oh–Fates. I didn’t recognize you behind that… strange flirtation.”

His voice had a hasty edge. “Do you think you’re being funny? Well, do you?” I didn’t give him the privilege of an answer. “When are you coming down to my office? Before you ask, no, this is not a matter to be discussed on the phone. I had enough trouble finding a number to reach you.”

“That’s because I don’t have a phone where I live.” He made a pretentious scoff. “And I work. You knew enough about that in order to call me. I’m finished at five. I’ll head over then. If you’re… not working.”

“After five. I’ll clear my schedule. Just for you.”

“I can hear you smiling over the phone. But is it sincere?”

“I don’t seem to remember you being this cheeky when you visited the office with Miss Baretto.”

“That was a serious matter. Until then.” I hung up.

I folded my hands, amused. The watch on my wrist read 12:48. Long days, longer nights.

I departed the office on the dot, affecting smiles and giving nods through the main floor to secretaries and officers I didn’t know. Through the glass doors of the station lobby, I saw Carbone marching straight on with a stern expression. He meant business, AKA, overtime.

I turned on my heel and dodged into a restroom, where I straightened my green tie with the strange leaf-like orange and white swishes poking in from the sides, smoothed my brown lapels, and studied my beaten leather shoes. Thankfully the cop in the hospital prison hadn’t noticed them, because what lawyer would wear shoes in this condition?

I checked my watch, but didn’t know how much time had passed. Carbone walked fast. This was my window to slip out before he thought to catch me outside. I slowly opened the door, gazed around, and walked as fast as socially acceptable to the sidewalk. I slipped around the building and through pedestrians at every opening.

Fates’ office was on the second floor of a gilded gray building with an intricate stone front. The site of business was displayed in white on a narrow black sign above the windows. Fates & Bodily, Criminal Defense Attorneys. The “Defense” added for class.

I took an elevator, that’s the way me and Vaness always got up there. I didn’t know where the stairs were. It was a sleek machine. Pretty utilitarian. I stepped out into a waiting area. The outer office door had frosted glass with the place of business reinstated over the pane, offset by two black leather seated wooden chairs with a small table between. I passed these and went in to the reception area, with a broad desk in front of the window and another few chairs. Behind it sat a smart-dressed woman in a fitted grey suit with pinned up hair that I had never seen before, drumming her fingers on her desk.

I went straight for the private inner door but she stood and brushed down her skirt. “Sorry, he’s busy right now. My luck. I can’t leave til he wraps up business.”

“Ah, you must be Bodily,” I said.

Her lips puckered inward in what must have been an attempt at an acknowledging smile, but it wasn’t welcoming. She poked some paper around on the desk. “How can you tell?”

The figure, I could have said. She seemed to acknowledge it anyway, by the frown. “Six years his partner and I still get treated like a secretary,” she muttered.

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” I said by way of apologizing, and sat beside the outer door.

Bodily rustled papers awhile, until a clap from the inner office brought an insincere chuckle from me. “Heated discussions.”

I tuned into the muffled voices of two men. I heard a testy “Yeah!” and the sound of a bunch of papers falling. Dealing with a boozer I guess.

Bodily rose and went to the door. “Bradford, are you alright? Is everything alright in there?”

A bang slammed my eardrums–I ducked instinctively and vaulted behind the long desk at the window overlooking the street. Bodily had hit the deck, too. I wanted to call for her to hide with me, but the door knob rattled and the door swung open with a thud. I heard a low curse and then there were sounds in the private office of metal dragging on the wood floor. Then a rummaging like chains scraping metal, then beads clacking like a rosary. Shoes moved over the floorboards and the office’s front door opened and shut. I creeped out.

“Bodily,” I called, “He’s gone.”

She didn’t answer, remained there facedown with her arms shoved against the door.

