half a bagel way in the back of the refrigerator, but I had to throw out the cream cheese because it had turned green. I drank the coffee and forced myself to eat the bagel, and got as ready for work as a guy could, who had a twenty pound bowling ball on his head.
By the time I got to work, Carl was already there. I couldn’t wait to ask him if he knew about the strangling in the 90's.
“Nah,” he said. “I try not to read that stuff.”
“It should have been in the Daily News day before yesterday.”
“Only read the Times .”
“Was it in there?” I asked.
“I only read the first section,” Carl answered. “Might have been in Metro .”
“The window over the fire escape was open,” I said.
“Okay, so what?”
“He must have gotten in that way.”
Carl shrugged, not looking up. “Yeah, could be.”
“That’s the way he must have got into my apartment, too. The window was open over the fire escape.”
“Someone broke into your apartment?” he asked, looking at me.
“Yeah! When he hit Sherry over the head.”
“Oh, that time,” Carl said. “You think it’s the same guy?”
“Could be,” I said, all excited. “I’m going over to the precinct tonight to see what they got.”
“You think they’re going to tell you anything? No way Jose.”
“I’m going anyway.”
Carl looked up from what he was doing and said, “Did I ever tell you about the time my apartment was broken into, when I lived on Riverside Drive ? They just smashed the window, came in one night I was working late. They must have been pretty pissed off when they couldn’t find anything worth stealing. So, they wrote a note and stuck it with a magnet to the refrigerator, saying, “Buy yourself something.” Carl laughed.
“Very funny,” I said.
“What’s with you today?”
“I got this humongous hangover.”
“You go out clubbing after all?” Carl asked, looking at me sideways.
“Yeah.”
“You get laid at least?”
I shrugged.
“You did!”
“Carl, don’t talk, okay? My head is pounding.”
“Go get some ibuprofen from the shelf. The generic. I won’t charge you.”
“Thanks, but I could just use some quiet.”
“Fine with me. But you might just want to look in the pile of Daily News on the rack by the door. There might be some old ones that didn’t sell.”
“Thanks,” I said, and ran over to the rack. I turned the copies over, one after another, till I got to the bottom. There it was: July 7. I flipped through the pages till I found it buried on page 10. “Woman strangled in West Side apartment.” I read it out loud: “Jessica Finklemeyer, 24, was found dead, apparently strangled, at 10:00 a.m. Tuesday morning in her second floor apartment at 119 W. 96 th . The police found her lying on the bedroom floor under an open window leading to the fire escape. “‘Must have come through the window,’ Officer Vincent McNally said.”
The coroner deduced she had been lying there for anywhere between ten and fourteen hours, placing the crime around 12:00 midnight the night before. No further information was available. “Miss Finklemeyer,” I continued, “worked as sales associate in Children’s Shoes at Macy’s on 34 th Street .”
“ New York , New York , it’s a hell of a town,” Carl sang.
For the rest of the morning, we worked in silence, interrupted only by the phone, half a dozen noisy kids, and a long line of customers. Every time the counter bell rang, I looked up, half expecting to see Heather in her tight Capris and belly button ring, banging on the bell, but she never showed her face. I wondered whether she’d even start taking her prescriptions to the CVS across the street. No great loss, I decided.
This headache was killing me. I finally went over to the shelf and picked out the smallest bottle of ibuprofen we had. The bottle said “take one tablet every 4 to
By the time I got to work, Carl was already there. I couldn’t wait to ask him if he knew about the strangling in the 90's.
“Nah,” he said. “I try not to read that stuff.”
“It should have been in the Daily News day before yesterday.”
“Only read the Times .”
“Was it in there?” I asked.
“I only read the first section,” Carl answered. “Might have been in Metro .”
“The window over the fire escape was open,” I said.
“Okay, so what?”
“He must have gotten in that way.”
Carl shrugged, not looking up. “Yeah, could be.”
“That’s the way he must have got into my apartment, too. The window was open over the fire escape.”
“Someone broke into your apartment?” he asked, looking at me.
“Yeah! When he hit Sherry over the head.”
“Oh, that time,” Carl said. “You think it’s the same guy?”
“Could be,” I said, all excited. “I’m going over to the precinct tonight to see what they got.”
“You think they’re going to tell you anything? No way Jose.”
“I’m going anyway.”
Carl looked up from what he was doing and said, “Did I ever tell you about the time my apartment was broken into, when I lived on Riverside Drive ? They just smashed the window, came in one night I was working late. They must have been pretty pissed off when they couldn’t find anything worth stealing. So, they wrote a note and stuck it with a magnet to the refrigerator, saying, “Buy yourself something.” Carl laughed.
“Very funny,” I said.
“What’s with you today?”
“I got this humongous hangover.”
“You go out clubbing after all?” Carl asked, looking at me sideways.
“Yeah.”
“You get laid at least?”
I shrugged.
“You did!”
“Carl, don’t talk, okay? My head is pounding.”
“Go get some ibuprofen from the shelf. The generic. I won’t charge you.”
“Thanks, but I could just use some quiet.”
“Fine with me. But you might just want to look in the pile of Daily News on the rack by the door. There might be some old ones that didn’t sell.”
“Thanks,” I said, and ran over to the rack. I turned the copies over, one after another, till I got to the bottom. There it was: July 7. I flipped through the pages till I found it buried on page 10. “Woman strangled in West Side apartment.” I read it out loud: “Jessica Finklemeyer, 24, was found dead, apparently strangled, at 10:00 a.m. Tuesday morning in her second floor apartment at 119 W. 96 th . The police found her lying on the bedroom floor under an open window leading to the fire escape. “‘Must have come through the window,’ Officer Vincent McNally said.”
The coroner deduced she had been lying there for anywhere between ten and fourteen hours, placing the crime around 12:00 midnight the night before. No further information was available. “Miss Finklemeyer,” I continued, “worked as sales associate in Children’s Shoes at Macy’s on 34 th Street .”
“ New York , New York , it’s a hell of a town,” Carl sang.
For the rest of the morning, we worked in silence, interrupted only by the phone, half a dozen noisy kids, and a long line of customers. Every time the counter bell rang, I looked up, half expecting to see Heather in her tight Capris and belly button ring, banging on the bell, but she never showed her face. I wondered whether she’d even start taking her prescriptions to the CVS across the street. No great loss, I decided.
This headache was killing me. I finally went over to the shelf and picked out the smallest bottle of ibuprofen we had. The bottle said “take one tablet every 4 to
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