Domino took a more conventional route, strolling alone from the Brighton Beach end of the boardwalk. She wore denim cutoffs, a black bikini top, and those now famous sandals. They clacked against the wooden planks as they had against the cobblestones the night before. As she walked, the taut muscles in her legs and abdomen flexed and relaxed, flexed and relaxed. Just as she had at Glitters, she had injected a spark into things. The old Russian men stopped playing chess, stopped talking, to watch her approach and then pass. Even the gulls seemed to take notice.
What I noticed as she got close was the abject paleness of her skin and the faint red marks on her forearms. She wasn’t lying; she didn’t get out much. Not while the sun was up, anyway. It was an awkward moment. Neither of us knew quite how to greet one another. Maybe if I had been sure of what the hell it was we were really doing here, I might have been able to work out the proper protocol. In the end, we both sort of shrugged our shoulders and leaned over the guardrail.
“That’s a stupid game,” she said, pointing at the crowded handball courts below. “Men slapping a ball against a concrete wall.”
“Stupider than some, less stupid than others.”
“It must hurt their hands.”
“It’s like anything else, Domino. You get used to it.”
“Yeah,” she snickered, “tell me about it. Men and their fucking games. Look at them clowns down there.” Domino nodded at two men exchanging money. “They actually gamble on this shit?”
“Men gamble on anything, especially when women are watching. A lot of money has changed hands on West Fifth Street.”
“That old prick over there must be eighty. He’s gonna drop dead.”
“It’s been known to happen,” I said. “Anything worth gambling on is worth dying for. It’s an old Brooklyn rule.”
“Fuck the rules and Brooklyn, too.”
I didn’t argue the point, getting instead to the matter at hand. “You have a message for me?”
“John wanted me to say he was sorry.”
“Apology’s not accepted. Move on.”
“He was drunk.” Domino was going to plead his case even if court wasn’t in session. “He gets a little, you know, outta control when he’s had a few.”
“That’s too fucking bad for him.” I walked a few steps to show her how I was limping. “See this knee? I’ve had two major surgeries on it. That asshole coulda crippled me. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t cry in my beer for his drinking problem. All the fuck he had to do was talk to me.”
“But he can’t,” she said.
“Why, because Wit’s money says so?”
That confused her some. She didn’t say it with her mouth, but her eyes asked: How did you know about Wit? And suddenly I got the funny feeling Domino was trying to play me too. I began to wonder if Heaton had sent her here at all or if she’d gotten the bright idea to use her knowledge of the situation to her advantage. Maybe she thought she could squeeze me for a few hundred bucks in order to set up a meeting between Heaton and me that might or might not happen. You had to admire her entrepreneurial spirit.
I started walking away without saying a word.
“Where the fuck you going?” she called after me in a trembly voice.
“Cut the shit with the shaky voice, all right? You teed me up like a golf ball last night and I’m not gonna let you do it to me again. If John Heaton’s interested in me finding his daughter, he can find a way to talk to me.”
“He don’t trust you,” she said.
“He doesn’t trust me! He doesn’t know me. Look, Domino, I’m not in the mood for games. I’m gonna tell you some truth. Then maybe you can tell me some back. We both know your boy John’s being paid by some big-shot journalist not to speak to me or anybody else about his daughter. It’s got nothing to do with him trusting me or not.”
“Whaddya want from the man? He’s got no money.”
“He gets a cop pension just like me.”
“It all goes to that bitch wife of his and their son down in Florida.”
I was getting tired and impatient. “So how much does he want?”
She liked that a lot. Domino reached into a little bag she had slung over her shoulder, pulling out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. If it was a victory cigarette, she was getting a little ahead of herself. First off, the hard ocean breeze kept blowing out her lighter. Second, asking about price doesn’t mean you’re buying.
“Depends,” Domino said, giving up on the cigarette.
I started walking away again, more quickly this time.
“A grand,” she blurted out.
I kept walking.
“Eight.”
I was almost to the stairs down to the street.
“Seven.”
I stopped and limped back to her. “Five hundred, take it or leave it.”
She frowned, her once pretty face looking old and mean.
“You can divide it up any way you want to,” I added, slipping a hundred-dollar bill into her bag. “That’s a goodwill gesture between the two of us.”
“Does that come out of the-”
“A finder’s fee.” I smiled.
I could tell she was pleased when she reached for her cigarettes again. This time I helped her light up. She screwed up her lips to blow the smoke away from my face.
“You know,” she said, “I think maybe John and me can trust you a little bit. You get good at sorting out men after working long enough in the shitholes I worked in.”
“Yeah, how long is long enough?”
“About five minutes. Most of the men in my world are complete scum. A few are just scummy. Then there’s guys like you and John who are a step above.”
“I’m honored.”
“Don’t be. It’s a small step.” She crushed the cigarette out between her sandal and the boardwalk. “I’ll call you when everything’s arranged.”
I watched her for a little while as she retreated back toward Brighton Beach. Then I turned my attention to the action on the handball courts. A young Puerto Rican kid was cursing as he handed money over to the old geezer Domino had suspected of being on the verge of cardiac arrest. The level of play on the other courts was pretty weak. Most of the players were young and inexperienced, not as good as I had been before I hurt the knee. Now, however, the worst of them could run me off the court. That concept hurt worse than my knee. Time to go.
Waiting for me at the Brooklyn store was a message from on high. Brightman had called, inviting Katy and me to a black-tie Democratic fund-raiser at the Waldorf-Astoria. Klaus let me know that it was more of a demand than a request. Brightman said that Geary had purchased a whole table’s worth of tickets and Katy and I were expected to fill two of the seats. I called Katy to ask if she was up to it. She was up to it, all right, but didn’t stay on the phone very long. She had to run to the cleaners to get the dress she’d worn to Constance’s wedding, and she had to call Cindy to see if she and Aaron could take Sarah for the night.
Katy, unlike me, had been to several of these types of affairs before. It was easy for me to forget-maybe because I wanted to forget-that Katy’s dad, Francis Maloney Sr., had once been a major fund-raising force within the New York State Democratic Party. But his was not the black-tie type of fund-raising. No, my father-in-law was the old-school, nuts-and-bolts type. Everybody who got a state, county, or village job within the confines of Dutchess County unofficially tithed a part of his or her salary to the local Democratic Party. If you wanted a contract to pick up garbage, supply food to the schools, do office cleaning, your firm kicked back a percentage to the local Democratic Party.
There was nothing particularly unique about this sort of thing. It’s the way both parties had operated for the last century. Just try getting a civil service job in Nassau County without listing your party affiliation as Republican and/or tithing a chunk of your income to that same party.