sweat it Sol. Merrett says there was someone at St Vincent’s with Freiberg and the girl. Doesn’t make a difference who he looked like. Fact that they had someone there means something. I want to know who he is and what he’s doing.’ Marcus turned slowly and pinned Neumann with his gaze. ‘Good to know how many people I gotta kill.’
‘Sure, Ben, sure.’
‘I mean it, Sol. I don’t want to hear some bad news the day before we go to work. We already have additional factors to handle—’
‘I’ll handle it, Ben. I’ll find out who he is.’
‘Okay. We’re done then. Go see Victor Klein, make sure he’s organizing the people we need. And speak to Henry Kossoff . . . tell him we need hardware and cars. You know the routine.’
They left the upper floor together, made their way down a narrow iron fire escape to the car lot at the rear of the building.
‘Call me later,’ Ben Marcus said. He glanced at his watch. ‘Call me before one and let me know what’s happening.’
Later, much later, seated on a bench along the third floor corridor, Harper questioned what he’d heard.
Leave
?
The doctor was by the door. He merely saw the old man’s lips move. He did not hear anything.
‘You must have,’ Harper insisted, but he knew he was merely wishing for the doctor to agree with him so he could try and make some sense of it, so he could attempt to find its relevance and meaning.
‘I’m sorry,’ the doctor said. ‘I really am sorry, Mr Harper, I was too far away.’
The single word was uttered, if it had
been
a word at all, and then Edward Bernstein – absentee father, gunshot victim, dying man – had slipped into unconsciousness once more.
John Harper had knelt by the side of the bed, his hand closed over his father’s, and he’d tried to feel something personal for the man.
Finally – ten, perhaps fifteen minutes – and the doctor called for an orderly to help him take Harper out. Bernstein’s vitals were growing even weaker and he needed attention. The doctor told Harper to come back the following day. Harper did not protest or argue. He tried to leave. He made it as far as the bench situated ten yards down the hallway, and there he sat until Frank Duchaunak found him.
‘Mr Harper?’
Harper looked up.
‘I thought it was you,’ Duchaunak said. ‘I asked for your name downstairs. I am a police officer. My name is Frank Duchaunak, Detective Frank Duchaunak.’ He waited for Harper to speak, and when he said nothing Duchaunak nodded at the seat beside him. ‘May I?’
Harper shrugged.
Duchaunak sat down. He leaned back and sighed. ‘I understand Edward Bernstein regained consciousness.’
Harper neither spoke nor made any indication of having heard the question.
‘Mr Harper?’
Harper looked down at the grey-green tiles beneath his feet. The hexagonal tessellation ran both ways, as far as he could see. Tiny scuffs of black were scattered along them, marking the hurrying feet of attendant nurses and doctors; the fingerprints of an emergency, of a life surfacing, a life slipping away.
‘I don’t want to intrude at a time like this, Mr Harper, but I came as soon as I heard.’
Harper frowned. ‘Heard what?’
‘That Mr Bernstein had regained consciousness.’
‘Who told you?’
‘The duty nurse called me.’
‘Why would she do that?’ Harper asked.
‘Because I am the investigating officer, Mr Harper. I am in charge of the investigation into Mr Bernstein’s – into your father’s – shooting.’
‘Right,’ Harper said. ‘Of course.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes, I saw him.’
‘And did he speak?’
Harper shook his head. He turned and looked at Duchaunak. He realized it was same cop, the one from the previous day, the one Uncle Walt had called an asshole. He was older than Harper, perhaps by half a dozen years or so, but he carried the world-weary beaten look of someone who’d crammed the contents of two lives into half as many years.
‘Are you an
‘Sure, Ben, sure.’
‘I mean it, Sol. I don’t want to hear some bad news the day before we go to work. We already have additional factors to handle—’
‘I’ll handle it, Ben. I’ll find out who he is.’
‘Okay. We’re done then. Go see Victor Klein, make sure he’s organizing the people we need. And speak to Henry Kossoff . . . tell him we need hardware and cars. You know the routine.’
They left the upper floor together, made their way down a narrow iron fire escape to the car lot at the rear of the building.
‘Call me later,’ Ben Marcus said. He glanced at his watch. ‘Call me before one and let me know what’s happening.’
Later, much later, seated on a bench along the third floor corridor, Harper questioned what he’d heard.
Leave
?
The doctor was by the door. He merely saw the old man’s lips move. He did not hear anything.
‘You must have,’ Harper insisted, but he knew he was merely wishing for the doctor to agree with him so he could try and make some sense of it, so he could attempt to find its relevance and meaning.
‘I’m sorry,’ the doctor said. ‘I really am sorry, Mr Harper, I was too far away.’
The single word was uttered, if it had
been
a word at all, and then Edward Bernstein – absentee father, gunshot victim, dying man – had slipped into unconsciousness once more.
John Harper had knelt by the side of the bed, his hand closed over his father’s, and he’d tried to feel something personal for the man.
Finally – ten, perhaps fifteen minutes – and the doctor called for an orderly to help him take Harper out. Bernstein’s vitals were growing even weaker and he needed attention. The doctor told Harper to come back the following day. Harper did not protest or argue. He tried to leave. He made it as far as the bench situated ten yards down the hallway, and there he sat until Frank Duchaunak found him.
‘Mr Harper?’
Harper looked up.
‘I thought it was you,’ Duchaunak said. ‘I asked for your name downstairs. I am a police officer. My name is Frank Duchaunak, Detective Frank Duchaunak.’ He waited for Harper to speak, and when he said nothing Duchaunak nodded at the seat beside him. ‘May I?’
Harper shrugged.
Duchaunak sat down. He leaned back and sighed. ‘I understand Edward Bernstein regained consciousness.’
Harper neither spoke nor made any indication of having heard the question.
‘Mr Harper?’
Harper looked down at the grey-green tiles beneath his feet. The hexagonal tessellation ran both ways, as far as he could see. Tiny scuffs of black were scattered along them, marking the hurrying feet of attendant nurses and doctors; the fingerprints of an emergency, of a life surfacing, a life slipping away.
‘I don’t want to intrude at a time like this, Mr Harper, but I came as soon as I heard.’
Harper frowned. ‘Heard what?’
‘That Mr Bernstein had regained consciousness.’
‘Who told you?’
‘The duty nurse called me.’
‘Why would she do that?’ Harper asked.
‘Because I am the investigating officer, Mr Harper. I am in charge of the investigation into Mr Bernstein’s – into your father’s – shooting.’
‘Right,’ Harper said. ‘Of course.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes, I saw him.’
‘And did he speak?’
Harper shook his head. He turned and looked at Duchaunak. He realized it was same cop, the one from the previous day, the one Uncle Walt had called an asshole. He was older than Harper, perhaps by half a dozen years or so, but he carried the world-weary beaten look of someone who’d crammed the contents of two lives into half as many years.
‘Are you an
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