think of the money .
I think of the guy’s face as we came through that window and let rip with a tornado of gunfire .
I think of the little girl .
I wish she were dead .
If she was dead I would feel bad that she was dead, but I would feel better that she was dead .
I am confused .
I think I should take another ’lude, but I don’t .
And then I think about my own kids. Cassie’s birthday is coming up. She’ll be eighteen on February 11. Christ, where do the years go? And her mom? Angie Duggan . . . Hell, she was the love of my sorry life. At least I thought so then. Six years and three months we lasted, and then it all went to shit. Met Ivonne in the middle of that, back in . . . When the hell was that? Ninety-four? Yeah, it was July of ninety-four, just after Independence Day. That affair went on right through the divorce from Angie, and Angie never knew a damned thing about it. Suspected sure, but never got me on that one. But she accused me of playing around long before I ever did. She was always accusing me of things I hadn’t done. We used to joke that she’d make a great cop. And so there was Ivonne and me, and then there was Adam, the child I had with her. My boy Adam. Light of my second life, star of my heavens. And he’s just turned thirteen, for God’s sake. He’s a little man. The Little Man of the House. Haven’t seen him since Christmas. Ivonne won’t let me in the damned door. And then there was Catherine, and we stayed married for over seven years, even longer than with Angie. And we had two kids—Lucy, all of six years old, seven years old a week before Cassie turns eighteen. And Tom. Three years old. Smarter than all of them put together. Two wives, one mistress, four kids. And all of those kids are being told I am a waste of space. They’re young, though. I can win them back, despiteeverything. Maybe I can win them back. Cassie, she would help me. Cassie knows who I am. She sees the truth. She sees that underneath all this madness is a father she could love, perhaps even respect .
I try to think how I would feel if I heard Lucy was shot. She ain’t a helluva lot younger than the Hispanic girl we found. So how would I feel if she was shot in the gut and up in Harlem Hospital? And then I wonder how I would feel if a cop was assigned to investigate her shooting, and that cop was just like me .
Then I try not to think. It does no good to think .
There’s a stranger in my heart. He has arrived uninvited. I wish he would leave, but I know he will not .
I am in deep .
But there’s a way out .
There’s always a way out .
I need my wits. I need all my smarts. I need everything I’ve got and more besides .
I should eat something now and drink some strong black coffee, but the ’lude is creeping up on me and I’m starting to settle a little. I’m starting to think that maybe I can hang it all together in such a way as it stays together . . . and it’s all going to be fine . . .
I also know that when the ’lude wears off I’ll still be full of shit .
I stand up. I go downstairs. I retrieve the duffel from my locker. I feel for my center of balance. I find it. I start walking. I’m going to get rid of the car. Wipe it all down and get rid of it. I’m going to secure the money. I’m going to take care of everything .
It’s gonna be fine .
Seriously .
It’s karmic. I am invincible. I do too much good to be waylaid by this shit .
Off I go .
10
PORT OF SOULS
T here was something about hospitals. Something unique and specific and troubling.
Harlem Hospital up at Lenox was a Level 1 Trauma Center. Madigan had been there a thousand times. Triage, most days, was an indoor car wreck. Too many people, too few beds, same as any other public hospital. Noise was unbelievable—those who weren’t screaming were shouting; those who weren’t shouting were trying to be heard over the screamers and shouters; and in the middle of it all came the doctors and nurses, every one of them
I think of the guy’s face as we came through that window and let rip with a tornado of gunfire .
I think of the little girl .
I wish she were dead .
If she was dead I would feel bad that she was dead, but I would feel better that she was dead .
I am confused .
I think I should take another ’lude, but I don’t .
And then I think about my own kids. Cassie’s birthday is coming up. She’ll be eighteen on February 11. Christ, where do the years go? And her mom? Angie Duggan . . . Hell, she was the love of my sorry life. At least I thought so then. Six years and three months we lasted, and then it all went to shit. Met Ivonne in the middle of that, back in . . . When the hell was that? Ninety-four? Yeah, it was July of ninety-four, just after Independence Day. That affair went on right through the divorce from Angie, and Angie never knew a damned thing about it. Suspected sure, but never got me on that one. But she accused me of playing around long before I ever did. She was always accusing me of things I hadn’t done. We used to joke that she’d make a great cop. And so there was Ivonne and me, and then there was Adam, the child I had with her. My boy Adam. Light of my second life, star of my heavens. And he’s just turned thirteen, for God’s sake. He’s a little man. The Little Man of the House. Haven’t seen him since Christmas. Ivonne won’t let me in the damned door. And then there was Catherine, and we stayed married for over seven years, even longer than with Angie. And we had two kids—Lucy, all of six years old, seven years old a week before Cassie turns eighteen. And Tom. Three years old. Smarter than all of them put together. Two wives, one mistress, four kids. And all of those kids are being told I am a waste of space. They’re young, though. I can win them back, despiteeverything. Maybe I can win them back. Cassie, she would help me. Cassie knows who I am. She sees the truth. She sees that underneath all this madness is a father she could love, perhaps even respect .
I try to think how I would feel if I heard Lucy was shot. She ain’t a helluva lot younger than the Hispanic girl we found. So how would I feel if she was shot in the gut and up in Harlem Hospital? And then I wonder how I would feel if a cop was assigned to investigate her shooting, and that cop was just like me .
Then I try not to think. It does no good to think .
There’s a stranger in my heart. He has arrived uninvited. I wish he would leave, but I know he will not .
I am in deep .
But there’s a way out .
There’s always a way out .
I need my wits. I need all my smarts. I need everything I’ve got and more besides .
I should eat something now and drink some strong black coffee, but the ’lude is creeping up on me and I’m starting to settle a little. I’m starting to think that maybe I can hang it all together in such a way as it stays together . . . and it’s all going to be fine . . .
I also know that when the ’lude wears off I’ll still be full of shit .
I stand up. I go downstairs. I retrieve the duffel from my locker. I feel for my center of balance. I find it. I start walking. I’m going to get rid of the car. Wipe it all down and get rid of it. I’m going to secure the money. I’m going to take care of everything .
It’s gonna be fine .
Seriously .
It’s karmic. I am invincible. I do too much good to be waylaid by this shit .
Off I go .
10
PORT OF SOULS
T here was something about hospitals. Something unique and specific and troubling.
Harlem Hospital up at Lenox was a Level 1 Trauma Center. Madigan had been there a thousand times. Triage, most days, was an indoor car wreck. Too many people, too few beds, same as any other public hospital. Noise was unbelievable—those who weren’t screaming were shouting; those who weren’t shouting were trying to be heard over the screamers and shouters; and in the middle of it all came the doctors and nurses, every one of them
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