City Dark(72)

“Joe told me some details,” she said. “It sounds very frightening, being left in the city on your own. Especially then, and in a blackout.”

“We did okay,” he said. “She ditched us, and we still did okay on our own.”

“Not completely on your own, though, right?” she said. She saw him stiffen. He drew hard on the cigarette. “You had help at some point, right? Joe mentioned someone.”

“Who, my uncle Mike?”

“Well, yes, but before that. A friend of your uncle’s. A man named Nate. He was able to help you, right?”

Robbie opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again. The emotion that spread across his face was one of pure hate, she was certain of it. “Nate was . . .” He trailed off but then seemed to collect himself. “Nate was some guy my uncle knew. He was in the city. He helped Joe, maybe. He didn’t help me. We split up, like I said. I got here on my own.”

“I understood that also,” Aideen said. She was a little nervous; the man next to her suddenly seemed like an overinflated tire about to explode. She glanced around. It was almost full dark, but there were plenty of cars still in the parking lot and some foot traffic on the grounds. “I guess what I’m asking is, can you explain that to me? What happened between you, Joe, and Nate?”

He flicked the cigarette away and glared at her, his little eyes like lasers. “No, lady, I can’t. How about that?” He stood up, and she set her pen down. “How about none of this shit matters? How about—sorry, but how about fuck you—and you get out of my face?” He seemed to catch himself then and walked back into the building.





CHAPTER 58


July 14, 1977

Forty-Seventh Street and Eighth Avenue

Midtown Manhattan

12:22 a.m.

“Who is Nate?” Joe asked. They were roughly following Uncle Mike’s directions, which were to stay along Broadway as they walked south, since there was likely to be more car and foot traffic. The place where Nate was to meet them was near the Port Authority Bus Terminal, just off Eighth Avenue on Forty-Third Street. When they were near Times Square, they were to look for a safe street to move from Broadway over to Eighth Avenue and then follow it south against the traffic to Forty-Third. There was a coffee shop near the corner where Nate would meet them.

“He’s a friend of Uncle Mike’s, I guess,” Robbie said. “Probably a queer too.”

“Will he help us find Mom?”

“Stop asking about Mom.” Robbie’s voice was cold and flat. Joe sniffed, and Robbie looked over like Joe was about to throw up on the living room rug. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t,” Robbie said. “We need to look cool, okay? We need to look in control.” Joe nodded and wiped his eyes. He had taken to counting pizza places. Four so far since Seventy-Second Street, all with guys in aprons standing out front, talking to passersby. One pizza maker with a flashlight was simultaneously illuminating and giving the finger to a huge rectangular sign above his store that said REELECT MAYOR BEAME.

It turned out that Broadway wasn’t very easy to follow. A few blocks south of Seventy-Second Street was Lincoln Center. The wide plaza and quiet fountain in front were surrounded by well-dressed grown-ups who smoked in the dark and tried to hail taxicabs. There was another weirdly shaped intersection at Sixty-Fifth Street. The darkness made it difficult to determine which corridor to follow. Absent headlights, they were left navigating vague spaces between buildings and tended to move in the direction of more activity if it didn’t seem threatening.

That was a gamble also. Some groups were laughing and chattering until Joe and Robbie passed by, then became eerily quiet. When that happened, Joe felt his breath catch in his throat. They would hear the occasional taunt, but so far no one had pursued them. Once, just north of Columbus Circle, they passed a rowdy group of boys who threw insults at them and then a bottle that shattered just behind Joe’s heel as they quickened their pace.

Things got less scary as they reached Fifty-Eighth Street and moved south toward Times Square. There was more car traffic, so more ambient light and more people on the street. Many looked cheerful, sweaty, and a little drunk. Broadway had narrowed to one lane, and bars and restaurants on either side had open doors and candles burning inside. People were dressed better than the shadowy figures they had seen earlier. Many men were in loosened ties and damp dress shirts. Women had their hair tied up and patted their necks with handkerchiefs.

The activity increased as Joe spied the sign for Fiftieth Street and declared they had advanced another ten blocks. Now they were dodging people on the sidewalk, including an increasing number of shady guys making “psst” sounds and flashing things for sale. Across the street at Forty-Eighth was a massive video store—the word “video” and silhouetted graphics of men and women in sex positions were unmistakable even in the dark—with a crowd milling around in front.

At Forty-Seventh Street, Robbie looked to the right and decided to walk west to Eighth Avenue. People were plentiful, including a raucous crowd singing and carousing below a cluster of garish theater and marquee signs. The only one Joe could read in the gloom was tall and rectangular with Oh! Calcutta! in cursive, which meant nothing to him. Along the street were other theaters, including some that looked like they probably showed dirty movies, and several cramped-looking bars. Westbound vehicles lit their path; there was a general flow of foot traffic going the same way.