The middle of the night has its own song and it's not one I like to hear. In that deep silence, all your ghosts gather in a Greek chorus and each voice is brutally clear. Why haven't you? solos one. Why did you? People think you're a fool. You're getting old. You haven't done it. You never will.
Years ago I went to an analyst who told me not to worry, everything flows, nothing remains. If you don't like it today, tomorrow will be different. I laughed in his face and said, wrong – everything sticks. These big fat bugs of memory and loss stick to us, some dead, most still very much alive, buzzing and squirming.
The silence was getting too loud. It was a nice night, so I decided to put on a robe and go sit in the backyard.
Why didn't it surprise me that Veronica was out there? Why did I do only a small double take, then walk over and lower myself tiredly onto the lawn chair next to hers?
"Did you call from your cellular phone?"
"Yes. I've been sitting here a long time, trying to get up the courage to call."
"What if I hadn't come out?"
"I would have stayed here awhile and then gone away."
"What do you want from me, Veronica?"
"I want the same thing Pauline wanted! I want to live ten lives at once. I've tried to do that, and I've tried to do it right, not hurt people, but –" And then she wept. It went on and on. She cried until she was gasping for breath, like a child who knows it's no use crying anymore because nothing will change.
I was thunderstruck. Why hadn't I realized it before? Veronica was Pauline! A grown-up, electrifying, confused woman with so much to offer but who kept putting it in the wrong places. How often had I yearned to know what Pauline Ostrova would have been like if she'd lived. Here she was a foot away, crying herself inside out.
I went over and, kneeling down in front of her, put my head on her knee. She put a hand on the back of my head and we stayed that way some time.
"I'm cold. I'm going into the house. Would you like to come?"
She looked at me with hope. I hesitated before smiling and nodding as if to say, yes, that's what I mean.
We stood up together. I started for the house but she stopped me. "I have something for you. It was going to be a surprise, but . . ." She reached into her pocket and took out a piece of paper. "This is the phone number of a man named Bradley Erskine. He's one of the men who shot Gordon Cadmus."
"How did you find him?"
"I did a lot of homework and called in a lot of favors. He said he would talk to you, but he'll arrange it. Just call that number."
"I don't know what to say. Thank you."
She waited for me to move. I took her hand and we went back into the house.
I called the number, half-expecting it to be a phony. The voice said to leave a message. I did and two days later a woman called back. There was a phone booth on the corner of Fifty-eighth Street and Lexington Avenue in the city. I was to be there at five o'clock the next day. Don't bring anyone, don't carry anything, just be there.
When I arrived, someone was in the booth using the phone. I tried to bribe him out but he told me to fuck off. At 5:07 he hung up and walked off wearing a spiteful smile. I waited another half hour but nothing happened. I called the Erskine number again and left a message, saying I was at the booth and would wait another half hour. Nothing.
Another week passed while I fumed and tried to work on the book. I didn't tell anyone about Bradley Erskine because I was afraid McCabe or Durant might do something that would ruin it.
The woman called back and said I was to be at the booth again the next day, same time. When I got there it was empty and the phone was ringing. I snatched it up. The woman said only, "Subway station, Seventy-second Street and Central Park West in half an hour."
Once there, I didn't know if I should wait outside or go in. I went in, paid my fare and sat down on a bench. Several trains came and went. I was looking the other way when he sat down next to me.
"Ask away."
He was in his fifties. Short-cropped black hair, a face that could be described only as soft and pleasant. There was a slight sheen to it, as if he was sweating or had just applied cream.
I didn't know whether to shake his hand, but since he didn't offer, I didn't try. But I couldn't resist looking at his hands. He was the first murderer I'd ever met and I wanted to remember as much as I could. Fat hands. Pudgy fat hands.
"Mr. Erskine?"
"Mr. Bayer?" He smiled and winked.
"My friend told me you know something about the death of Gordon Cadmus."
"I do. I had a ringside seat. Do you mind?" He reached over and tore open my shirt. I was so shocked I didn't move. He pulled so hard that two buttons flew off and rolled down the platform. His face was impassive. Leaning over, he looked down the open shirt.
"Gotta be careful. Don't want you wired or anything. So, okay: Gordon Cadmus. Whaddya want to know?"
"You were involved?"
"Yep. I was the second coat from the left." He cracked up and laughed so hard that tears filled his eyes. Then he repeated the line as if it was too good to lose. When he was done, he sighed. "You're not even gonna ask why I'm talkin' to you?"
"Well yes."
"Because I need the money. Don't we all? Your girlfriend paid me half up front and the other half after we talk."
"She gave you money?"
"Hell yes! Twenty-five hundred now, twenty-five hundred after."
"Jesus! Five thousand dollars?"
"You didn't know? Nice girlfriend you got. So yeah, I was there."
"Who ordered it?"
He looked at the ceiling. The thunder of an approaching train got louder. "If I said the name it wouldn't ring a bell."
"Say it anyway."
"Herman Ranftl. But the rumor was the order came from the mysterious East, you know what I mean? Ranftl just set it up for some warlord or something in Burma. Cadmus and those other guys were messing around with smack importers. I guess they stuck their hands too far into the cookie jar. Fortune cookies!" He laughed again, delighted with his own wit.
"What happened to the other man you were with?"
"He got colon cancer. Nice way to go, huh? First they give you a bag for your shit, then you're in a bag and all you are is shit.
"You know your girlfriend? How the hell'd she find me? I mean, it's not easy, you know? She just waltzed in and said, hey, can we talk? Very gutsy. I like that in a woman."
Cass had given me Ivan's number weeks before. I called and asked how good a hacker he was. He said the best. I asked him to find out whatever he could about Herman Ranftl and Bradley Erskine. I gave him all the details I had but insisted he not tell Cass anything. Good man that he was, he didn't ask any questions other than what was relevant to his search.
I went back to Crane's View to talk with Mrs. Ostrova again and to read some pertinent police transcripts at the station. I called Frannie to say I was coming. He wasn't in when I arrived, but he had left a note on the front door telling me to keep dinner free. He had a video of the new Wallace and Gromit film (an addiction we shared) and it was time to eat some steaks together.
The phone in the car rang as I was driving down Main Street. It was Edward Durant. He was entering the hospital for a few days and wanted me to have his telephone number there just in case. He asked if there were any new developments. Instead of answering, I asked if he'd ever heard of a man named Herman Ranftl.
"Sure I knew Herman. He was a big Macher for years. Used to go to Giants games with Albert Anastasia. Ranftl ordered the deaths ot Gordon Cadmus and the other two. Died in his sleep a few years ago in Palm Springs. A happy old man."