The Havana Room

But I had already turned the corner to Reade Street and needed now to follow the street numbers. There was number 162, set in a row of similar buildings, with high windows fronting the street, architecturally utilitarian but elegant in its simplicity and impressive in its size. The windows were double-paned and glazed, the facade cleaned and re-pointed, the enclosed foyer up to date, the brasswork polished. I cupped my hand against the glass of the lobby. Men have gotten very comfortable owning such structures, and I could see Jay desiring this building, knowing that it would provide him a steady stream of rental income for the rest of his life, if he so wished. Across the street stood a nearly finished apartment house, a straggler from the recent boom. Around the corner hunched the kind of bar where European tourists hoping to ogle movie stars rub shoulders with fluffed-up girls from Jersey hoping to be ogled as movie stars.

"Bill!" came a voice. "You beat me to it!"

I turned to see Jay pull up in his truck. He hopped out, dressed in a fine suit and blue tie, shaved and shined, ready for business, a big and bouncy man who looked nothing like the stooped wretch I'd seen only seven hours before. Here was the man I'd first met in the Havana Room, large and confident. He looked up and stretched out his arms. "Well, this is it! And the check is in the bank, man."

I let him shake my hand but warned, "We need to talk."

His smile froze. "Sure, I know we do, but first, c'mon, we'll have a look."

He pulled out the key ring he'd received from Gerzon the night before and opened the main door. The foyer was dusty and someone had shoved a thick wad of takeout menus through the mail slot. He moved toward the wide staircase that led to the first floor.

"Wait a minute, Jay," I began, putting a hand on the shoulder of his overcoat. "What happened after we left? Did Herschel's body get found? Did the police deal with it?"

He turned. "I called Poppy this morning- he said the ambulance guys came and declared Herschel dead. They had a little trouble getting him off the tractor." He winced appreciatively. "Had to use an air blower."

"Then?"

"He got taken to Riverhead Hospital and his body was going to be picked up this afternoon. I sent flowers to the family this morning. There's a big funeral home in downtown Riverhead, handles a lot of the black funerals."

I watched Jay's face for worry. He seemed untroubled. Then again, he might be an adept liar. "You know, Poppy said he noticed Herschel out there at ten at night."

"Yes?"

"Kind of weird to be out there on a bulldozer, in the cold."

Jay shrugged. "He was running late."

I was figuring this out as I spoke. "Poppy also said he saw the bulldozer."

"So?"

"At ten at night? A half mile or more away?"

"The bulldozer has lights, good ones."

"But if the dozer had gone over the cliff, how did Poppy see it from the road?"

Jay stared at me. "You got me on that."

"In fact, remember he said something like if Herschel had been working there during the day, then his body had been out there about eight hours. He said that."

"He did?"

"That means Poppy didn't see him working in the night."

Jay held up his hands. "Poppy's always gotten stuff screwed up, Bill. He got hit in the head by a sledgehammer when he was a kid. Never finished fourth grade."

I wasn't convinced. "You notice that Herschel wasn't wearing any socks?"

"No."

"Makes you sort of wonder what a guy is doing working out in the cold on a bulldozer with no socks," I said.

"He was a pretty tough old guy."

Tough old guys usually keep their feet warm, in my experience, but I didn't press it. "This whole deal is fucked up," I muttered. "From top to bottom. I help you with a real estate transaction and end up moving a dead black guy? Your dead black guy, okay? That pisses me off, Jay." A fleck of my spit hit his face. "Then the police find us? I don't like it."

Jay held up his hands. "I didn't know Herschel had gone off the edge. Poppy's note didn't say that, right? I know you're worried about it. Don't be. It's fine. Poppy worked it out. He told me this morning. He's known Herschel's family a long time."

"What was going on out there, anyway?"

He nodded, anticipating the question. "I asked Herschel to do some grading for me a week ago. The road was all washed out, and we had a lot of gravel on the other side of the property. He and his family rent an old house on the adjacent property. I still have some trucks and that bulldozer in the barn there."

"What about the police?"

"I called them this morning," Jay said. "I've known these guys my whole life. It's all right. Herschel obviously had a heart attack."

"Why is it obvious?"

"He's sitting there, dead on the tractor. Not a scratch on him. Long history of heart trouble, pericarditis, pulmonary edema. Working in the cold often gives-"

I didn't want to hear a lot of medical jargon from a layman. "Did they ask you why you were out there on the same night that Herschel died?"

"Yeah, they did."

"What did you say?"

"I told them I'd just finished the deal and I wanted to be sure some grading had gotten done."

"Which is pretty close to the truth."

"The first part of that is the truth, Bill. What else could it be? Herschel didn't do his grading on time and then was in a hurry to get started before the snow came too heavy, and then went out there in the cold on the bulldozer and had a goddamn fucking heart attack."

"And if they come to me with the same question?"

Here Jay's face went slack and he stared through me, eyes seemingly focused on his own imaginings. He was, I felt, reminding himself of an idea or belief. "I doubt they'll ask you," he said.

I went on to the question of the deed. "I checked on the records of the building and I think you've got a problem."

"You do, huh?" Jay scooped up the menus and dropped them into the trash. "I don't."

"Voodoo LLC is not the current listed owner of the building."

"Oh, hell, I know that, guy," Jay answered as he examined the building directory. "It's not so complicated. It's just paperwork. You didn't need to check on that." He turned toward me. "But I do need you to talk to a guy for me tonight, actually."

"Jay, did you hear me? I don't think you own this building."

"Of course I own this building!" He jabbed his fist against the staircase's newel post, making it shudder.

"You better explain."

But that held no interest for him- he was already on his way up the stairs, making them creak under his weight. "It's a corporate shell thing, Bill, no big deal. They do this all the time." His voice bounced off the pressed-tin ceiling high above us. "Really. You should know that, a guy with your experience. I do want you to talk to this other guy this evening, though, be my lawyer again, hold his hand, whatever. Go have dinner with him."

"Forget it."

"What?"

"I'm out." I turned to go. And I should have gone, too, right then, should have stamped my way back down to the snowy sidewalk and not stopped until I had crossed back into some safer country of probability, but Jay came after me and pulled a slip of paper from his breast pocket.

"This is for last night, for the whole deal."

"I never gave you a fee."

"I estimated."

It was a check for twenty-five thousand dollars. Very generous. Too generous, in fact. Shut-your-mouth money. I handed the check back. "I don't want it. I want out."