6 hours while symptoms persist. If pain or fever do not respond to 1 tablet, 2 tablets may be used, but do not exceed 6 tablets in 24 hours.” I took two, then when I continued to feel like shit an hour later, I took another one. I didn’t tell Carl. I knew he’d take away the bottle and give me a lecture on dosage.
By the end of the day, though, only the slightest echo of the headache remained. I waved to Nadia, and took off for the 24 th Precinct. After the air conditioned cool of the pharmacy, the July heat hit me like a bag of cement. I just stood there for a minute in the middle of the sidewalk, regaining my equilibrium, while traffic coursed around me. You might take that to mean that nobody cares in New York City . I was just another traffic obstacle to go around, like a lamp post or a guy selling books on the sidewalk. But, hey, that’s all part of New York City in summer: clueless tourists snapping photos; guys in shorts with their stomachs sticking out; fire hydrants cascading water. Executives with their jackets off; huge, stifling clouds of bus exhaust, girls in halter tops chattering non-stop into cell phones. Hot blasts of air spewing out of subway grates; horses, bikes and roller blades in Central Park, all of this rolled up in the smell of sweaty excitement. Ya gotta love it.
I bought a hot dog and a Snapple off a street cart and headed down Broadway, past the drugstores blowing bubbles, past the bodegas selling exotic vegetables, past the funky little restaurants with tiny plaid curbside tables, the air rippling with fast trills of Spanish. I remembered a time like this last summer with Sherry, as we walked downtown on a summer night. We were passing a little place with all these little deep-fried corn-crusted pastry things in the window.
“Let’s try one,” I said.
“They’re empanadas,” Sherry said.
“Okay by me,” I said, already walking in.
I could hear Sherry’s incredulous laugh in back of me. “But you hate empanadas.”
I turned around. “How do you know?”
“We walked by here three weeks ago, and you bought one. You threw it in the garbage.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I am not,” she insisted. “In fact, you didn’t just throw it in the garbage, you spit it out in the garbage, and yelled something I’m not going to repeat.”
“I’d never do that.”
“Have it your own way.”
“I’m going in to buy a...whattchamacallit?”
“Empanada,” Sherry said again. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I walked into this little shop with hams or salamis or something hanging from the ceiling. I bought a steaming little package of chicken and pastry, and carried it out, my teeth sinking into its soft center. I chewed, my eyes closed. “It’s good! Must have been someone else you were thinking of.”
“‘Fuckin’ awful,’ you said, spitting it out.”
“Must have been your friend Ryan.”
“Let’s not start that again,” Sherry said.
* * *
By the time I reached the brick front entrance of the 24 th Precinct, I was sweating through my shirt. I stepped inside. The lobby was quieter and cooler than I thought it would be. I walked up to the front desk and, asked for Detective Donna Sirken, the only name I knew.
“What’s this in connection to?” the clerk asked.
“That’s it. A connection. A connection between the Sherry Pollack case and the Jessica Finklemeyer case.”
“Name?”
“I just gave you two names.”
“Your name, sir.”
“Oh, Henry Jackman.”
“Wait a minute.” She pointed to a wooden bench against the wall, while she called upstairs. “Lucky you, Detective Sirken’s in,” the woman called over to me. “She’s coming down.”
I waited on the wooden bench alongside some well-dressed black dude who wouldn’t look at me. Ten minutes later, I heard my name: Detective Sirken was walking
By the end of the day, though, only the slightest echo of the headache remained. I waved to Nadia, and took off for the 24 th Precinct. After the air conditioned cool of the pharmacy, the July heat hit me like a bag of cement. I just stood there for a minute in the middle of the sidewalk, regaining my equilibrium, while traffic coursed around me. You might take that to mean that nobody cares in New York City . I was just another traffic obstacle to go around, like a lamp post or a guy selling books on the sidewalk. But, hey, that’s all part of New York City in summer: clueless tourists snapping photos; guys in shorts with their stomachs sticking out; fire hydrants cascading water. Executives with their jackets off; huge, stifling clouds of bus exhaust, girls in halter tops chattering non-stop into cell phones. Hot blasts of air spewing out of subway grates; horses, bikes and roller blades in Central Park, all of this rolled up in the smell of sweaty excitement. Ya gotta love it.
I bought a hot dog and a Snapple off a street cart and headed down Broadway, past the drugstores blowing bubbles, past the bodegas selling exotic vegetables, past the funky little restaurants with tiny plaid curbside tables, the air rippling with fast trills of Spanish. I remembered a time like this last summer with Sherry, as we walked downtown on a summer night. We were passing a little place with all these little deep-fried corn-crusted pastry things in the window.
“Let’s try one,” I said.
“They’re empanadas,” Sherry said.
“Okay by me,” I said, already walking in.
I could hear Sherry’s incredulous laugh in back of me. “But you hate empanadas.”
I turned around. “How do you know?”
“We walked by here three weeks ago, and you bought one. You threw it in the garbage.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I am not,” she insisted. “In fact, you didn’t just throw it in the garbage, you spit it out in the garbage, and yelled something I’m not going to repeat.”
“I’d never do that.”
“Have it your own way.”
“I’m going in to buy a...whattchamacallit?”
“Empanada,” Sherry said again. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I walked into this little shop with hams or salamis or something hanging from the ceiling. I bought a steaming little package of chicken and pastry, and carried it out, my teeth sinking into its soft center. I chewed, my eyes closed. “It’s good! Must have been someone else you were thinking of.”
“‘Fuckin’ awful,’ you said, spitting it out.”
“Must have been your friend Ryan.”
“Let’s not start that again,” Sherry said.
* * *
By the time I reached the brick front entrance of the 24 th Precinct, I was sweating through my shirt. I stepped inside. The lobby was quieter and cooler than I thought it would be. I walked up to the front desk and, asked for Detective Donna Sirken, the only name I knew.
“What’s this in connection to?” the clerk asked.
“That’s it. A connection. A connection between the Sherry Pollack case and the Jessica Finklemeyer case.”
“Name?”
“I just gave you two names.”
“Your name, sir.”
“Oh, Henry Jackman.”
“Wait a minute.” She pointed to a wooden bench against the wall, while she called upstairs. “Lucky you, Detective Sirken’s in,” the woman called over to me. “She’s coming down.”
I waited on the wooden bench alongside some well-dressed black dude who wouldn’t look at me. Ten minutes later, I heard my name: Detective Sirken was walking
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