Chapter Sixteen

The Following Morning

Irene Sabitch, in the Records Division of the Buffalo Police Department, asked her coworker Glenn Coffman, "What do you know about Jack Lucas? He's the captain over at the Tenth Precinct."

Coffman glanced briefly at her from his own monitor. "Not a whole lot. I hear he's an asshole, that's about it." He looked at his monitor again.

"Well, if he is, he's got good reason for it." Coffman glanced at her again. "Oh? Why's that?"

She answered simply, "He's dying."

Coffman shrugged. "That's tough. What of?"

"Cancer."

"How do you know?"

She nodded at her monitor. "It's part of the employee records, so I have access to it."

"Limited access, Irene. Those records are confidential—"

"I know that. I wasn't snooping. Too much, anyway. I was only trying to open that damned set of files, and his name came up, so—"

"How'd his name come up?"

"It was in the news articles about that murder/suicide in Erie. You remember, Lila Curtis—"

"So that's her name. Lila." He grinned. "I was pretty close. I said Lily, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did, congratulations. Anyway, Lucas was down there, in Erie, at the time. Apparently the Erie police chief is a close friend of his and since he was there, anyway, he asked him to help."

Coffman eyed her silently for several seconds. Then he said, "And you think that screwy user number is his—Lucas's?"

"I'm almost positive of it."

Coffman sighed. "Well, for God's sake, Irene, you've got a list of user numbers there; why don't you just find his—"

"I did that, and it didn't work."

"Well then, what you do is, you call up this Captain Lucas and you tell him, 'Captain Lucas, I have a disk here that I believe has your user number on it, but the user number on file doesn't work. Was it changed? Did you change it?' "

She nodded. "I did that, too. He says he doesn't know a damn thing about it—and those were his words exactly. He even ordered me to stop looking into the whole thing."

"Why in hell would he do that if he doesn't know anything about it? It doesn't make sense."

"You're very good at stating the obvious, Glen."

"Uh-huh. So what did you tell him?"

"I told him okay, I'd close down the file, I'd erase it."

"And he believed you?"

"I don't think so. When I got to work this morning, the disk was missing."

"My God—"

She smiled, pleased with herself. "Good thing I took the precaution of making a copy."

~ * ~

At the Tenth Precinct

"Well, where is he then?" Ryerson asked the desk sergeant.

"Listen," the sergeant answered, "all I know is that Captain Lucas left the building at nine-thirty this morning. He didn't tell me where he was going and I didn't ask."

Ryerson shifted Creosote from one arm to the other; Creosote had his soft plastic duck between his teeth and as Ryerson shifted him, the dog growled as if annoyed.

"That's some dog," the desk sergeant quipped.

Ryerson ignored the remark. "Could you tell Captain Lucas that I was here?"

"And you are?"

"My name's Ryerson Biergarten."

The desk sergeant wrote it on a memo pad. "You're that psychic, right?"

Again Ryerson ignored him. "Is there a place called Frank's in Buffalo?"

"Frank's?" said the desk sergeant, turned, and called to a couple of uniformed cops behind him, "Hey, any you guys heard of a place called Frank's?"

One of the cops answered, "You mean Frank's Place? Yeah. It's on Eddy Street."

The desk sergeant turned back to Ryerson. "You got that?"

"I got it," Ryerson said.

"You know where Eddy Street is?"

"No," Ryerson answered, "but I have a map."

The sergeant grinned. "I thought you were psychic." A brief pause. "The hell with the map. What you do is, you go back out to the street, you turn left, you go five blocks, you make another left—" He paused, glanced back at the uniformed cops. "Hey, is Eddy Street north or south of Minerva?"

The same cop answered, "Minerva? Where's that?"

And Ryerson said, "Thanks, anyway. I'll stick with the map."

"Suit yourself," the desk sergeant said. And as Ryerson turned to go, he called, "You ain't gonna like it down there, believe me."

~ *~

The image of a blue sky littered with dark gray smudges was with Ryerson almost constantly now, though he tried hard to put it aside. The blue was still soft, pale, and pretty, but the smudges moved and pulsated as if they were alive. There were perhaps half a dozen of them, Ryerson thought. He wasn't sure of the number because each time he tried to study them—much as he'd study a painting or a photograph—they shifted crazily, like snakes squirming off, and he found that his view of them was always oblique.

His guess was that each of the dark gray smudges represented, as he'd told Captain Lucas the day before, "an entity."

"An entity?" Lucas had said then, his voice dripping with incredulity. "What sort of entity, Mr. Biergarten?"

