He retrieved his spare set, then unhooked a handful of other keys, seven or eight sets.
"You can't do that!"
"The fuck I can't. I'll be taking these keys. You can explain to the owners."
"Oh, man, my brother, that puts me in a world of shit. That gets me fired. They hear their keys are gone, they going get me fired, at the least."
"You should have thought of that."
Horace's eyes were full of terror. "I can't move no cars around without them keys!"
"You should have thought of that, too." He noticed a framed photo of a Little League baseball team in blue-and-white uniforms. "What's this?"
"What? What?" Horace looked around, glass in his hair.
"This."
"That? That's my two boys, their team!" wheezed Horace despairingly, keeping his head covered.
Rick picked up the photo: twenty little black boys in neat baseball uniforms kneeling on a scuffed infield; in the background, smiling, stood Horace, an assistant coach of sorts. The guy was just trying to make a living-you could see it that way, too; the man had a shitty job eating exhaust and was working whatever extra angles he could to make a little money for his sons. Contributing to civilization. Rick put down the photo, threw the other keys to the floor, and left.
It was past 3:00 P.M. when he stepped into the Jim-Jack, and he could see that the lunch crowd had ebbed, only one waitress working the tables, the Mexican busboys idle. Behind the bar stood the bartender, an older blond woman with too many rings garbaging up her ears. The pay phone hung on the wall next to the first stool of the bar, placed rather cleverly so that you could sit at the bar and talk on the phone. This, he figured, was where Christina had called her mother. He sat down next to the window and the busboy came over. He nodded. "I'm looking for a friend of mine, name's Christina."
The busboy did not commit to an expression. A lot of Indian in his face, the eyes almond-shaped. Mexicans hated whites, the conquistadors. Were into butt-fucking white girls as revenge, he'd heard. But that wasn't his problem. "I think she's been around here, man. Pretty tall, dark hair. On the slim side."
The busboy wiped the table, looked over his shoulder. "Let me check." He retreated to the back of the restaurant, whispered something to the bartender, who lifted the bridge of the bar and walked forward.
"You ready to order?" she asked.
Rick nodded. "Let me have the bean burrito plate. A tomato juice, orange juice-and Coke-no-ice."
"Thirsty guy."
He nodded.
"Right." But she wasn't quite done with him. "You were asking about somebody?"
"Yeah-a friend. A woman, long dark hair. Kind of tough-looking. Maybe she used this phone a few times. I heard she was around, so I thought I'd just stop in."
"Pretty?"
"Yes."
"A friend?"
"Old friend, yeah."
"How old could she be?"
"Not as old as me."
She looked at him. "You don't look that old."
"I'm old, believe me. Very old."
The woman smiled. "I think I've seen a girl using the phone. You want to leave a message?"
"No. But maybe you can tell me when she comes in, her usual time."
She shook her head softly. "I can't."
"No?"
She smiled again. "It's a policy. We make policy here in this restaurant."
"Then just tell her a friend came by."
She pretended to write on her order pad. "I'll just put down 'Nameless Old Guy.' Something like that?"
"Sounds good."
While he was waiting for his food, he called Paul. After the secretary put him through, he could hear his half brother switch from speakerphone to the regular line. "Been a long time, Rick." A weight of sadness passed through him; he missed his brother terribly, felt ashamed for falling out of contact. He'd never told Paul exactly where he lived out on Long Island. "I know," Rick said. "It's my fault." He'd always admired Paul. He was the successful one. Trained as an accountant, he owned the family heating-oil-delivery business, two policemen's bars that didn't make much money but kept him sewn in with the cops, a boatyard out on Long Island. He knew everybody, and everybody knew him, asked his advice. Nobody had a hook into him. Paul owed exactly no dollars and no cents to the world. His specialty was setting up legitimate operations that actually made money. If you wanted to wash some money through them, that was your business. The old men trusted him because he made his rules clear and had never been in trouble. The younger men trusted him because the older men did. If you asked him what stocks to buy, he didn't tell you; he gave you the name of a legitimate brokerage. If you wanted to buy a gasoline station on Long Island, he told you whom to call and ran the numbers for you. Of course, then you placed the accounting with his firm.
"Where are you?" Paul asked.
"Back in the city. I need to talk, get some thoughts on something."
In the past, this had always meant that Rick was in trouble. Paul's reaction depended on the load of headaches he already carried, what his wife would say, what the actual trouble was, and, finally, whether Rick was asking for money.
"Lay it on me."
Rick briefly explained the situation with Christina and Peck, including the conversation out on the dock in Greenport.
"Some of what he told you is probably horseshit," Paul said. "Some."
"You know Peck?" asked Rick.
"I know people who know him. The usual setup."
Rick watched the waitress bring his food to his table. She noticed that he was at the pay phone. "This thing is moving pretty fast on me, Paulie."
"Come over for dinner. I'm out of the office later in the afternoon, but I can pick you up."
The ferry to Staten Island thrilled him, still. Once, as a boy, he rode it holding his father's hand. In the windy darkness the lighted castles of Manhattan receded rapidly, the water behind the tremoring deck oiled with shavings of light. He found a damp bench on the Jersey side. A containership with only three running lights glided past, then a buoy blinking green, then the Statue of Liberty, then another ship. He noticed a young woman with bobbed hair and beautiful eyes. She sat a few benches away, legs crossed, bouncing her black boot. She smiled mysteriously and he nodded. Every girl has a story, he thought, but you can ride only one at a time. Inside the ferry exhausted office workers sat traveling home, jackets over their shoulders, hunched sweating beneath the fluorescent lights, reading newspapers, eating hot dogs. Dependable people, bills paid, law-abiding. He would never be one.
The ferry bumped to a stop. Outside the terminal Paul stood waiting in a good sports coat and talking into a cell phone-never wasting a minute, always the man with unfinished business, rushing toward the next conversation, the next deal. Getting quite a bit of gray hair now, Rick could see. Paul looked up and gunned his finger at Rick in recognition. A classy guy, his brother. They both had their height from their father, but Paul had never gotten big, weight always steady. Refined in appearance and habit and temperament. Bought a new Town Car every three years and gave money to charities. Read The Wall Street Journal and played golf. Ten handicap, just right. He kept a finger in a lot of different pies, Paul did. Advised the Archdiocese. Jews liked him because he was as smart as they were. He had a lot of money and nobody but Paul knew how much. Wife happy. Kids doing fine in school. The big house in Todt Hill. Christmas lights on the bushes each December. Everything done the right way.
Paul grasped Rick's arm. "You look good. What's your weight now?"
"Maybe two-thirty."
"You look solid."
"All that work on the boat."
In the car, Paul flicked on the air conditioning. "So you're really back in the city?"
"Just got in."
Paul nodded. A certain tone in his silence. "You staying long?" he said.