I swore. I used the desk to get up and then fell at her side, checking her pulse. I glanced up and saw the bullet hole in the pane of the private office, the darkened little veins running from it every which way. I turned her forehead and part of it was blown away. I swore again and staggered over her into the office. The office chair was spinning behind the desk, a puncture in the leather. I stepped around and found Fates slumped against the wall with his eyes fixed in an arbitrary direction. I swore more. I stooped to take his pulse, but his pulse wasn’t there waiting. “What killed you?” I muttered. I whirled around. The wall safe was open, papers were scattered. I saw the single open drawer at the right hand side of the desk. There was a greasy newspaper–undoubtedly where the gun had come from. Must have tried to defend himself. Against better judgment, I stepped over spilled papers into the front room, properly searched Bodily for a pulse. It was faint. I bit my lip, focusing on the blood around the crater of her head. I stepped behind the desk and pulled up the phone–however, getting tangled in the crime could be bad for me. Did I want to explain why…? I rubbed down the plastic on my suit and slapped it on the cradle with my sleeve. I darted for the door. Going strictly on automatic. I rebounded down the stairs, against a wood railing. Don’t tell me how I found them. The door to the street was open. I stepped into the sun and looked both ways. At the street crossing, in a beige overcoat and grey hat, Rocco Bianchi looked back.

I instinctively crouched down, expecting gunfire. He saluted with two fingers and kept on hurrying down the street with a painful limp, diving to the left after he crossed. Maybe I should… go back. But Bodily… if she was still alive… Goddamnit. I scanned the street for a passerby. I grabbed hold of a middle-aged woman by the arm, wearing thick glasses and clutching the leash of a small dog.

“Ma’am. I heard gunfire in there. Do you live around here?”

She jerked her arm away. “Mind your manners!” She kept on scooting on her pointed heels. A man with a suitcase came up. “Sir! I heard gunfire from that lawyer’s office. Do you think there’s a phone to call from?”

He answered with confused monosyllables. I repeated myself. He shrugged and looked vaguely around, mumbling about payphones.

I wiped my face and ran down the street. I crossed and veered left, but I didn’t see Bianchi anywhere. I looked at the storefronts, made out a cafe and rushed in, hitting the doors hard with my arms. I bumped into the front counter and called to an employee. He looked startled. “Do you have a phone I can use?” He murmured in response. “Please! It’s an emergency.”

He said something about a manager, and I said, “Sure, yeah! Just get me a phone. I need to report a crime.”

The employee slipped into a backroom, and a balding man in glasses edged out looking prompt and unsettled, looking for the man disturbing his inert state of mind. The employee talking to him indicated me and the manager waved me over. I lifted the wood divider between counter and café and followed them into the backroom, where the manager had a desk and a mounted phone. I picked up and dialed the police. The manager and employee watched stiffly. The manager had a permanent protruding lower lip which I found strange, but then I was telling the operator “Fates & Bodily.” I tripped over my words struggling to say “Criminal Defense Attorneys.” “What’s the address of this place?” I asked the employee. He told me and I started talking down the line. The employee fed me more information, and the manager asked me which direction I came from. I used his knowledge and my description of the turn I’d made to pinpoint the address.

“Please stay on the line. The police are on their way.”

“Alright,” I began to say, but the line dropped.

The manager asked, in a low murmur, “Somebody shot?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think I’d better get over there.” I walked up and offered to shake. The manager took my hand, but hesitantly, and I shook it. “Thank you so much, sir. You’ve probably helped save a life.” I nodded to the employee, who was half-looking. “Thanks.” I went out the door, lifted the wood counter, then ran down the sidewalk. When I had gotten back to the street I had seen Bianchi turn down, I turned in the opposite direction.

Forget him. I had to get home.

