Manhattan 62 by Reggie Nadelson Page B

whisper of something bad hits the back of my neck, raises the hairs. This is no good, this thing about me and the Russian printed in public. The Commies are bad news. There’s plenty like my boss still out to get them and the people who make friends with them. I better keep my damn distance, I think, and toss the newspaper into a garbage can.
    And then, just my lousy luck, Max—out of the blue, no invitation I can recall—shows up at the station house. These days he looks like everybody—blue button-down short-sleeved summer shirt, chinos—the sergeant hardly takes notice; just calls me to the front door.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Pat, I thought we had arranged to meet. Have I got the wrong day?” He looks apologetic.
    â€œDid we? I don’t remember. What did we arrange?”
    â€œI asked if you might take me to see the High Line, and explain about your crime scenes, and you said, come to my office, is that not right? If I am not correct, I’m so sorry.”
    I’m finished work for the day, more or less, and I want to know what Max Ostalsky has been up to. What’s this Commie really want? “Yeah, come on. We’ll walk. Maybe catch a breeze off the river. So I see you made the big time, big profile in the Voice.”
    Max doesn’t answer, just lights up a cigarette. Outside, on Charles Street, a young guy is smoking a joint. Sees me, tosses it into the gutter.
    â€œYou into grass yet, Max?”
    â€œI have my Lucky Strikes.”
    â€œHow come? You dig the rest of it, the girls, the music, you scared because they showed you some propaganda films about the decadent West at home, and how you do drugs, you’ll become addicted like our own people in the ghetto?”
    Without answering, ignoring the sarcasm, he says, “I have asked to see the place of the crime, Pat, this is to help me understand the workings of America’s Civil Society. If this is not proper, please, tell me.”
    â€œWhy? You thinking of sticking around, maybe join the police here? Jesus, it is hot. They get heat like this in Moscow?”
    â€œYes, the summers can be hot,” Max says, keeping pace with me.
    â€œYou been seeing Nancy a lot?” I keep it casual. We’re walking, up Sixth, up Greenwich Avenue, past St Vincent’s, and west to the river.
    â€œShe has invited me to her father’s house for dinner.”
    â€œI’ll bet you and old Saul hit it off just fine.”
    â€œI admire him.”
    As soon as we get close to the river, I change my mind. Later, it would come back to me that I should have turned around, and told Ostalsky it wasn’t on. Get lost, I should have said.
    What do I want with this Russki on my crime scene, pawing over my case, asking questions about the dead girl, pestering me for information, and for what? What’s in it for you, Ostalsky, I think, looking at him, at the way he’s learned to dress, even learned to walk in that casual way as if he’s just out having a ball, smoking his Luckys; occasionally he pulls his little notebook out of his shirt pocket and jots something down.
    â€œWhat the hell do you keep in there?”
    Max stops, replaces his notebook. “Oh, as I have said, notes for my classes. This means words I learn. Books I read. Things I observe in New York. Music. I have been listening to quite a bit of your favorites, to Fat Domino,” he says. “He is jolly. I like this Blueberry Hill.” He smiles, knows the reference to music might please me; how charming this Russian is, and the more I think about it, too eager to please.
    â€œFats Domino.”
    My shirt is wet from the humid air; my eyes burn; I can’t remember when I ate last.
    â€œDo you know, Pat, when I was a boy I wanted to be a policeman. There was a murder in our building, this was very rare in Moscow, and I met the homicide policemen, I thought they were very, can I say