Long Bright River(73)

—Come on, Mickey, says Truman. He’s a good person. I’ve known him since we were kids.

—How do you know? I say.

He looks at me.

—What are your other options? he says.

—Keep doing it on our own, I say.

—And then what? says Truman. Say you find out who the killer is. What do you, take him out yourself? Go to jail for the rest of your life? No. At a certain point, Mickey, he says.

He trails off.

—You really trust him, I say.

Truman thinks. Then he says, He never cheated at sports.

—Excuse me?

—When we were kids. He never fudged the scores, says Truman. I trust him, he adds, clarifying.

—What about you, I say. Are you sure you want to be linked to this? You might be risking your job. We haven’t exactly been following protocol.

Truman says, Mickey. I’m not going back.

There it is. I’ve been wondering.

—Why not, I say.

—I don’t want to, says Truman plainly. Look. I get along with people. Keep my head down. People like me. It’s too easy, you know? It’s easy to forget that the system isn’t right. I’m not just talking about Philadelphia. I’m not just talking about these particular homicides. I’m talking about the whole thing. The whole system. Too much power in the wrong hands. Everything out of order.

He pauses. Takes a breath.

—I can’t sleep, he says. You know what I mean? People dying. Not just the women. Innocent people. Unarmed people. I can’t sleep.

This is probably the closest Truman will ever come to disclosing his politics.

I’m silent for a while.

—I can get out now, says Truman. Get my pension. Get a different job if I want it. Go to bed at night with an easier mind.

—People are dying, he says again. All over, people are dying.

—I understand, I say.

And, more and more, I agree.





Truman calls Mike DiPaolo while we drive, in my car, to his.

—Got a question for you, says Truman. Probably not something you can get into at work. Can you meet at Duke’s tonight?

Duke’s is a bar in Juniata, near where the two of them grew up. It’s Truman’s favorite—someplace that’s been in the neighborhood for decades. He knows all the bartenders. I’ve only been there once, for Truman’s birthday, with a group of other officers. But never aside from that. It’s not a police hangout, which makes it a good place to meet when one wants to talk shop.

I can’t hear DiPaolo’s reply, but apparently the idea works for him.

—Eight o’clock? says Truman, and then, Good. He hangs up.

—Think you can get there then? he asks me, and I say, I’ll make it work.





Happily, surprisingly, Bethany comes through for me. She can stay late, she says. No problem.

Duke’s, when I arrive, is quiet and uncrowded. Wood-paneled walls, dark lighting, a pool table in the back. It’s one of the few places in Philadelphia where one can still smoke, and although no one is exercising that right at the moment, the place still reeks of stale tobacco.

Truman is sitting in a booth in the corner, away from everyone. DiPaolo hasn’t arrived yet. A Corona is on the table in front of Truman: the only kind of alcohol I have ever seen him drink. The one lowbrow vice he has. He’s almost finished with it. I ask him if he wants another.

—Sure, he says, and at the bar I order two. One for him, one for myself. I have never been a drinker—I suppose when Simon and I were together, I would partake on occasion—and now I try to remember the last time I had anything alcoholic at all. Maybe a year ago. Tonight, it tastes wonderful.

DiPaolo walks in. He’s Truman’s age, early fifties. But while Truman could pass for someone a decade younger than he is, DiPaolo wears his years heavily, and he walks heavily, too. He’s pouchy and tired, perpetually a benevolent crank who, every once in a while, really lets loose. At Truman’s birthday party here, DiPaolo got drunk and set the jukebox to ‘Livin’ on a Prayer,’ by Bon Jovi, and then led everyone in song. I like him.

—Looks like you needed that, he says to me now, gesturing at the Corona, not saying hello.

—I did, I say. Would you like one?

—You’re kidding, he says. What are we, at the beach? Jameson on the rocks, he says to the bartender. And another Corona for the lady. How you doing, Pete.



* * *



—

The three of us settle in: Truman and I on one side of the booth, DiPaolo on the other. Truman thanks DiPaolo for coming, somewhat formally, and DiPaolo grins.

—I know this is gonna be good, he says. What kind of trouble are you two getting into?

Truman glances at me, and I look at DiPaolo for a moment. Too long. The smile on his face fades.

—What? he says.

—Do you know Simon Cleare? I say.

He studies my face before looking down at his Jameson and taking a sip. He doesn’t grimace.

—I do, he says. Yes.

—How well? I say.

DiPaolo shrugs. A little, he says. Met him at some all-bureau meetings. He’s in South, though, he says. So it’s not like I see him every day.

I measure my words. It’s important, I think, to be calm.