hate you,” he said.
And I had no answer to that depressing pronouncement.
♦
That night I had the opportunity to get out of Jokertown. Sam Altobelli had invited me to a fund-raiser for the police benevolent fund at the Four Seasons. Extra tickets had been purchased by some of Manhattan’s richer citizens, and were to be handed out to “deserving officers.” I didn’t know how deserving I was, but I had a powerful rabbi. I also knew there was no way I could have afforded the two grand.
As I struggled with the cummerbund that went with my rented tux, I wondered if I ought to have refused harder, and not let Sam overrule me. The free tickets should have gone to some long-time veteran, or a person who had done something heroic in the line of duty. But Sam had argued that attractive and educated also counted for a lot, and many of those hoary old veterans sported noses with broken veins from too much booze, or trailed a long tail of citizen complaints. I found that depressing, and wondered if that would be my ultimate fate.
There was the strobe of camera flashes as I walked up the wide staircase toward the Pool Room. I hoped my picture wouldn’t make it into any of the papers. That would make my life pure hell.
The tables had been removed except for a few at the edges of the room to force people to “mingle” around the white marble pool in the center. The glitterati of New York society moved beneath a canopy of seasonally changing trees. They were still the bright green of summer. Conversation bounced off the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, and reduced the small chamber orchestra to a strange hiccup of music that occasionally penetrated the roar. There was the faint odor of too many bodies. I could feel sweat forming under my arms, and I hadn’t even entered the press of people.
I snagged a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, and grabbed a shrimp puff thingee off another tray. It was good champagne and a good shrimp thingee. Then I scanned the crowd for a familiar face. Instead I found myself faced with a man wearing an elaborate gazelle mask. “Francis Xavier Black,” the man said.
“Um, yes … do I know—”
He laughed, a rollicking, deep belly sound. “No, no, but Sam told me about you. Lucas Tate, editor of the Jokertown Cry , and I think you might be worth an article. Son of Famous Captain Returns Home. ” I could hear the capital letters in the headline, and shuddered.
“No, please don’t,” I said faintly.
Tate rolled right over me. “And we’re coming up on the twenty-fourth anniversary of your father’s death. I’ll send someone around. Or, hell, maybe I’ll do it myself.”
“Oh, no, really, please … don’t.”
I heard the mayor’s familiar nasal tones calling out a greeting.
“Lucas, how the hell are you?” They walked away with the mayor’s arm across Tate’s shoulders. “Who do I have to fuck to get your paper to endorse me?”
Eventually Sam found me, and I got introduced to the chief of detectives, the chief of police, and the D.A. for the City of New York. “I hear we lost you to the thin blue line,” she said. “If you ever change your mind, come and see me. I could use somebody who’s actually interacted with the scum.”
I wondered if she’d still feel that way if she talked to the young A.D.A. I’d basically threatened earlier in the day. Then I realized I had an opportunity to do something for Joanie McDermott. “Ma’am,” I began. “There’s this case.”
But her attention was wandering, drawn by a passing congressman. “Excuse me. Don’t worry about the case. We’ll put them away,” she threw over her shoulder as she hurried after power.
“That’s the problem,” I muttered to myself.
♥
Unfortunately Lucas Tate remembered meeting me, and remembered his desire for a story. I demurred. Tate called Sam who called my mother who browbeat me into submission. The story appeared in the Sunday issue of the Cry. My hope was
And I had no answer to that depressing pronouncement.
♦
That night I had the opportunity to get out of Jokertown. Sam Altobelli had invited me to a fund-raiser for the police benevolent fund at the Four Seasons. Extra tickets had been purchased by some of Manhattan’s richer citizens, and were to be handed out to “deserving officers.” I didn’t know how deserving I was, but I had a powerful rabbi. I also knew there was no way I could have afforded the two grand.
As I struggled with the cummerbund that went with my rented tux, I wondered if I ought to have refused harder, and not let Sam overrule me. The free tickets should have gone to some long-time veteran, or a person who had done something heroic in the line of duty. But Sam had argued that attractive and educated also counted for a lot, and many of those hoary old veterans sported noses with broken veins from too much booze, or trailed a long tail of citizen complaints. I found that depressing, and wondered if that would be my ultimate fate.
There was the strobe of camera flashes as I walked up the wide staircase toward the Pool Room. I hoped my picture wouldn’t make it into any of the papers. That would make my life pure hell.
The tables had been removed except for a few at the edges of the room to force people to “mingle” around the white marble pool in the center. The glitterati of New York society moved beneath a canopy of seasonally changing trees. They were still the bright green of summer. Conversation bounced off the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, and reduced the small chamber orchestra to a strange hiccup of music that occasionally penetrated the roar. There was the faint odor of too many bodies. I could feel sweat forming under my arms, and I hadn’t even entered the press of people.
I snagged a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, and grabbed a shrimp puff thingee off another tray. It was good champagne and a good shrimp thingee. Then I scanned the crowd for a familiar face. Instead I found myself faced with a man wearing an elaborate gazelle mask. “Francis Xavier Black,” the man said.
“Um, yes … do I know—”
He laughed, a rollicking, deep belly sound. “No, no, but Sam told me about you. Lucas Tate, editor of the Jokertown Cry , and I think you might be worth an article. Son of Famous Captain Returns Home. ” I could hear the capital letters in the headline, and shuddered.
“No, please don’t,” I said faintly.
Tate rolled right over me. “And we’re coming up on the twenty-fourth anniversary of your father’s death. I’ll send someone around. Or, hell, maybe I’ll do it myself.”
“Oh, no, really, please … don’t.”
I heard the mayor’s familiar nasal tones calling out a greeting.
“Lucas, how the hell are you?” They walked away with the mayor’s arm across Tate’s shoulders. “Who do I have to fuck to get your paper to endorse me?”
Eventually Sam found me, and I got introduced to the chief of detectives, the chief of police, and the D.A. for the City of New York. “I hear we lost you to the thin blue line,” she said. “If you ever change your mind, come and see me. I could use somebody who’s actually interacted with the scum.”
I wondered if she’d still feel that way if she talked to the young A.D.A. I’d basically threatened earlier in the day. Then I realized I had an opportunity to do something for Joanie McDermott. “Ma’am,” I began. “There’s this case.”
But her attention was wandering, drawn by a passing congressman. “Excuse me. Don’t worry about the case. We’ll put them away,” she threw over her shoulder as she hurried after power.
“That’s the problem,” I muttered to myself.
♥
Unfortunately Lucas Tate remembered meeting me, and remembered his desire for a story. I demurred. Tate called Sam who called my mother who browbeat me into submission. The story appeared in the Sunday issue of the Cry. My hope was
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