I slowed at the next intersection, crossed arbitrarily when the lights changed. I didn’t know where I was going, but I figured I’d get home eventually. I remembered with a pang that Vaness was due for questioning at the police station today. In fact, I wondered if she’d been in the same building while I was bored placing reports in their correct file cabinets. I hadn’t realized that I worked at the police station, so naturally the detectives on Bianchi’s case would bring her into the precinct station from which that investigation was launched. Never mind, though. If she was there, she didn’t bother telling me. She could have figured it’d be bad for my rep. Or, she’d never been called in. Didn’t matter now. I hitched a bus ride to the stop not far from my place. Took the alley entrance in, hiked the three flights, sweating.

I got to the landing and my hands had trouble getting the key into the lock. I slammed it behind me and walked slowly to the bedroom, where I immediately fell onto my face, letting the keys crash from my hand to the floor. I hoped I locked the front door. The apartment seemed to spin behind the black in my eyes. I turned my head, keeping my eyes closed, so that I could breathe, and listened to the still air and the faint squeal of someone’s brakes outside the window. God. What happened, is happening? I thought I heard someone creak or stomp up the landing, maybe that Chinese couple that lived below me. What went on, what happened?

I opened my eyes, creasing my brow as a stillness took over the apartment. Maybe a board squeaked, or something shifted, because I felt a distinct presence in the apartment. I flipped over in the bed, and threw my hat across the small room, where it landed, brim wedged under my banged up white dresser. I groped for a weapon, but I didn’t have any, so I stopped at the wall, sliding behind the bedroom door. I heard footsteps now, definitely. When they filled the doorway, the change in the sound of the air, I shoved the door with both hands closed and heard a yell that made my heart jump in my throat. I locked the door immediately as I heard the intruder thud to the floor outside my room. Weapons! No phone. God. I could jump. I looked to the window, or had been looking, down at the sidewalk.

“Gartner! Is that you in there?” My eyes fixed on the white door, waiting. “It’s Carbone! Lieutenant Carbone! Who’s in there?”

I swore internally. He might have a gun trained on me. I stepped aside from the door. “Gartner! I thought you were a burglar.” My eyes darted to my hat. “I’m opening the door.”

I bent down and undid my laces. I pulled my shoes off and jammed them under my dresser, flung off my jacket onto the bed, then opened the door a crack. Carbone blinked at me.

I let go of the door handle and let it drift in. “Wow. I’m so sorry, Carbone. I thought somebody had broken in. I swear.”

His forehead had a noticeable red spot. “No, don’t apologize.” He made a dry chuckle. “I guess I should have announced myself. Old cop instincts kicked in. I thought somebody had broken in.”

“Why would you think that? Why didn’t you knock?”

He stopped my questions with a hand on my right shoulder–not that I would have said any more. “Gartner. Something terrible has happened.”

Well, Vaness is dead I guess.

“Bianchi escaped.”

“What?”

“Rocco Bianchi escaped the prison. The hospital prison. He must have found a weak spot in the system.”

“What do we do? No wonder you were worried. I thought I locked the door.” I put a hand to the top of my head and dragged it back and forth over my crew cut, which I was currently growing out, more for Vaness than myself. “All this time I was home anybody could have walked in.” I made some sound of relief and mumbled, “Glad it was only you.”

The red spot on Carbone’s forehead creased as he cut in over me. “Do you have any idea where he might have gone? We could only hear so much of your conversation with him.”

At first I thought he’d meant the conversation where I’d given Bianchi the idea of how to escape, but I knew, after readjusting to the facts, that he’d meant when he left me alone to chat up Bianchi, and confirmed he had a girlfriend somewhere, somehow.

“No. All I know is what you know, probably less.”

Carbone vaguely looked around my apartment, brows knotted and hands partially raised in distress. “Gartner, you’ve got to get a phone wired in here. He escaped hours ago, but you weren’t at the station and I had no way to reach you. I’m just finished from patrolling with Schok and O’Grady, we didn’t see much around the hospital.” He picked his hat off the floor and fixed it at a jaunty angle on his head. “He must have gone underground by now. We’ll need to connect with every contact he’s ever had. Search their homes.”

