didn't even know how to react to it."
"Easy," he said. "Sit down, Matt. That's not at all what I was getting at."
"It's not?"
"Not at all."
"That's what it sounded like."
"Well, then, that's my fault, because it's not what I intended. I said 'How about you?' meaning is there anybody with a reason to have you hit."
"Oh."
"But you thought..."
"I know what I thought. I'm sorry I went off like that."
"Well, you didn't yell and scream, but your face got so dark I was afraid you were going to stroke out on me."
"I guess I'm more exhausted than I realized," I said. "You're saying the shooter could have got the wrong man?"
"It's always possible when the shooter doesn't know the vic personally. Faber was what, a couple of years older?"
"I'm taller by a few inches, and he was heavier, and thicker in the middle. I don't think we looked much alike. Nobody ever called me Jim by mistake, I'll tell you that much."
"You have any old enemies? From when you were on the job, say?"
"That's over twenty years ago, George. I'm off the job longer than I was ever on it."
"Well, what enemies have you made lately? You're a PI. You working on any mob-related cases?"
"No."
"Anything at all where you might have rubbed some hard case the wrong way?"
"Nothing," I said. "These days I work mostly for lawyers, checking out witnesses in personal injury and product liability lawsuits. I got a kid with a computer who does most of the heavy lifting for me."
"So you can't think of a thing."
"No."
"Well, why don't you run on home, then? Sleep on it, see what comes to you overnight. You know how it's probably going to turn out, don't you?"
"How?"
"Mistaken identity. I got a feeling what happened, and God knows it wouldn't be the first time. Somebody saw your friend, mistook him for a mope who burned him in a drug deal, or dicked his wife, some damned fool thing. Or, and I've known of cases, there's a contract out on some guy, some poor bastard looked nothing like your friend, and somebody spots him and drops a dime on him, and the guy who gets the call goes to the wrong fucking Chinese restaurant. He shows up at the Lucky Panda on Eighth instead of the Golden Rabbit on Seventh or the Hoo Flung Poo on Ninth."
"Maybe."
"The moon's full, you know."
"I didn't notice."
"Well, it's overcast. You can't see it, but it's on the calendar. Tomorrow night, actually, but that's close enough. That's when weird shit happens."
I remembered the moon Wednesday night, the gibbous moon. And now it was full.
"So go on home. There's uniforms chasing down witnesses now, taking testimony from people who were on the street when it went down, or maybe looking out their windows, wondering is it ever gonna rain. You know how it works. We'll check everything out, we'll see what our snitches have to tell us, and if we get lucky we'll come up with the shitbag who pulled the trigger." He worried his chin. "It won't bring him back, your friend," he said, "but it's what we do. It's all we can do."
I walked home on Ninth Avenue. I passed a few bars along the way, and each time I felt my heart race just the least little bit at the sight of them. It was an appropriate response. I couldn't stand the movie that was playing in my head, and booze was a sure bet to drown the sound track and fade the image to black.
Here's looking at you, Jim. Down the hatch. Bombs away. Mud in your eye, fella.
Thanks for helping me stay sober for the past sixteen years. Who's to say I could have done it without you? And now I'll honor your memory by forgetting everything you taught me
No, I don't think so.
Jim stopped watching NYPD Blue when Sipowicz drank after his son's death. What a jerk, he said. What a fucking asshole.
He can't help it, I said. He's just a character, all he can do is what it says in the script.
I'm talking about the writer, he said.
So I wasn't going to pick up a drink, but I couldn't pretend the desire wasn't there. My eyes took note of each gin joint, each winking
"Easy," he said. "Sit down, Matt. That's not at all what I was getting at."
"It's not?"
"Not at all."
"That's what it sounded like."
"Well, then, that's my fault, because it's not what I intended. I said 'How about you?' meaning is there anybody with a reason to have you hit."
"Oh."
"But you thought..."
"I know what I thought. I'm sorry I went off like that."
"Well, you didn't yell and scream, but your face got so dark I was afraid you were going to stroke out on me."
"I guess I'm more exhausted than I realized," I said. "You're saying the shooter could have got the wrong man?"
"It's always possible when the shooter doesn't know the vic personally. Faber was what, a couple of years older?"
"I'm taller by a few inches, and he was heavier, and thicker in the middle. I don't think we looked much alike. Nobody ever called me Jim by mistake, I'll tell you that much."
"You have any old enemies? From when you were on the job, say?"
"That's over twenty years ago, George. I'm off the job longer than I was ever on it."
"Well, what enemies have you made lately? You're a PI. You working on any mob-related cases?"
"No."
"Anything at all where you might have rubbed some hard case the wrong way?"
"Nothing," I said. "These days I work mostly for lawyers, checking out witnesses in personal injury and product liability lawsuits. I got a kid with a computer who does most of the heavy lifting for me."
"So you can't think of a thing."
"No."
"Well, why don't you run on home, then? Sleep on it, see what comes to you overnight. You know how it's probably going to turn out, don't you?"
"How?"
"Mistaken identity. I got a feeling what happened, and God knows it wouldn't be the first time. Somebody saw your friend, mistook him for a mope who burned him in a drug deal, or dicked his wife, some damned fool thing. Or, and I've known of cases, there's a contract out on some guy, some poor bastard looked nothing like your friend, and somebody spots him and drops a dime on him, and the guy who gets the call goes to the wrong fucking Chinese restaurant. He shows up at the Lucky Panda on Eighth instead of the Golden Rabbit on Seventh or the Hoo Flung Poo on Ninth."
"Maybe."
"The moon's full, you know."
"I didn't notice."
"Well, it's overcast. You can't see it, but it's on the calendar. Tomorrow night, actually, but that's close enough. That's when weird shit happens."
I remembered the moon Wednesday night, the gibbous moon. And now it was full.
"So go on home. There's uniforms chasing down witnesses now, taking testimony from people who were on the street when it went down, or maybe looking out their windows, wondering is it ever gonna rain. You know how it works. We'll check everything out, we'll see what our snitches have to tell us, and if we get lucky we'll come up with the shitbag who pulled the trigger." He worried his chin. "It won't bring him back, your friend," he said, "but it's what we do. It's all we can do."
I walked home on Ninth Avenue. I passed a few bars along the way, and each time I felt my heart race just the least little bit at the sight of them. It was an appropriate response. I couldn't stand the movie that was playing in my head, and booze was a sure bet to drown the sound track and fade the image to black.
Here's looking at you, Jim. Down the hatch. Bombs away. Mud in your eye, fella.
Thanks for helping me stay sober for the past sixteen years. Who's to say I could have done it without you? And now I'll honor your memory by forgetting everything you taught me
No, I don't think so.
Jim stopped watching NYPD Blue when Sipowicz drank after his son's death. What a jerk, he said. What a fucking asshole.
He can't help it, I said. He's just a character, all he can do is what it says in the script.
I'm talking about the writer, he said.
So I wasn't going to pick up a drink, but I couldn't pretend the desire wasn't there. My eyes took note of each gin joint, each winking
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