He’d booked a small room in the Village on the Internet for a month. If he hadn’t gotten anywhere then, well... fuck.
Joe had forgotten how cold New York winters were and after Miami, it was fierce.
He bought a heavy seaman’s jacket from Goodwill, thermal underwear, and a pair of Gore-Tex boots.
He then sat down with the phone directory and began to ring the hospitals, and to his amazement, Lucia was still in the very same place.
He’d figured she’d have been shipped off to some state one long ago.
He took a cab out there, he’d rent something after this, he needed to be mobile.
He was directed to Lucia’s room by a nurse who said,
“Thank God she finally has a visitor.”
Joe, sensing warmth, asked,
“Would any of the nurses from eighteen months ago still be around?”
The nurse smiled, said,
“This is a very good place to work, we tend to dig our heels in here, and Maria, she still looks after Lucia, you go ahead, I’ll page her.”
Lucia looked like a corpse, a beautiful one but no life evident, except for the monitor that counted out her vacant moments like a death knell.
His heart felt bruised just looking at her and then he heard:
“Isn’t she lovely?”
He turned to face a Spanish-looking woman, late thirties, with a face, if not pretty, certainly riveting and he felt something he’d given up on... attraction.
She held out her hand, said,
“I’m Maria.”
He felt electricity when their hands touched and he muttered... “Joe.”
She studied him for a moment, then asked,
“Why are you here?”
Despite his years as a journalist and the lies that sprang naturally to him for cover, he went with some of the truth, said,
“I’m writing a story on her brother, the hero cop.”
Her face looked hurt, she said,
“His death robbed her of company and he sure worshipped her. I thought for a while, his young partner was going to be a regular, a gorgeous dark Irish guy...”
He felt a pang of... jealousy?
She continued,
“I saw him put a gold medal of the Madonna round her neck and then he looked like he was massaging her throat, it seemed... odd and too intimate... and his face, like El Diablo, I wasn’t sorry he didn’t come by no more, the feeling I had, like I interrupted him.”
Joe felt the rush, the old familiar kicking in of the story taking shape. She asked,
“You’re new to Nuevo York?”
He smiled, went,
“That obvious, huh?”
She indicated his new boots, heavy coat, and said,
“The scare effect, tourists rush out and dress like they were in the arctic.”
Back in the Village, he needed to get his ass in gear, get focused.
He went to a bar near Partners in Crime bookstore and for a fleeting moment wondered about going in, seeing if his book was on the shelves.
And... what if it was on the remaindered shelf?
He went to the bar, ordered a Jameson and a Bud back.
Nora loved a shot of the Jay.
Used to tease him.
“Joe, can you imagine if we ever actually went to Ireland, sitting in some Galway pub, the band with bodhrans, spoons, tin whistles, playing some song to break your heart and drink, like, real Guinness?”
He downed the Jay in jig time, blot out the memories, and the bartender asked,
“Hit you again, buddy?”
Jesus, he wanted to but said,
“No, I’m good.”
He had work to do.
Went to a diner and had meatloaf, gravy, mashed potatoes, and though he had no appetite, he got it down, called it... comfort/energy food.
Back in his room, he looked at the bare surroundings and nearly laughed, muttered,
“I’ve become Thomas Merton.”
Yeah, Merton on Jameson.
Got his laptop fired up and did some more research on Shea.
God bless Google.
McCarthy, the Internal Affairs guy, now he might be worth a chat, he jotted down some numbers and then hit another search engine and up came the smiling face of Shea, a newspaper feature on the young hero, Joe peered for a long time at the photo and all it told him was the prick was photogenic.
Then a wave of tiredness hit and he decided to grab a power nap, just five, okay, ten minutes and he moved to the single bed, lay down and was in a deep sleep in seconds.
On his laptop screen, the smiling face of Shea seemed to watch him, the gaze unflinching and without feeling.
You want to know about cops, you hang out in cop bars and if you’ve been on the job, they know. Joe’s partner in the eight months he’d been on the force was a quiet guy named Jay, looked more like a rock star than a cop, long black hair, gray shades that he never, ever took off and despite department rules, he managed to avoid the regulation haircut, kept his hair under his cap on the job, then off duty, he let it hang.
Cops don’t much like long hair, it’s instinctive, but with Jay, he had enough street cred to get away with it, now if he’d tried an earring, well, whole other gig.
He didn’t.
J and J they used to be called.
Joe met him in the watering hole near the Nine Six, Jay’s new precinct.
Jay was dressed like an undercover vice cop. Heavy battered leather, lots of scarves, mittens, wool hat, and boots that Joe knew had steel caps.
He looked older, lots of lines around his eyes and Joe knew they weren’t from laughter.
They’d been real close in the day and within five minutes, it was back to that bond.
He did a thing you don’t much see cops do, he hugged Joe, said he was so sorry about Nora, Jay had always a little shine for her but his buddy’s sister... ah-uh, no way.
They went in the bar and there was silence for one split second but then Jay got lots of:
“How yah doing?”
And drinking, talking continued.
Jay didn’t ask, just upped and ordered.
“Two boilermakers.”
They took them to a table, got on the other side of the bourbon, let out a collective “Ah...” of serious appreciation.
They studied each other for a moment, not in any threatening way but just sussing it out, then Jay asked,
“What brings you back, bro?”
Joe felt the booze warm his stomach, let it swirl a bit, do its alchemy, then:
“I’m doing a book.”
Jay signaled to the bartender for another, Joe didn’t object though he had to keep his wits about him, he used to be one of them but he’d walked and that drew a line. Jay asked,
“What about?”
Joe gave him a brief outline of hero cop shit, Kebar, Shea.
Like that.
The drinks came and Joe still hadn’t seen any money appear but he went with the flow, the tab would come, always did, one way or another, Jay said,
“You’re full of crap, buddy.”
Joe raised his glass, clinked against his friend’s, said,
“Slainte.”
Jay nodded, waited.
So Joe told him most of it, not all, but enough.
Jay said,
“Come outside.”
For a fleeting moment Joe panicked, had he blown it already?
Outside, Jay huddled against the wind factor, got out a pack of Marlboro Red, fired one up with a heavy Zippo, said,
“I’m assuming you Florida types don’t smoke, probably drink herbal tea?”
Jay’s tone had a new hardness, a bitterness, and Joe tried,
“You used to be a nonsmoker.”
And got the look, then:
“You used to be a cop.”
Loaded.
Jay flicked the butt high into the air, a tiny flicker of light against the cold Manhattan sky and then nothing.
Jay grabbed Joe’s arm, not roughly but with a certain firmness, asked,