“Tony Spadaro. Over at Verra–Viazzo’s. That’s bound to be a good place for him to hide. Although Spadaro wouldn’t want him there. He knows–that is, I went to talk to her–him.”

Carbone’s face mildly twisted with uncertainty–maybe woe. “Tony?”

“Your list may have incorrectly listed him as a woman. As Antoinetta.”

His hands still looked ready to grasp nonexistent straws–the air.

“You can see for yourself. I’m not–” I couldn’t bring myself to use a cliche. “I’m not joking.”

Carbone massaged his temple and headed for the door. “Let’s drive over. You obviously know him better than I do.”

“Let me get my shoes first–” I spotted my other pair by the door, thank God. I had a spare hat on the floor, this one black, and planted it on my head before resuming tying on some black shiny shoes, which would look like a lawyer’s. I’d bought them at a far different time, when looking the part meant selling it–I’d also worn them to my interview. “Ah, my keys.” I rushed into my bedroom and swiped them, threw my jacket on then replaced my black fedora with the brown one beneath the dresser–to match the suit.

Carbone waited at the bottom of the stairs for me, hand on the doorknob. We practically dove into his cruiser. He peeled away from the curb with the lights and siren blazing. I told myself to get a grip, after vague cursing and oaths in my head, between half thoughts and pictures of the carnage at Fates & Bodily.

I didn’t see anything in Fates’ office to indicate… the empty wall safe, the discarded papers on the floor. Bianchi said Fates told him he could plant, or would plant, a Bembo necklace or something at Bianchi’s girl’s place if he didn’t confess to the crime. Seems, then, that Fates must have had one of the Bembo pieces after all, for Bianchi to go through the trouble of turning up and shooting him. Suppose Fates got the location of some of the jewelry from the guy he was or would have defended, Brock Lumsden, though it seemed a little too hot to have them stashed at his office, unless he stole them himself. Fates… he wasn’t the most stand-uppish of lawyers. He talked polite but played dirty in court, and out. Yeah… maybe he even tortured that old lady and copped the jewelry with Bodily as his sidekick. Her? Nah… Why, because she was pretty? No, because… her?

Carbone looked over. His hat had fallen to the floor or over his shoulder to the seat, but he hadn’t noticed or didn’t mind. “Norman. I’m sorry I startled you. I got ahead of myself.” His face got stern at the road ahead, flying under us, the grey traffic and the diminishing expiring light between buildings. “How did he do it? Well… we’ll save it for coffee. We’ve got to run him in. Find him where he’s–Gartner.” Looking over, demanding attention with his dark round eyeballs. He looked much older in years than his birth certificate. “We–haven’t located the Bembo jewelry. Long story, but her family found the records. Some of our boys estimate the worth at over one hundred thousand. Maybe quadruple.” He changed lanes, concentrating on our route. “Do you think he’s going for the jewels as we speak?” The question was confident, sounded more like a statement. I knew he was beyond concerned but his voice was calm.

“If he knows where they are, maybe.”

A look, brows creased. “Why do you say that?”

I shrugged. “Wouldn’t you?”

We peeled to the left at an intersection, and I clutched the door. When we straightened out, he said, “He’s got to be heading for the jewels. Why else would he bust out? He needs money, before he can disappear. But he won’t, Gartner. Mark on that.”

“Marking.” I added a chuckle so Carbone wouldn’t think I was being sarcastic.

After a while of fast driving, I added, “What might he be doing if he wasn’t involved?”

That earned me a look. “Wasn’t involved in the Bembo jewels? Of course he was. He’s out organizing an escape from the country. That’s what he’s doing. He’s got to be arranging plans for his girl, too.” He exhaled in a tight funnel from his mouth. “Gartner, he’s got to be contacting one of the women on our list. He’s got to be arranging her to follow him as well. He wouldn’t break out if he wasn’t in it all the way. Somebody’s got to know where he is, maybe somebody even we know.”

