was taken as a little girl, it hurt Alta more than anyone. She felt like she didn’t do her job. Why don’t you go to the partner, Maya Watson, to ask her about Alta?”
“I
will
ask her, but it won’t get me anywhere. She was very cooperative until I brought up what happened with Tillman. Then she clammed up. I don’t know why. You’d think she and Alta would have been desperate to explain their side of things, but instead they refused to say a word about it. That’s only one of the things that doesn’t make much sense about this case.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went to the High Line Bistro. On an EMT’s salary, you couldn’t afford an appetizer and a bowl of chowder in that joint. Their least expensive wine was sixty bucks. Coffee is seven bucks a pop. It’s not the kind of place people in uniforms go to. But Alta and Maya traveled over there from the other side of Manhattan for a quick lunch? I don’t buy it. And under careful questioning, some of the witnesses said that Alta and Maya were arguing when they came in. About what? It’s just weird, Carm. It doesn’t feel right. I don’t think they were there about lunch.”
“Then what for?” she asked.
“That’s the million dollar question. What the hell were they doing there?”
I think I had something else to say, but suddenly I was lightheaded. No, it was more than that. I was dizzy and my vision got hazy around the edges. My heart was beating its way out of my chest and up into my throat. My head, now impossibly heavy, fell back over the top of the chair. I could feel myself soaking through my shirt. I was nauseous as hell.
“Moe! Moe!” I heard someone calling my name, but from somewhere far far away. “Moe, are you all right? You look gray.” I felt a hand touch my face, my neck. “You’re clammy. I’m going to call 911.”
“No! No. Get me to the bathroom,” I slurred, holding my leaden arms out. “I’ll be okay.”
I was up, but not for long. My legs were deboned and demuscled. I remember feeling myself dropping. I don’t remember landing. It must have been a hell of a fall.
EIGHTEEN
I stopped at my condo for another shower and a change of clothing before heading over to see Detective Jean Jacques Fuqua. Neither the shower nor the new clothing made me feel like a new man. I was past the age when feeling like a new man was possible. The best I could hope for was feeling like a retread and recently even that had become a pipe dream. I no longer got just tired. That ship done sailed. These days my exhaustion was profound as a Russian novel. Exhaustion for me was now a whole other state of being and last night had taken more out of me than I had to give. I wasn’t sure if this new state of being was simply my body giving me a preview of what I’d feel like once chemo and radiation kicked in or if it was preparing me for death. Death, I thought, had all sorts of potential for unpleasantness, especially if I was wrong about all those many things I didn’t believe in. What if the face of God was a sneering one and he was the type to say I told you so? What if he was just a universal hurt machine? Man, in either case, I was fucked.
Even last night as I lay on Carmella’s bathroom floor, I knew I wasn’t quite dead. I couldn’t imagine the departed could taste their own vomit or feel as though their kishkas were being torn apart from the inside out. Nope. I was pretty sure that sort of unpleasantness was reserved for the living, but as poorly as I felt, it was much better than I had at the kitchen table. The nausea was gone and my vision was no longer blurred at the edges. My view of the base of the toilet was crystal clear. I was weak, but my arms were no longer leaden and my legs seemed like they might once again support my full weight. I hadn’t been foolish enough to test them out. I was content to just lie there and enjoy the coolness of the tiles.
Eventually, I got around to showering and rinsing my mouth. There
“I
will
ask her, but it won’t get me anywhere. She was very cooperative until I brought up what happened with Tillman. Then she clammed up. I don’t know why. You’d think she and Alta would have been desperate to explain their side of things, but instead they refused to say a word about it. That’s only one of the things that doesn’t make much sense about this case.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went to the High Line Bistro. On an EMT’s salary, you couldn’t afford an appetizer and a bowl of chowder in that joint. Their least expensive wine was sixty bucks. Coffee is seven bucks a pop. It’s not the kind of place people in uniforms go to. But Alta and Maya traveled over there from the other side of Manhattan for a quick lunch? I don’t buy it. And under careful questioning, some of the witnesses said that Alta and Maya were arguing when they came in. About what? It’s just weird, Carm. It doesn’t feel right. I don’t think they were there about lunch.”
“Then what for?” she asked.
“That’s the million dollar question. What the hell were they doing there?”
I think I had something else to say, but suddenly I was lightheaded. No, it was more than that. I was dizzy and my vision got hazy around the edges. My heart was beating its way out of my chest and up into my throat. My head, now impossibly heavy, fell back over the top of the chair. I could feel myself soaking through my shirt. I was nauseous as hell.
“Moe! Moe!” I heard someone calling my name, but from somewhere far far away. “Moe, are you all right? You look gray.” I felt a hand touch my face, my neck. “You’re clammy. I’m going to call 911.”
“No! No. Get me to the bathroom,” I slurred, holding my leaden arms out. “I’ll be okay.”
I was up, but not for long. My legs were deboned and demuscled. I remember feeling myself dropping. I don’t remember landing. It must have been a hell of a fall.
EIGHTEEN
I stopped at my condo for another shower and a change of clothing before heading over to see Detective Jean Jacques Fuqua. Neither the shower nor the new clothing made me feel like a new man. I was past the age when feeling like a new man was possible. The best I could hope for was feeling like a retread and recently even that had become a pipe dream. I no longer got just tired. That ship done sailed. These days my exhaustion was profound as a Russian novel. Exhaustion for me was now a whole other state of being and last night had taken more out of me than I had to give. I wasn’t sure if this new state of being was simply my body giving me a preview of what I’d feel like once chemo and radiation kicked in or if it was preparing me for death. Death, I thought, had all sorts of potential for unpleasantness, especially if I was wrong about all those many things I didn’t believe in. What if the face of God was a sneering one and he was the type to say I told you so? What if he was just a universal hurt machine? Man, in either case, I was fucked.
Even last night as I lay on Carmella’s bathroom floor, I knew I wasn’t quite dead. I couldn’t imagine the departed could taste their own vomit or feel as though their kishkas were being torn apart from the inside out. Nope. I was pretty sure that sort of unpleasantness was reserved for the living, but as poorly as I felt, it was much better than I had at the kitchen table. The nausea was gone and my vision was no longer blurred at the edges. My view of the base of the toilet was crystal clear. I was weak, but my arms were no longer leaden and my legs seemed like they might once again support my full weight. I hadn’t been foolish enough to test them out. I was content to just lie there and enjoy the coolness of the tiles.
Eventually, I got around to showering and rinsing my mouth. There
Similar Books
