The receptionist laid a hand on Joe’s shoulder. ‘Dr Makkar will be along right away. Is there anything I can get you in the meantime?’
‘Would he maybe take a glass of water?’ It was the man again. He had stood up – Joe could see his brown suede loafers on the carpet in front of him. Joe managed to raise a shaky hand that said no to both offers.
‘I don’t think he was even able to talk to whoever called him,’ said the old man.
But Joe knew it wasn’t the pain that had stopped him from talking. He just had no answer for the voice that came twisting its way back into his life, drawling and heavy and laden with unfinished business.
‘Detective Lucchesi? Every time you look at the scars on your wife’s pretty little body, right down … low down on that tight little belly. Or when you flip her over onto her front. She’s light, you can flip her easy, can’t you? There’s some scars there too – makes me feel like I’m the gift that keeps on giving. Well, what I want to know is this: when you see them scars? Do you still want her?’ He paused. ‘Or do you want me more?’ He laughed long and loud. ‘Tell me. Who’s gonna get it in the ass? Little Anna Lucchesi or Big Bad Duke Rawlins?’ His breath was gone, lost in a dead silence. Then his voice struck up, one last time. ‘And Detective? You’ll never bury me. I. Will. Bury. You.’
Detectives Joe Lucchesi and Danny Markey stepped into the elevator that would take them to the sixth floor office of Manhattan North Homicide. They were three hours into an eight to four tour. A short skinny man shot in after them, jumpy and light on his feet.
‘You know, I can read futures by your hands.’ He had weathered skin and a droopy left eye. He stood an inch from Joe’s chest and looked up at him with a gentle smile. Joe looked at Danny and held his palm out.
The man stepped back, banging his head on the elevator doors.
‘Not your palm!’ he shouted. ‘Not your palm! The back of your hand! I will know you from the back of your hand.’ Joe turned it over.
‘The other one too. You too,’ he said, looking at Danny. ‘Both hands. Both hands. Many hands make Jack dull.’
Joe and Danny smiled and did what he said.
‘You’re laughing too early,’ said the guy. ‘This could be bad news, what I see here. This could be too many ducks spoiling the bush.’
‘We don’t want to hear no bad news,’ said Danny. ‘Right?’
‘Right,’ said Joe.
‘Right,’ said the man. ‘But I’m not just the messenger here. You gotta appreciate that. I’m how it all begins. I’m what sets it all in motion. I’m, like, bang. And the future I see will start from right here in these nine stitches.’
Joe nodded slowly.
The man reached up and adjusted the purple crocheted hat on his head, pulling the ear flaps around so one of them hung in front of his face. He rotated it again, then looked back at their hands.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m seeing things. I definitely am,’ said the man. ‘My name is One Line, by incident. One Line. King of Madison Avenue. Your product in one line. Your brand in one line—’
‘You were a copywriter?’ said Joe.
‘Your future in one line,’ said the man, staring at the hands in front of him.
‘OK,’ said Danny. ‘So what is it?’
The bell chimed and the elevator doors opened on the sixth floor. Joe and Danny got out. As the doors slid together, One Line pushed his face close to the gap.
‘One line: you’re fucked, both of you. Is that two lines? Could that be two?’ The doors closed.
They laughed.
‘Another EDP for the HPD,’ said Danny. An EDP was an Emotionally Disturbed Person. The HPD was the Department of Housing Preservation and Development – one of their jobs was to give out Section 8 housing subsidies.
‘Let’s send him into Internal Affairs, let him tell them they’re fucked,’ said Danny.
‘I’d like him to come up with a whole jingle for that,’ said Joe.
Sixteen detectives worked in three teams out of Manhattan North Homicide, a modern open plan space with a small glass-walled office in the corner, shared by the sergeant and the lieutenant. The NYPD was one of the only law enforcement agencies in the country whose officers weren’t put through regular fitness checks, leaving Sergeant John Rufo free to work his way up to 230 pounds and into his current predicament of trying to work his way back down.
‘Your mental agility is being impaired,’ he said, pointing at Joe and Danny with something beige speared on a fork.
‘Is that tofu?’ said Danny.
‘No it is not tofu. It is marinated steamed chicken. Tofu. Gimme a break.’
Joe and Danny exchanged glances.
‘It’s eleven o’clock in the morning,’ said Danny.
‘Eat little and often,’ said Rufo. ‘Them’s the rules.’ He pointed to his plate. ‘Vegetables, protein …’
‘Yeah, boss,’ said Danny. ‘Tomato sauce, meatballs: I got it covered already.’
‘How do you stay so trim?’ said Rufo.
‘You mean, “Have I been working out?”’ said Danny.
Rufo rolled his eyes. Then poked his fork through his salad. ‘Who’s up today?’
‘Me,’ said Joe. ‘And I eat well, by the way.’
‘You gotta watch that French food,’ said Rufo, looking up at him. ‘It’s tasty …’ he raised a finger in warning, ‘… because it’s rich. Your wife is genetically wired for it. You might not be. You’re in shape now, but who knows down the line …’
Joe laughed. ‘Yeah, Sarge, thanks for looking out for me.’
‘A varied diet,’ said Rufo, ‘that’s what—’
The phone interrupted him. ‘Ruthie, yeah – put him through.’ He nodded. ‘How you doing? OK. Yeah. OK.’ He listened, then scribbled on a notebook in front of him. ‘Right away. Detectives Joe Lucchesi and Danny Markey. Yeah. Uh-huh. Take care.’ He put down the phone. ‘Gentlemen, we have a homicide on West 84th Street. Here’s the address. Guy found in his apartment.’ He ripped out the page and handed it to Joe. ‘The Two-Oh is at the scene already.’
Joe and Danny crossed Broadway to the parking lot under the railway bridge.
‘Who says “trim”?’ said Danny.
‘People who aren’t,’ said Joe.
‘It’s unbelievable,’ said Danny, ‘we get sucked into food talk every time we go in his office. I wind up starving.’ Danny was short, wiry and had no extra weight. He’d been wearing the same suit size since he was eighteen. He had pale skin and fading freckles, light brown hair and blue eyes. Joe was six-three, dark and broad.
Joe stopped. ‘Aw, shit …’
‘What?’ said Danny.
‘Would you look at that?’ Joe walked over to a silver Lexus. ‘That fucking shit.’ He pulled his keys out of his pocket and opened the door of his car, popping the glove box. He took out a cloth and started rubbing