Carbone intermittently rehashed the sameish thing between intersectional dives and tight lane changes. We turned up at Viazzo’s after sunset, with the sky dark and the pink neon a-glowing. Carbone tossed the cruiser door open and stepped onto the sidewalk before the front doors before it had closed. He looked back as an afterthought. It settled half open, and he had to step back to actually shut it.

I caught the club door he held for me. Music thronged inside, the pink lighting theme continuing. Men and women at round tables. Nobody on stage but a band. Brass instruments. Something one of my friends would have dug. Hepcats, he’d say, or something stupid like that.

Carbone snarled, or, I should say, he did what the word implied, only the word “snarled” implies an ugly unpleasant connotation, whereas Carbone creased his brow and frowned in a way that was too much unconscious to be called a snarl, too much polite and conforming to society’s whatever it is it is. “A dope joint.”

His remark was so matter-of-fact, I didn’t have the reflexes to question why Carbone immediately assumed drug trades were in vogue here, not until we reached the bar, or I did. Carbone happened to stroll there, being the only area with room to stroll. An orange light hit low across the floor and under the round tables stretched across it, emitting from small bulbs below the gold footrest of the bar counter. Carbone quit his eyeballing and neatly turned and walked down the hall between the bar and the stage. I followed. A man in shirtsleeves stopped us with an “Excuse me,” but Carbone lifted his identification, having it already cocked and ready outside his pocket.

The man nodded at the badge.

“Watch him,” said Carbone, out of the side of his mouth as we passed, “He might try to warn somebody.”

I looked over my shoulder, and the man in shirtsleeves stared back. I didn’t know what to do–stay and keep the contest going? Or follow Carbone up those steep stairs at the immediate end of the purple lit hall?

Decided, I slowly went into the hall, until he couldn’t see me, then waited against the wall as Carbone took the stairs. I peered out and saw the man go through a door behind the bar. I followed him. There was alcohol locked in high black metal racks against the walls, and a private phone in the rear corner, which the man lifted. 

“Tony, the cops is heading up to ya place.” I ran over and yanked the cord out of the wall. The man spun with a feral look like he meant to hit me with it. So I snatched the body of the phone, and the receiver flew out of his hand, dragging against the floor by the wound cord.

“I’ll come back for you,” I said, pointing, and, trying not to trip on the wire, ran after Carbone, who had reached the shallow landing in front of a solitary brown door.

“Carbone!” I huffed, clutching the phone to my chest as I wound some of the wire on my arm.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyelids unaffected and narrow, and motioned me back. I crouched. He knocked and hollered that he was a police detective, and if no one let him in, he was going to let himself in anyways. Only he’d bring more men and an express warrant.

He drew his gun, holding it pointed at the ceiling. “Though I doubt we’ll all fit comfortably at once.”

A high strained voice answered, “Slide your badge under the door.”

Carbone dropped it and kicked it through with his shoe.

“I’m opening the door!” said the voice, and did so.

I looked up from my crouch and Tony Spadaro looked down at me, wearing a pair of well curled false eyelashes. He clutched a long silk robe to his chest. “Please, come in.”

Carbone held the gun at his side and scanned the room as he entered. I got up and swiped his badge off the floor for him. He received it in an open hand as his eyes scanned the furniture and stopped on a narrow hall to the left side of the far wall. The front room looked like a deluxe walk-in closet. Square, warm, and cozy. Wood plank floors, a vanity crowded with makeup things with its bulbs turned on, a white cushioned chair in front of it. There was a purple throw rug against the closet and another pushed against a chest of drawers at the far wall with bottles of liquor standing on top in disorder. A few throw pillows against the near wall. There weren’t any windows. Tony locked the door and went to the ashtray full of stubs by the bottles, and looked in, saying, “Feel free to look around.” He retrieved his lit one in the tray at the vanity. He rested one hand on the back of the vanity chair and took a drag, his eyes casually following Carbone as he opened the closet at the near wall–slatted wood panels that you could pull open from the circular handles. He brushed the hanging coats and dresses aside, then crossed the room and continued down the short hall.