And despite himself, despite all that he knew about how to approach people like Jack Lucas—people who, as Lucas had put it, believed that "everything's got a logical explanation … if you can't touch it or smell it or taste it or fuck it, then by God it doesn't exist!"—Ryerson had answered, "An evil entity." Which elicited a half minute's worth of hooting laughter from Lucas—laughter so loud and uncontrolled, in fact, that one of the detectives in the outer office had stuck his head in and said, "Is everything okay here?"

But evil entity fit, Ryerson thought now, as he maneuvered the Woody down Minerva Street on his way to Eddy Street, then to Frank's Place, where, he was sure, he'd find Captain Lucas.

But there was this, too; if each of those obscenely pulsating dark gray smudges on a field of soft, pretty pale blue represented an evil entity—or, as Joan preferred it, a demon—then each of those smudges had to signify a person, too. Ryerson knew this as certainly as he knew that the sun would set, though it had taken Joan to make him see it clearly. "I don't know where they come from," she'd told him. "I guess they come from the same place that all suffering and loneliness and pain comes from. From us. From all of us."

He stopped for a red light at the corner of Minerva and Eddy streets. He looked first right, then left, hoping to see a sign that said "Frank's Place," but he saw only a succession of tattered two- and three-story brick buildings in both directions. Near the center of the block to his left there was a sign that read GREYHOUND PACKAGE EXPRESS, and beyond it a neon sign was flashing the word "EAT" in green. On impulse, he turned right.

Upon reflection now, he thought that Jack Lucas had had good reason to toss him out of his office, because he'd handled the whole thing badly. He'd let the grotesque and deadly scenario developing in Buffalo overcome his good sense. Because while "evil entity" had elicited a half minute's worth of hooting laughter from Captain Lucas, "demons" had gotten a full minute's worth of stony silence. Angry and unreadable silence. "I don't believe in demons!" he had said finally. "And I think that anyone who does is a child."

"Yes," Ryerson nodded, "I agree—that is, of course, if we're talking about the archetypal demon that climbs out of hell to take possession of us. And I'm not talking about that at all, Captain. I'm talking about the demons we create." That, Ryerson remembered, had clearly touched a raw nerve with Lucas.

"Whatever . . . problems any of us have, Mr. Biergarten," he'd begun, "are ours to deal with in our own way."

"You don't understand; I'm sorry, Captain, you don't understand. I'm not talking about psychic demons; I'm not talking about behavior, I'm talking about things we can touch, and feel, and taste—they're your criteria, after all. I'm talking, for instance, about this woman—"

And that's when Lucas had thrown him out.

~ * ~

Ryerson saw a small, weathered, handmade sign just ahead—dark blue letters on a white background: FRANK'S PLACE it read. He pulled over to the curb, locked all the Woody's doors, glanced about. There were a couple of haggard-looking men on the sidewalk, and, as Ryerson watched, they went into Frank's Place. Moments later he followed.

~ * ~

Benny Bloom knew that most of the kids at Buffalo Pierpont High School thought he was a nerd. But that was okay, because a nerd, by definition, was different, and different was usually better. It was all a matter of perception. Being thought of asa nerd was one thing, but actually being a nerd was something else entirely. Being a nerd was a privilege and an honor. If you were a nerd, it meant that you were above average, it meant that you were superior.

Or so Benny told himself.

In practice, Benny thought, being a nerd was a damned lonely business. The only people who wanted to hang around nerds were other nerds, and nerds as a group were boring.

Nerds didn't get any girls, either. Unless they were girl nerds.

And Benny Bloom wanted girls. Not girl nerds. He wanted the cheerleader types, the foxes with creamy white thighs and huge breasts and softly sculpted necks. The trouble was, the only ones who got those girls were jocks—the guys with meat for brains and tree limbs for arms, and pants three sizes too small at the crotch. The guys who could say "Hi, baby" and get away with it (Benny had said "Hi, baby" once, just to try it out, because he'd heard the jocks say it. "Baby?" asked the particular cheerleader type he was talking to. "What do you mean?" Benny shrugged. "Jeez, I don't know," he answered. "Just that, I guess? 'Hi, baby.' I was just trying to be friendly. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sorry." "Don't mention it," said the girl, smiling to herself, and walked off).

And Benny had wondered more than once what it would be like to be a brainy jock, the kind of guy who could say "Hi, baby," and quote T. S. Eliot in the same breath.

