"I don't know," I said, finishing my sandwich and tapping a cigarette from the pack. "I've got a contact in the demon-world who might have some idea who's behind this — I thought I'd pay him a visit, see what I can see. Only I'm not exactly relishing the idea."
"Is he — I mean, do you have to go…" she stammered. "Is he in hell?"
I laughed. "Near enough — he's in Staten Island."
"Oh," she replied. "But you've been? To hell, I mean?"
"Have I been? Sweetheart, I'm sitting in it."
"I don't understand."
"Hell isn't some faraway land, Kate. It's right here — in this world, in this room. Heaven, too, as near as I can tell. They're just, I don't know, set at an angle or something, so that they can see your world, but you can't quite see them. Occasionally, the boundaries break down, and the result is either an act of horrible savagery or of astonishing grace. But make no mistake, they're always here."
Kate's brow furrowed as she looked around the room. "I guess I always imagined hell to be all fire and brimstone."
I lit my cigarette and took a long, slow drag. "You ask me, I'd guess heaven and hell look pretty much the same," I replied. "Only in hell, everything is just a little out of reach."
There was a long pause before Kate spoke again. "You don't seem so bad to me," she said.
I laughed. "Thanks, I think."
"So how'd you wind up here, doing what you do?"
"That," I replied, "is a story for another time."
• • • •
The summer of 1944 was one of the hottest the city had ever seen. The streets of Manhattan seemed to ripple in the midday sun, and the bitter stink of sweat and garbage clung heavy to anyone who dared to venture outside. Even the breeze off of the harbor offered no relief from the oppressive heat. Every night as I made my way back home, I watched as passengers crowded three deep at the bow of the ferry, eager to feel the wind on their faces. But the air was still and thick with diesel fumes, and all they got for their trouble was a sheen of sweat atop their brows and angry glares from those they jostled.
Home back then was a tenement in the New Brighton neighborhood of Staten Island, about twenty minutes' walk from the ferry terminal. The place was ramshackle and overcrowded, and the racket from the munitions factory across the street was as constant as it was maddening. Still, as I hobbled up the stairs, I was greeted by the heavenly aroma of garlic and onion, so I couldn't much complain.
Inside, Elizabeth was standing by the stove, her back to me. A Benny Goodman number drifted across the room from the radio in the corner, and she tapped her foot in time. When I closed the door, she started, and then smiled. I crossed the room and gave her a kiss.
"Sam," she said, blushing, "you know the doctors said you shouldn't do that!"
"To hell with them. You're my wife — I'll kiss you if I damn well please."
"How'd it go today?"
I shrugged off my suit jacket and yanked the tie from my collar, tossing both across a chair. "Same old story. They said I'm more than qualified, that my references are sound, but there's just no way a gimp like me is gonna keep up with the demands of the job."
"They actually said that to you?"
"No, of course not — they said a man in my condition."
"Ah," she said, as if confirming something she had already known.
"What do you mean, ah?" I snapped. "Just because the words they use are flowerier doesn't make 'em any likelier to hire me, now does it?"
Tears shone in Elizabeth's eyes. She blinked them back and looked away.
"Liz, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just frustrated, is all. I'll find something eventually, and then we'll get you better — you just wait and see."
I put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged me off and returned to the stove.
"Whatever you're making smells fantastic," I said. Though her back was still to me, I could see her posture relax.
"It's braciola" she replied. It was my favorite, and she knew it. I felt like an ass for snapping at her — God knows it was the last thing she needed right now.
"How're you feeling today?" I asked.
She flashed me a smile over her shoulder. "Well," she said. "I think the tincture Annie got for me is working."
"Liz, that's great! You'll beat this yet, you wait and see."
She dropped her gaze and said nothing for a moment, then: "Oh, I forgot to tell you — Johnnie Morhaim stopped by to see you. Third time this week, I think."
"Yeah, I'll bet he did. He comes around again, you just let him knock, OK? I don't like the thought of the two of you here alone together."
"Honestly, Sam, he's always been perfectly polite to me. Don't you think you're overreacting a little?" I shot her a look that made it clear that I thought no such thing.
The timer on the stovetop buzzed. Elizabeth took the pan off of the heat and transferred its contents to a serving plate. "Go wash up," she said. "Dinner's ready."
I kissed her neck and headed down the hall to the bathroom. The water ran rusty from the tap, and I waited for it to run clear before splashing my face and washing my hands. I heard the familiar patter of water against tile, and cursed softly to myself — the fittings must be loose again, I thought. And as I ducked my head beneath the vanity to reach the pipes beneath, something in the trash can caught my eye.
It was one of Elizabeth's handkerchiefs, crumpled and discarded; I could just make out the delicate stitching of her initials peeking out over the rim of the can. Despite the heat, my skin went cold, and my heart thudded in my chest. I fished it from the trash, certain of what I'd find.
The ivory surface of the kerchief was flecked with blood. Elizabeth's blood.
Whatever lies she told me, we were running out of time.
The wind ripped across the harbor as I leaned against the deck rail of the ferry, savoring the bite of the chill salt air against my face. Behind me, an unfamiliar Manhattan skyline receded in the distance. So much had changed since I'd last been back, but as the lowslung buildings of the Staten Island waterfront swung into view, a shiver of remembrance traced its way along my spine. I guess the past is never quite as far behind us as it seems.
The sun dipped below the horizon as I wandered away from the terminal, blanketing the streets of the island in shadow. I pulled Friedlander's pea coat tight around me, my hands thrust deep into its pockets.
The old tenement was just as I remembered it. The first floor now housed an adult bookstore, its storefront windows papered over from within and its sign declaring XXX VIDEOS BOUGHT AND SOLD, but otherwise the years had failed to leave their mark. The same couldn't be said of the rest of the street. Most of the storefronts sat vacant. The old munitions factory was bricked up and abandoned. On a stoop two doors down, a bedraggled old man slouched unconscious and mouth agape, a bottle of Mad Dog dangling precariously from his hand.
"Hey, sweet thing, you lookin' for a little company?"
I turned around. Behind me stood a working girl, shivering in a hot pink tube-top, a fake leather miniskirt, and a rack to match. Track marks traced the veins of her forearms.
"Maybe," I told her. "But I'm not from around here. You got somewhere we could go?"
She looked me up and down. "For you, sailor, I'd lay down right here."
"I was thinking someplace a little more private."
"I know a spot a couple blocks from here, long as you don't mind the hike."
I didn't. She led me by the hand to a decrepit row house, nibbling on my ear all the while. I pretended not to notice. Inside, the place was a mess. The paint on the walls was discolored and flaking. The floor was littered with newspaper, empty bottles, and God knows what else. A smattering of stained and filthy mattresses were scattered throughout the front room. A few of them were occupied: junkies, mostly, sprawled amidst their needles, lighters, and scorched bits of tinfoil.