Tony gestured to the black phone in my arms. “Do you need to hook it up?”

I figured Tony thought we might set up some kind of office. “No–some guy tried to warn you we were coming up.”

Tony recoiled. “God. And what happened to the cat holding it?”

I bit my lip. “He’s fine.” I gestured to the pillows. “So what are these? You like sitting on the floor?”

Tony took his hand from the robe. “Sure.” Under the robe was a plain undershirt and striped pajama bottoms. “You can go ahead and sit.”

I obliged, crossing my legs and setting the phone beside me with the wire coiled. “Nice cozy place you got here. Is this where the magic happens?”

Tony raised his cigarette at a high angle. “You could say that.” He took a drag. “Though I usually get ready downstairs.” He crossed his ankles, feet sporting slippers with pink fluffy bands. The silk robe had a sort of flower design to it, but it looked smeared in the dim lighting from a shaded lamp on the floor beside the vanity, in the corner to my right.

He flicked his head to get a strand of dark hair off his forehead. “What is this about, or shouldn’t I ask?”

I eyed the bottles on the dresser, thinking of a way to imply the long conversation might go down better and friendlier with a few stiff drinks. My eyes were drawn left as Carbone reemerged like a train, blocking the light of the hall and nearly brushing the walls with the padded shoulders of his suit. “Enough goofing around. Who’s that boy sleeping in your bed?”

Tony made a monosyllabic sound of surprise–a “bwaugh?” maybe, with a little jerk of his head and a disbelieving raise of his round eyebrows. “You mean you didn’t wake him? It’s my cousin, Giuseppe.”

Carbone inclined his head to his collarbone, repeating the name flatly. “Giuseppe?”

“That’s right.”

“You didn’t think to wake him yourself, with a policeman at your door?”

Tony smiled and drew the cigarette to his lips. “I didn’t want to stall you.” He blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “I meant to tell you, but I figured you’d see for yourself.”

That explained the silence from the other part of the apartment. I wondered if our voices would wake him, or if “Giuseppe” was faking.

Carbone nodded and stepped into the square room. “And why is it you’re in a robe so early in the evening?”

Tony stretched his arms over his head. “It’s my day off performing. I dress as I please.”

“Your cousin’s taking up the whole mattress. Where was it you intended to sleep?”

The lit end of the cigarette flickered. “Right there where your partner is.” He clasped his hands beside his head, eyes closed, eyelashes prominent. “All curled up in the pillows. It gets real warm nights. I like the floor.”

Carbone pursed his lips. “Hmph.” He made a nod to the clothes hanging behind me. “And who stays here when you do performances? Your girlfriend?”

“No sir. Those are my costumes. You might find me wearing that white and silver number this friday.” He turned to the vanity and removed a photograph stuck in the frame. “This is me doing Lauren Bacall.” He strode over and showed the lieutenant.

His big hand closed on the paper. “That’s pretty convincing.” He checked the back. “And what’s your stage name?” He glanced up. “Antoinette?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me, Spadaro, has Bianchi ever been up here?”

Tony Spadaro recoiled to the vanity, leaving Carbone with the still. All very actress-like. “Officer! What kind of–man do you take me for?” He gathered himself and turned up his chin. “I do know Rocco. He’s a regular here. But as I told Mister Gartner here, I haven’t seen him since before Tuesday. I had meant to bring him to the vet for company to drop off my sick pupper Mr. Hubbles, but he did not show. And so I took my cousin. Giuseppe.”

“Pardon me, Spadaro, I didn’t mean to offend you. Mind if I take this?”

“Oh um, let me get you a new one.” Tony fished a still out of the shallow drawer and warmly gave it to Carbone, who in turn let him take the photo in his still raised arm which hadn’t moved since he’d touched it. Spadaro thanked him and returned it to the frame with a proud smile. He tapped a little ash in the tray. “May I help with anything else in your investigation?”

