City Dark(38)

Zochi was about to speak but then clamped down on it. She had some thinking to do about the name thing. Better, for now, to just think.





CHAPTER 32


Bay Thirty-Fourth Street


Bath Beach, Brooklyn

10:50 p.m.

Joe had worked with a couple of people who had kicked heroin over the years. One was a witness in a gang case, the most high-profile one Joe had handled in the Bronx DA’s office. It was a murder-for-hire prosecution, and the nineteen-year-old eyewitness—Hector—had been the bagman between the gang leader and the hitman. Hector was willing to testify, but he had to “kick” first, and Hector was intent on “kicking” in his own way. It was the old-school, neighborhood way.

That process, Joe learned, was a horror in and of itself, and he hadn’t been certain Hector would survive it. Rather than something hospital based and methadone driven, it happened in an abandoned apartment building in the Four-Two Precinct with the doors and windows boarded up. The attending “medical” person was an old woman who sat outside and heard the screams and the curses, and came in to clean up puke and shit and maybe dab a forehead with a wet towel. The old woman was a legend in the South Bronx neighborhood but had no friends. She looked and spoke like a witch, and people stayed away from her. But when it came to kicking, if a person was serious, that person went to her.

Joe’s issue was alcohol, but still he wished he had that woman by his side. He had emptied or broken every liquor, wine, and beer bottle in the house, down to a couple of forgotten bottles of bitters. He had gone down to the boat and done the same thing, pouring anything that was left over the side and into the bay. Some of it, the breaking of whiskey and wine bottles that were collectible, expensive, and—in some cases—of real sentimental value, felt like self-injury. He felt a bad tingling in his hands at times as he poured out the contents and smashed the bottles, sweeping up the glass. His stomach clenched at the thought of it, but now there was nothing to drink in his immediate reach.

The really scary thing was not knowing what came next, after three or four days. He knew you weren’t supposed to think about it that way. One day at a time. It was nearly impossible, though, not to play out a string of them in search of the other side of this, whatever it would be.

Sobriety, goddamn it! Once and for all.

Whatever comes next, it’s got to be that.

That was true. Dry had never been enough; it was time to push back against the ancient juggernaut of drunk logic at last. No more spinning them in his own head, those soothing, serpent-at-the-tree arguments, the kind he could effortlessly shut down if he heard them made in a courtroom.

He thought again about Hector, the skinny, smiling kid who had done what he said he’d do and kicked heroin. Joe never got to meet the witchy woman Hector had gone to, the one he credited with getting him across that miserable first line. But Joe willed that woman to his side now in the form of an angel, a saint, his own dead mother, whatever he could summon. He might end up needing her very much.





CHAPTER 33


Wednesday, July 13, 1977

West Seventy-Ninth Street and Riverside Park

Upper West Side, Manhattan

10:32 p.m.

“W-who are you?” Robbie said. Joe fell behind him. “Why are you in the woods?”

“We’re on a path,” the voice said. Robbie didn’t seem poised to run, so Joe stayed put also. The voice was steadying and reassuring. “It’s okay. There are quite a few paths through here. This is Riverside Park. We’re almost to where you are. Give us a few seconds. We can lead you out.”

Joe saw the dog first. It was a big, dark creature with ears that pointed up. The dog’s eyes were round, bright, and alert, even in the darkness. Joe could make out a harness strapped to the animal, and attached to that was a short leather leash. The leash was wrapped securely around a man’s hand. The man was white and balding with bushy eyebrows and a big nose. He looked a little goofy in a sweaty Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts like Joe and Robbie’s father once wore, and loafers with black socks. He had dark glasses on.

“I’m Bertie,” he said. “This is Penny.” He paused a few feet from the boys. Beside him, the dog sat and stared at them. Joe could see it now, the black path the man was on that led into a wood. “How many of you are there? I heard two of you.”

“Just us two,” Robbie said. “We’re trying to get up to the street.”

“Broadway,” Bertie said. “That’s where the traffic is moving. Yes, it’s your best bet. I can show you out. You boys sound young. Are you lost?”

“Not really,” Robbie said. Joe was terrifically glad he wasn’t having to call the shots about whether to engage with this stranger or run from him like the coughing, screaming thing in the tunnel. The man in front of them seemed okay, though, just a funny-looking older man out for a walk. He was clearly blind; Joe had learned about “Seeing Eye dogs” in school, and this poised, sculpted-looking animal was definitely one of them.

“Is Penny a German shepherd?” Joe asked. He had seen pictures of those in school too. Fearsome, strong-looking dogs.

“Good guess,” Bertie said. “Yes, Penny is a shepherd.” At the sound of her name, Penny looked up at Bertie. Her tail wagged minutely. “She’s sweet, but she can be tough. She takes care of me out here.” Now he tugged on the leash just a tiny bit, toward the top of the hill where the traffic was moving. Instantly, Penny stood and began walking at a relaxed, easy pace along the path. Robbie and Joe looked at each other and then fell in behind the man and the dog. It got darker as trees closed in on the path.