Matt checked him in, sent his bags upstairs, gave his last twenty to the ticket-taker, and, penniless, walked his father into the ballroom for dinner, a concert, and a radical transformation of his evening.
Martin had been at the Ann Lee Home six months, a casualty of age, time, bad knees, retirement from the newspaper, inability to write anything else, and the death of his wife, friends, and ambition. He had never saved money, and retired on Social Security and periodic royalties from revivals of the plays of his father, Edward Daugherty, mostly The Flaming Corsage, his scandalous masterpiece. Martin’s own books were all out of print. He gave up on living alone and cooking for himself and moved into the Ann Lee Home for the aged run by the Albany County Democratic machine, which took him in as a guest, one of their own, after a lifetime of association with the party’s high and low, from machine boss Patsy McCall down to the exercise therapist who worked on his knees. As a guest he did not have to sign over his Social Security to the County as inmates did; he kept it in a savings account that Matt monitored. He viewed the Ann Lee as an inexpensive hostel. He could come and go if he could walk, and he still could, with difficulty. He went out for occasional dinners with Matt, who visited often and was on tap for emergencies, except today when he had an emergency of his own. When Martin moved in he knew a dozen or more guests and inmates, a few of them gone mindless, some still ready to talk politics and history, but he needed conversation less and less.
“This is probably Cody’s last concert,” Matt said as he walked Martin to George and Vivian’s table. “He’s dying.”
“He doesn’t have a corner on that market,” said Martin.
“The concert’s a fund-raiser for his medical bills.”
“So this is ‘So long, Cody,’ a wake while he’s still alive.”
“I guess that’s it.”
“A work of mercy. Celebrate what’s left of the man.”
The band struck up a fast version of “Twelfth Street Rag.”
“Are you really up for this action?” Matt asked.
“I didn’t think I’d be in a scene like this again. I think it quickens my pulse.”
“I’m glad you’re out of that place.”
“It was handy. Easy, and quiet. They make very tasty egg salad.”
“You’ll live to be a hundred. But you wouldn’t have lasted there, I always thought it was wrong. We’ll get you a new place. I’ve got some ideas, maybe we’ll get a place together.”
“In the friary?”
“No, an apartment. Downtown maybe.”
“Downtown? You’re moving to Downtown? Isn’t that pretty radical for a priest who’s supposed to be campused and silent?”
“Who said I was a priest?”
Martin stopped walking and stared at him. “You did. Since you were fourteen.”
“That was yesterday,” Matt said.
“Bless us and save us, said Mrs. O’Davis. I’m witnessing a miracle.”
“More like a shipwreck,” Matt said.
“Dominus vobiscum, boy, whoever he is. Dominus vobiscum.”
When they left the church basement Quinn said, “Do you want to die, Tremont?”
“Not me. I want to go get a taste and then the world’s gonna look just fine.”
“The world’s after you. You’re a wanted man and sooner or later they’ll find you. You have to surrender yourself. I talked to Lieutenant Fahey about you and your gun, and I also talked to a top lawyer who’ll represent you. If you come in on your own they treat you differently than if they find you on the street with a machine gun.”
“AR-15 ain’t a machine gun.”
“You want to die, Tremont?”
“I’m gonna live to be ninety-seven like John D. Rockefeller. Me and him got a lot in common.”
“John D. didn’t drink.”
“Yeah, we didn’t agree about that one.”
“All right, we get the gun and meet Doc Fahey and you tell your story. Tremont, this is a way out; or else they’ll be on you in packs. It’ll be like a foxhunt.”
“They shoot the fox?”
“The dogs get him.”
They were walking on Chapel Street, half a block from the Times Union, and Quinn considered going up to the city room to brief Markson on his encounters. But another reporter was covering the Palace, and Quinn had time to write everything else for the final before deadline. If not, he’d call and dictate it. Except for Tremont’s story. Now he had to put Tremont together with Doc. A car pulled to the curb alongside them and Matt leaned out the window.
“Hey,” he said, and he got out of the car. “Tremont, you keep disappearing. Where’d you go after Trixie’s? We looked all over.”
“Came to the protest,” Tremont said.
“He sang a song,” Quinn said. “They would’ve lynched him if I didn’t get him out of there.”
Matt reported to Quinn on getting George and Vivian to the Cody concert, and the surprise arrival of his father, after being kicked out of the Ann Lee. “More payback by the machine,” Quinn said.
“Where’s your gun?” Matt asked Tremont.
“Down on Bleecker Street.”
“You took it out of the locker?” Quinn said.
“He took it and he used it,” Matt said. “Didn’t you tell him, Tremont?”
“Never got a chance. I shot two fellas beatin’ on Rosie. Didn’t hurt ’em much.”
“The police gotta be looking for him,” Matt said.
“I was with the Mayor when he got a call about a political assassin at the Four Spot,” Quinn said. “But they had you wearing two-tone shoes, Tremont.”
“That ain’t me,” Tremont said. “I got me these holy priest shoes.” He lifted his right foot toward Quinn.
“I got Tremont’s two-tones,” Matt said. “We swapped.”
“The priest is a sport,” Quinn said. “Listen, I set up a meeting with Doc Fahey. We need that gun.”
“I’ll come along,” Matt said, and he told Nick Brady he was off duty as a chauffeur, and the three walked to Quinn’s car and headed toward Bleecker Street. Downtown was as empty as four o’clock in the morning.
“I don’t like this surrender business,” Tremont said.
“You don’t like dying either, am I right?”
“They ever get me inside they’ll keep me there.”
“You’ve got a sharp lawyer, Jake Hess. He’s close to the Mayor, but he’s a straight arrow, and he’s taking you on. He knows your whole story.”
“Nobody knows my story.”
“We’re trying.”
“You talked to the Mayor about me?”
“I did. I told him you were being set up. It’s out in the open.”
“He know my name?”
“Only your shoes.”
“I saw Zuki at the protest,” Tremont said.
“You should’ve told me,” Quinn said. “Roy is in jail.”
“What happened?”
“They arrested him at the Palace after that kid died.”
“What kid?”
“White kid. Hit on the head or pushed down balcony stairs by black kids.”
“They ain’t sayin’ Roy pushed him.”
“I don’t know.”
“Roy didn’t do that.”
“All I know is they busted him and five other black guys.”
“Open season on the Brothers,” Tremont said.
On Bleecker Street maybe ten men were drinking on the sidewalk in front of Hapsy’s. Hapsy never let customers linger after they made a buy. He was a supply depot — booze, wine, and sneaky pete after hours, but tonight he was the emergency room, only place open down here. Quinn parked a block away. Chloe’s Diner on the corner of Green was open, a pay phone.
“Where exactly is that gun, Tremont?” Quinn asked.
“I couldn’t describe it. I gotta show you.”