“Not for now. Do let the police know if you run into Bianchi.”

“Will do.”

Carbone made another nod, and threw a finger at the door. I got up and put my hands around the cold plastic of the phone. “Leave it here,” Tony said, “I’ll plug it in.”

“All the same,” I said. I placed my hand on the gold doorknob and gave the room and the bottles one last looksie. “Nice place,” I said. Tony waved his fingers theatrically, and I drew the door closed.

The music swelled as we took the steps down like there was a fire behind us. The man in shirtsleeves edged out of sight into the storage room when he saw me. Carbone stopped abruptly and I almost walked into him. He appraised the patrons in their seats one last time before pushing his way up the steps to the street. “Work on your good cop, Norman. You seemed too comfortable on the floor with the throw pillows.” He unlocked the car and yanked his door open. “You can’t be too comfortable in this job. Somebody might take advantage of you.”

“You’re right. I was too comfortable.” I thought of Emerald Norval and how she’d pulled a gun on me suddenly for no particular reason. “What did that photo say, on the other side?”

We boarded the vehicle, but he didn’t answer. “We should check out some more names maybe. Emerald Norval is a good one.”

Carbone picked up the radio as I said this and asked the operator for updates. A nasal voice droned, “Lieutenant, there’s been a shooting at the law offices of Fates and Bodily. Over on 6th avenue…”

He switched gears. “Copy.”

I raised my eyelids and let my mouth open on one side. I turned my head slightly toward the radio, as if were a headline.

“A shooting?”

The Lieutenant said nothing.

I put a fist to my mouth and dropped it. “I should get home. I don’t think I belong at a crime scene. I don’t have the training.”

“You sell yourself short. You can be my note keeper. Stay outside with the boys. Besides, you knew this lawyer, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but.” It took all my will not to tug my collar or fan myself with my hat. “It’d really tear me up to see… him if he’s dead.”

He looked over. “You don’t look torn up to me.”

“This is my stoic face.”

Carbone drove on. I felt my throat catch.

“This is the face I show in public.” I began to scream inside my head. “Carbone?”

We stopped at an intersection. “Fine, walk out then. Who’s stopping you?”

I took the door handle and the door opened an inch, but Carbone screeched suddenly forward and honked at a car that had begun to pull out and I yanked it shut.

Carbone flipped a switch and the sirens blared. “I thought those were on.”

I held my fist in front of my mouth until I had enough control to speak. “I don’t see how I can help. What am I supposed to do? Interview the corpse?”

“Gartner.”

I started laughing. “Look, I don’t see why–I’m investigating crime scenes. I’m not a cop. I don’t have that kind of specifications. What do you expect me to do–hold his brains?” With some force I managed, “In a little bag?”

I kinda lost it and laughed until my chest was tight, shoulders bouncing. I threw myself into the corner between the seat and the door, trying to breathe.

Carbone shouted for me to get a grip and shook me by the shoulder which only made it funnier. Finally he braked hard and I flew into the dash. I wiped my eyes and jerked when Carbone took my own hat off and hit me with it. He gave me a pointed stare with his head tilted back in aloof disappointment. Or guarded unease.

“We’re here.”

He got out and I stared at the brown hat now sitting behind the wheel. I giggled a little. I swore at myself to get it together, frowning, but smiled anyway. I fixed the hat on my head and scooted across the seat to get out onto the sidewalk without worrying about traffic. I still felt giddy but the stoic mask had returned to my face. A relaxed smooth-shaven narrow face with straight eyebrows with sharp arches generally set with sarcasm. Nothing profound or concerning to see here. An ordinary but handsomely anonymous face of a 26-year-old guy in a brown suit with a sort of ugly green tie, but not too ugly either. Cleanly dressed, poker face. The kind of guy who might be sour at the world, or might be thinking about strangling you to death, unless you’re not thinking about what he’s thinking at all, which is almost always.