Long Bright River(35)
—You know, he says, I think I do know you.
—Do you, I say.
—Yes, he says. I think I do.
The officer leading him looks at me questioningly, wondering if he should yank this idiot down the hall and away from me.
—Give me a hint, I say. I try to include in my voice a certain sardonic inflection, but I am afraid it comes out quite differently.
The man smiles again. His name is Robert Mulvey, Jr. Earlier, he had refused to produce an ID. Officer Peters learned his name from his wife.
For a long while, he says nothing.
Then he says, I don’t feel like it.
Before he’s finished speaking, the officer at his elbow jerks him violently away.
A good officer never allows her emotions to rule. She should strive to be as impartial as a judge, as withholding as a priest. I am disappointed, therefore, when I find it hard to shake the sense of unease that settles onto me after my encounter with Robert Mulvey, Jr. I picture his face, his very light eyes, his smile, for the rest of my shift, which is busier than I thought it would be when I saw the weather forecast.
Normally, when it’s this cold outside, people stay home.
After escorting Mulvey to the station, I respond to a call about a hit-and-run on Spring Garden, and there I find a wounded cyclist on the ground, a small crowd gathered around him.
The day goes on like this. An hour before I’m due to be back at Mr. Wright’s, I intentionally slow my response to calls.
At 2:15, I park on the street near Alonzo’s, a few blocks from Mr. Wright’s store.
Don’t wear your uniform: Mr. Wright’s only instructions to me. But this is easier said than done. I can’t exactly go back to the station and change into my civilian attire in the middle of a shift.
I decide, instead, to buy something to wear in the dollar store down the block.
Before I get out of the car, I contemplate my radio and my weapon. If I bring them, what’s the point of changing into civilian clothes? If I leave the radio in the car, I’ll risk missing something important, a priority call, which could get me in serious trouble. I have never, in all my years on the force, been separated from my radio during a shift.
In the end, I decide to leave it. For no particularly logical reason, I put it in the trunk. It just feels safer there, out of sight.
* * *
—
I scan the racks in the dollar store for anything at all to buy. One aisle has giant black T-shirts hanging next to men’s black sweatpants. I’ll be swimming in them, but I buy them anyway, and walk down the block toward Alonzo’s, and ask to use the bathroom.
—No problem, he says, as always. When I emerge from it, dressed in my dollar-store purchases, my uniform now in the bag they came in, he looks at me twice.
—Alonzo, I say, I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor. Is there any chance I could leave this bag here briefly?
—No problem, he says again.
I hesitate, and then leave a ten-dollar bill on the counter for him.
He tries to push it back to me, but I don’t pick it up.
—A tip, I say.
* * *
—
It’s eighteen degrees out. In any other neighborhood I would look ridiculous running the several blocks to Mr. Wright’s store in a T-shirt. Here, no one blinks.
When I arrive at Mr. Wright’s at 2:40, I open the door, grateful for the warmth inside. A little bell rings. No one seems to be there.
I stand there silently for a while, until I hear the soft closing of a door from the rear of the store.
Mr. Wright eventually emerges from an aisle, ducking around a stack of hula-hoops to do so.
He looks at me but says nothing, and for a moment I wonder whether he even recognizes me, whether he remembers me from this morning.
He takes his time returning to his place behind the register, lowers himself painfully onto a high stool.
Finally, he speaks. Not here yet, is what he says.
—Dock isn’t? I say.
He says, Now who do you think I’m talking about?
—All right, I say. I’m not certain, now, how to proceed.
I look at my watch. It’s 2:50 now. I’m risking my job, I believe, to be here, out of uniform, apart from my radio. I wonder if I can blame it on a malfunction if it comes to that.
—May I ask you something? I say to Mr. Wright.
—You can ask me anything you want to, says Mr. Wright. I might not answer.
But for the first time there is a twinkle in his eye.
—Does this person come in every day? How certain are you that— The door opens then, and Mr. Wright raises his eyebrows and tilts his chin, very subtly, toward the man who comes through it.
I turn.
The man is my height, maybe, and skinny. I recognize him from the picture I saw on Facebook. He wears a bright orange jacket, zipped tight, and jeans. His hair is chin length now, and so unwashed that it’s difficult to ascertain its natural color. Light brown, most likely. He’s very handsome. Heroin does a lot of things to a body, but one thing it can do is streamline it, knock off weight, make the features stand out sharply in the absence of flesh. Bright eyes, wet eyes, a rush of blood to the face that alters its color.
The man says nothing, but eyes me sideways as he walks over to Mr. Wright at the counter.