main corridor was lined with doors—mostly glass ones, and mostly they were open. Signs beside the rooms announced MICROFILM MACHINES , SCANNED FILES , and READING ROOM . In these rooms were filing cabinets of the ordinary size; and a few doors back they found much larger metal cabinets, with drawers as wide as Leo’s desk.
The rooms were divided into decades, and the cabinets were divided into years. “1978–79” was penciled onto a piece of yellow paper and held in place upon one such drawer by a strip of Scotch tape gone brown with age.
Wanda reached for the drawer and braced herself, and drew it open slowly. “It happened around Christmas, right?”
“Just before it,” he confirmed.
Soon they found what they were looking for. The headline screamed loud, in font as big as the detective’s thumbs: “ MASS SHOOTING AT RATHOLE DINER .”
They read in silence. And as the paragraphs brought the night back into focus, Leo’s memory filled in some of the missing gaps. It didn’t take his breath away, not this time. But it made him quiet all the same, restoring that dreadful sense of unease he’d almost forgotten.
In 1978 the Rathole was a mom-and-pop diner beyond the main drag of the Bowery, a couple of blocks down Grand Street. Open all night every night, it was one of those places that should’ve saved money and left the locks off the doors. It served the expected clientele, off the beaten path in a part of town most kindly described as “iffy.”
“Elizabeth Allison Wallace,” Leo read out loud. She’d been working the counter that night. “And she was pregnant—not very far along.” He remembered the girl lying on the cold tile floor behind the register, her phosphorescent skin still giving the shadowed nook a soft, lingering gleam like a low-watt bulb. When she was still alive, she’d hovered a couple of feet off the floor, whether she liked it or not. The neighborhood had called her “Glowworm” when it didn’t call her “Lizzie.” Nineteen years old, and taking classes to wrap up her GED. She’d had a boyfriend, somebody who was bad news. It was all coming back to him now.
Wanda asked, “Who?”
He only shook his head and pointed at the paper. “Donald Richard Reynolds. Went by The Drip. Joker with a face like a half-melted candle. Homeless, with a record. Vagrancy, petty theft, and bigger theft. He also had a daughter living with an ex-wife someplace, and we think he was driving a Mercedes that you can bet your sweet ass he didn’t own.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
He didn’t answer right away, but moved on to the next name. “Maddox Horatio Crowder. Called Hash. Looked a little like a big, beefy alien—with real tight gray skin and four extra eyes. Short-order cook with a sawed-off shotgun. He got into the fray, and got off a couple of shots.”
“What was he doing with a sawed-off?” Wanda wanted to know.
“In that neighborhood, back then? Everyone was packing. But he was packing heavy because he was dealing out the back door. Speed, pot, coke. You name it. Shotgun didn’t do him any good, though. By the time we got there, his stash was cleaned out and he was cooling off.”
She suggested, “Could’ve been a robbery gone bad.”
“Could’ve been. Even looked like it—and Deedle looked good for it. When we caught him, he was carrying what was left of Hash’s merchandise. The rest had gone up his nose or into his arm. Anyway, who else…?” His finger slid down the typeface, picking up old ink in a soft gray smudge. “Stella Michelle Nichols, yeah. Bareback, they called her, over at Freakers. She had a…” He made the universal man-sign for breasts, cupping his hands above his belly. “But on her back too. Worked second shift, showing ’em off. She’d been having problems with an overenthusiastic customer, someone who wanted to stuff more than dollar bills in her panties. But we never did pin him down. Never found her sister either. And
The rooms were divided into decades, and the cabinets were divided into years. “1978–79” was penciled onto a piece of yellow paper and held in place upon one such drawer by a strip of Scotch tape gone brown with age.
Wanda reached for the drawer and braced herself, and drew it open slowly. “It happened around Christmas, right?”
“Just before it,” he confirmed.
Soon they found what they were looking for. The headline screamed loud, in font as big as the detective’s thumbs: “ MASS SHOOTING AT RATHOLE DINER .”
They read in silence. And as the paragraphs brought the night back into focus, Leo’s memory filled in some of the missing gaps. It didn’t take his breath away, not this time. But it made him quiet all the same, restoring that dreadful sense of unease he’d almost forgotten.
In 1978 the Rathole was a mom-and-pop diner beyond the main drag of the Bowery, a couple of blocks down Grand Street. Open all night every night, it was one of those places that should’ve saved money and left the locks off the doors. It served the expected clientele, off the beaten path in a part of town most kindly described as “iffy.”
“Elizabeth Allison Wallace,” Leo read out loud. She’d been working the counter that night. “And she was pregnant—not very far along.” He remembered the girl lying on the cold tile floor behind the register, her phosphorescent skin still giving the shadowed nook a soft, lingering gleam like a low-watt bulb. When she was still alive, she’d hovered a couple of feet off the floor, whether she liked it or not. The neighborhood had called her “Glowworm” when it didn’t call her “Lizzie.” Nineteen years old, and taking classes to wrap up her GED. She’d had a boyfriend, somebody who was bad news. It was all coming back to him now.
Wanda asked, “Who?”
He only shook his head and pointed at the paper. “Donald Richard Reynolds. Went by The Drip. Joker with a face like a half-melted candle. Homeless, with a record. Vagrancy, petty theft, and bigger theft. He also had a daughter living with an ex-wife someplace, and we think he was driving a Mercedes that you can bet your sweet ass he didn’t own.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
He didn’t answer right away, but moved on to the next name. “Maddox Horatio Crowder. Called Hash. Looked a little like a big, beefy alien—with real tight gray skin and four extra eyes. Short-order cook with a sawed-off shotgun. He got into the fray, and got off a couple of shots.”
“What was he doing with a sawed-off?” Wanda wanted to know.
“In that neighborhood, back then? Everyone was packing. But he was packing heavy because he was dealing out the back door. Speed, pot, coke. You name it. Shotgun didn’t do him any good, though. By the time we got there, his stash was cleaned out and he was cooling off.”
She suggested, “Could’ve been a robbery gone bad.”
“Could’ve been. Even looked like it—and Deedle looked good for it. When we caught him, he was carrying what was left of Hash’s merchandise. The rest had gone up his nose or into his arm. Anyway, who else…?” His finger slid down the typeface, picking up old ink in a soft gray smudge. “Stella Michelle Nichols, yeah. Bareback, they called her, over at Freakers. She had a…” He made the universal man-sign for breasts, cupping his hands above his belly. “But on her back too. Worked second shift, showing ’em off. She’d been having problems with an overenthusiastic customer, someone who wanted to stuff more than dollar bills in her panties. But we never did pin him down. Never found her sister either. And
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