"Hi, baby," he said now (at approximately the same time that Ryerson Biergarten, Creosote in his arms, was sitting down at the bar at Frank's Place), and Nurse Carlotta Scotti answered, "Sorry, Benny, but did you just say something?"

And turned away from her, his buttock exposed for yet another shot, he said again, "Hi, baby," and added in the same breath, "In the room the women come and go/ Talking of Michelangelo."

"What woman is that, Benny?" Nurse Scotti asked.

"Hi, baby," he said again.

And she said, half scoldingly, "No, Benny, please don't flex your buttock, it only makes it harder to get the needle in."

But Benny wasn't flexing his buttock. Benny was changing.

~ * ~

The bar at Frank's Place had a high sheen from too much varnish and was streaked with beer. When the bartender asked, "What's your poison?" he looked like he really meant it.

"Ginger ale," Ryerson answered.

"Uh-huh," said the bartender, raising a very thick and bushy eyebrow. "One tall ginger ale coming up."

"Actually," Ryerson said, as Creosote strained mightily to lick his chin, "I was looking for someone." He glanced about. Frank's Place was all but empty. At the rear the two haggard men who'd come in before him were seated at a small wooden table playing cards. At the opposite end of the bar a buxom woman in a tight green dress sipped at what looked like a water glass full of whiskey. As he glanced at her, she glanced at him, grinned, looked away. Ryerson repeated, "I was looking for someone, but I—"

"Her name's Doreen," said the bartender, and nodded at the woman in the green dress.

Ryerson said, "No, you don't understand. I was looking for a man."

"Not here you don't look for no man," the bartender growled.

"I'm afraid you still don't understand," Ryerson said. He stopped. An image had shot from the bartender's mind to his. "Have you got a back room?"

"A back room? What for?"

Ryerson shrugged. "For whatever."

"Yeah?" said the bartender, leaning over the bar. "What kind of whatever?"

Creosote finally found Ryerson's chin and gave it a long, loving lick.

The bartender nodded. "You talkin' about something with that dog? Is that what you're talking about, mister? If it is—"

Ryerson decided it was time to change the subject. "Do you know a man named Lucas?"

The bartender shook his head immediately. "Don't know no one named Lucas."

And from the opposite end of the bar the woman drawled, “Ah do."

Ryerson looked at her. She had the water glass full of whiskey poised at her lips. "Whatchoo want with old Lucas?" She took a slug of the whiskey, put it down hard. "You a friend a his? You don't look like no friend a his."

Ryerson got up from the barstool, went over to the woman, sat beside her. Creosote began to whimper.

"Somethin' wrong which your dog?" the woman asked.

Creosote tried to burrow in between Ryeron's side and arm; Ryerson stroked him reassuringly. "Hey, it's okay, fella," he said, then, to the woman, "He comes here, doesn't he?"

"Lucas? Sure. He comes here. He's a friend a mine."

Ryerson foundthat he could read from her only what he usually read from crazies, and animals—what looked in his mind's eye like the snow between channels on a TV set. "A friend of yours?" he said, and wondered why she'd been so quick with information. "Is he here now? It's imperative that I get in touch with him."

"Imperative; is it?" said the woman. "Imperative?!" She grinned, took another sip of the whiskey, glanced down the front of her low-cut dress, reached in, and adjusted her bra.

Creosote's whimpering grew louder.

She went on. "Why don't you tell Doreen what's so imperative, and I'll relay the message to him when he comes in."

The bartender brought Ryerson's glass of ginger ale; "Buck fifty," he said, and Ryerson dug in his pockets, found a dollar bill and some change, and put it on the counter.

~ * ~

Detective Third Grade Andy Spurling's fondest memories were of growing up in Syracuse, New York, where he was thoughtof as the toughest kid on the block, and the quickest with a six-gun. His six-guns, of course, were made by Mattel, but they were made of real metal, not plastic like they are today, and they were heavy, and their action was much like the action of a real gun. The one he carried now, for instance.

He was the toughest kid on the block because he was the biggest, and the most aggressive, and pain had never bothered him a lot—a fact which had put the other kids, even the smart ones, in awe of him (he remembered particularly the time he held the lit end of a cigarette against the back of his wrist; he remembered the acrid smell of burning flesh, the gasps of the kids gathered around him, his own tight sneer against the pain).

He knocked on the door of Apartment 3C at the Livemore Apartments—he had a bad-check arrest warrant in his suit coat pocket. He listened to the movement inside the apartment, tried to gauge just what kind of movement it was, whether someone was going out a window, or merely getting up from a chair. Funny, he thought, that the memories from his childhood should return with such vibrancy in the last few days, ever since that incredible mess on Lawrence Street.

