I had another beer, then I stacked all the chairs and bar stools. When the front of the bar was all set, I went back to the kitchen and made sure everything was off and put away. Then I put my coat on and went into the bathroom and put about a dozen moistened paper towels into my coat pocket. I shut all the lights, set the alarm, and went outside and pulled down the gates and bolted the locks.
It wasn’t as cold as it had been the past couple of nights. All the snow was gone from the sidewalks and there was no wind. I felt so good I opened the top couple of buttons on my coat and felt the nice cool breeze against my chest.
I turned onto my block, but instead of going into my apartment I went to my car. I looked around to make sure nobody was watching me, then I opened the door. With the paper towels I scrubbed the dry mud off the seat, the floor, the dashboard and the steering wheel. It came off a lot easier than I’d thought and after a couple of minutes it was all gone. Leaning across the seat, I was about to stand up when I heard somebody behind me. My stomach sank as I wondered if it could be a cop standing there. I stood up and turned around and let out a deep breath. It was just a homeless guy passing by, mumbling to himself.
I went up to my apartment and got naked. Then I shut the light and got into bed. I turned onto my side thinking about the outfit I’d wear for my first day as a horse owner.
Fifteen
On the morning news, there was footage from Marine Park, Brooklyn. Ambulance workers were carrying Debbie’s body away on a stretcher, covered by a white sheet. Then there was a shot of O’Reilley’s and the reporter was talking about how Debbie O’Reilley was the wife of the guy who owned the bar and how the Super Bowl pool was robbed last Saturday night. The reporter said that the police were searching for Frank O’Reilley’s son, Gary O’Reilley, who was suspected of robbing the safe. “According to a police spokesperson,” the reporter said, “Gary O’Reilley is not necessarily a suspect in the case—police would just like to question him.” Then a detective I never saw before came on and said, “At this point we can’t rule out any possibilities. Right now all we’d like to do is find Gary O’Reilley and see if he can assist us in any way. But since he is missing at this time, and since a homicide in his family has taken place, there may also be reason to fear for his safety.” Then I came on. I was behind the bar, saying how shocked I was and how I never thought something like this could happen. But it didn’t really matter what I was saying because I wasn’t hearing the words. I was in a daze, staring at myself, thinking about how natural I looked on TV. My beard was coming in nice and thick and I looked relaxed and confident. Some people on TV looked like they didn’t belong there, but not me. I looked like a movie star.
The story ended. I got up and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, first thinking about how great I looked, then thinking about how the cops weren’t going to catch me.
I moved my car to a legal spot around the corner, then I went to the supermarket. I only had about fifty dollars to my name, but I wanted to eat some food for a change. I bought cheeses—Swiss, cheddar, and a pack of those little triangle cheeses that come in the foil wrappers. I also bought a couple of kinds of dips and boxes of crackers. My days of hot dogs, pizza and sleazy diners were over with—from now on I was going to do everything in class.
When I came home the phone was ringing.
“Tommy, it’s Costas.”
My fucking landlord.
“What’s up?” I said, still catching my breath from the walk up the stairs.
“Maybe you should tell me that,” he said. “How come you don’t return my calls? I’ve been calling you every day for a week.”
“I’ve been busy lately.”
“Busy? What about my building? I get calls from tenants—the building is a mess, it’s not being cleaned. Everybody has mice, roaches. Garbage is piled in the halls. So then I came by yesterday and I see for myself. I couldn’t believe it! You don’t think I’m letting you pay that cheap rent for doing nothing, do you?”
“I’ve been cleaning,” I said.
“Cleaning? Your cleaning is shit. You think I’m paying you for nothing? You think I’m giving you charity? You think—”
I hung up on him. A few seconds later, the phone was ringing again.
“What is it?” I said, ready to pull the cord out of the wall.
“Yes, I’m trying to get in touch with Tommy Russo.” It was a man’s voice.
“Who’s this?”
“Detective Scott...it’s Mike, Tommy.”
“Hey, Mikey, I thought it was...never mind. How’s it going?”
“Pretty good. I was wondering if you had some time today, if we could ask you a few more questions.”
“What’s up?”
“Not much,” he said. “We just have some more developments. This shouldn’t take too long and it’d really help us out.”
“What’s it about?”
“Just routine—we’re talking to everybody from the bar.”
“I’m kinda busy,” I said. “I gotta be at work by five.”
“It shouldn’t take too long—an hour tops. We’re over at the 19th Precinct on Sixty-seventh Street between Third and Lex. I’d appreciate it if you came by here around two o’clock.”
“All right, I’ll be by.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
I showed up at the precinct at two o’clock on the button. Mike came up front to meet me. He looked the same as he did last night—wearing what looked like the same shirt and tie. We shook hands and then he led me to a room in the back. There were three guys sitting on one side of the long table—the only one I recognized was the detective who was investigating the robbery. Mike sat down next to them and told me to sit down in the one seat on the other side of the table. It didn’t look like this was going to be “routine.”
One of the guys said, “I’m Detective Himoto, Mr. Russo. Thank you for coming down here today.”
Himoto was Japanese-American, but he spoke English without an accent.
“No problem,” I said.
“This is Detective Howard,” Himoto said, and the black guy next to him nodded, “and I think you’ve already met Detective Edwards. We just wanted to run through a few things with you, Mr. Russo, if that’s all right with you?”
“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” I said.
“First of all,” Himoto said, “we’d like you to take a look at this.”
He slid a sheet of paper across the desk to me. I picked it up and read to myself.
Mama, mama can’t breathe no more
Mama, mama always there, ain’t no cure
Mama, mama you better run
‘Cause it sure as hell ain’t gonna be no fun
“Yeah,” I said, sliding the paper back across the table. “So?”
“These are lyrics to a song we found in Gary O’Reilley’s apartment last night.”
“Well it doesn’t sound like he’s gonna be the next Michael Jackson, huh?” I said smiling.
All the detectives smiled with me, except Himoto.
“The lyrics to several of his other songs also had homicidal themes,” Himoto said. “Did Gary ever talk to you about his homicidal fantasies, particularly ones involving his stepmother?”
“No, I told Mike—I mean Detective Scott—last night that I couldn’t imagine the guy killing anybody.”
“Sorry to be redundant, Mr. Russo, but we have to be as thorough as possible with our investigation. That’s how a police investigation works. At this point, we don’t know what’s important and what isn’t, so we just have to assume everything is important and work from there. So I’d appreciate your cooperation and patience.”