"Yes, who is it?" he heard a man call from within the apartment.

"Police," he called back. And there was silence.

Maybe, he thought, the memories had returned because he'd realized at last that his position with the Buffalo Police Department was always going to be pretty low, that he was probably never going to make captain, or even lieutenant. Maybe he'd make sergeant if he tried really hard. Sure, twenty years before, in Syracuse, when ' he was a tough eleven-year-old kid who could hold lit cigarettes against the back of his wrist, he was top of the heap. But when you were grown-up, people had words other than "tough" to describe that sort of thing. They called it "stupid," and "juvenile," and even the assholes who hung out at sleazy bars weren't impressed by it anymore. What did impress lots of people, though, was gunplay. Eleven-year-olds, twenty-year-olds, thirty-year-olds—it didn't matter. Guns demanded respect. And Christ, but he was good with a gun!

"What do you want?" he heard from within Apartment 3C.

He put one hand on his .45, in a shoulder holster, and the other on his stomach, because, for the past five days, it had been giving him lots of trouble. "Mr. Warren Anderson?" he called.

"Who's asking?" the man called back. "Are you ..." A surge of pain; he winced. "Are you Warren Anderson?"

"No. He ain't here."

"Open the door, please."

"I said Warren ain't here. He went south. He went to Florida."

Spurling hesitated, hand tightening on the .45. What would Guy Mallory do now, he wondered, and another surge of pain pushed through him; he winced again, a small "Uh!" escaped him. How would that tough eleven-year-old kid from Syracuse react—not only to the pain, but to this man he had to haul in? The hell with Guy Mallory. Mallory was too cautious; Mallory followed the book, the damned criminal-coddling book.

"Listen," he called to the man in the apartment, "I've got an arrest warrant for Warren Anderson—"

"He ain't here. I told you that!"

"The amount of the check"—another surge of pain went through him, deeper; he doubled over, waited for it to subside. "The amount of the check is just twenty dollars. You pay it, Mr. Anderson, and you're free."

Silence.

"Mr. Anderson?" Spurling coaxed, and realized, with relief, that the pain in his stomach seemed to be subsiding.

"Twenty dollars?" the man called.

"That's all. Shit, if you haven't got it, I'll loan it to you."

"Yeah?"

"Sure." Spurling glanced at the floor; he had seen movement there. His gaze settled on his pants cuffs, which appeared to be hanging over his shoes much more than they usually did. He looked back at the door. "Sure," he called, again. "As long as you promise to pay me back, Mr. Anderson."

"Twenty dollars? That's all it is? Just twenty dollars?"

"That's all, Mr. Anderson. I've got it in my hands right now." Once more he glanced in confusion at his pants cuffs, then at the door again. Strange, he thought, but the apartment number seemed to be higher on the door than it had been five minutes before. "Why don't you do us both a favor, Mr. Anderson, and open up."

And inside the apartment, Warren Anderson wondered if the cop would indeed loan him the twenty dollars to cover the bad check. He opened the door.

And looked down at the kid standing there who was awash in clothes five sizes too large for his eleven-year-old frame.

Anderson muttered, "What in the hell—" and smiled a big smile of deep relief. His smile broadened when the kid produced a gun from inside his suit jacket and pointed it directly at Anderson's forehead. Anderson threw his hands into the air. "Hey, don't shoot me, kid!" he laughed. The kid fired. A .45-caliber bullet tore at a hard angle through Anderson's forehead, into his brain, out the other side, and imbedded itself high on the north wall of Apartment 3C.

~ * ~

At Frank's Place the woman named Doreen was getting off her barstool. "Nice talkin' to ya," she said, took one last tug on her glass of whiskey, called, "Hey, I'll see ya, Sam," to the bartender, who looked over and said, "Yeah, sure."

Then Ryerson asked her, "Who are you?"

"Name's Doreen," the woman answered.

"No, it isn't," Ryerson said, because for just one moment, one half second, the snow he was reading from her had lifted and he had caught a glimpse of something hard and dark and obscene beneath.

The woman smiled coyly. "Whatever I want to call myself, my man, then that's my name. I want to call myself Ginger Rogers, then that's what you gotta call me." She turned her back to him, glanced around. "Nice little dog you got there. Better watch out no one steps on him," and she laughed quickly, and left the bar.

The bartender watched her go, then turned to Ryerson. "That's one nasty dame," he said.

"Yes," Ryerson said, "she is that."