Read Online Innocent Monster by Reed Farrel Coleman - Free Book Online
Authors: Reed Farrel Coleman
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the door seemed to rouse anyone’s attention, so I rapped hard on the glass with my good hand. That stirred the beast. A security guard who looked like an escapee from the Arnold Schwarzenegger School of Acting loomed before me. He was dressed in a neat blue blazer, gray slacks, and shiny black shoes. His impassive white face looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place it. He pointed a huge index finger at the intercom to the left of the door.
“Are you a town resident, sir?” he asked, his deep voice only adding to his already serious intimidation factor.
I pressed the talk button. “No.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“An appointment? No. This is a public museum, right?”
“Yes, sir, but to town residents only at this hour. Non-residents do need an appointment before noon.” He had a bit of southern cooking in his voice, southern Brooklyn.
“I’m here to see Wallace Rusk, not the art.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“You’re kidding me, right? Don’t you have any other lines in this play?”
“Excuse me, sir, but do you have an appointment?”
I thought I saw the corner of his lip curl up a little.
“Funny man, huh?” I reached into my back pocket and did something that was either going to get me a face to face with Rusk or arrested... maybe both. I clanked my old NYPD badge hard against the door glass. “That’s my appointment, motherfucker. Now open the fucking door!”
His face remained impassive, but he unlocked the door and held it open for me ever so politely.
“Sorry,” he said, “just doing my job, you know?”
I didn’t push it. First, because he was right. Second, because I didn’t want him to take a closer look at my tin.
“Forget it.”
“I’ll get Mr. Rusk for you. What’s your name, Officer?”
“Prager, but I’d rather go surprise him.”
“He’s not gonna like that.”
“Too fucking bad.”
“Hey, I need this job and trust me, that man’ll can my ass if you go in unannounced.”
Then it hit me. “You’re Jimmy Palumbo, offensive tackle out of Rutgers,” I said, snapping my fingers. “The Jets drafted you third round ten years ago, right?”
But instead of smiling, the big man’s expression turned sour. “Eleven years ago. Might as well have been a million.”
“You went to New Utrecht High, right?”
“Lafayette.”
“I went to Lincoln when Lafayette was our big rival... a long time before you went to school. Really rare for a local guy to make it in the NFL.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You fucked up your knees, didn’t you?”
That didn’t improve his mood any. “Both of ‘em, yeah. You got a good memory for bad things, Officer.”
I rolled up my pants and showed him the maze of scars that covered my knee. I would have also showed him the scars on my ankle, but that was a road better left untraveled. Besides, these days, I only limped on the inside.
“Holy shit!”
“No arthroscopic surgery when I went down,” I said. “They used to cut you open like a fish and see what they could see. I had three surgeries, four weeks of PT with each one, and a pain script.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Me too. So why you working this gig?”
“Divorce,” he said as if it explained everything.
Maybe it did. My two trips down that path had been amicable, but that was more rare than you might think. Some of the work we did at Prager & Melendez had been for divorce lawyers. We didn’t handle the slimy end of things. We didn’t videotape or tap phones or entrap spouses out for the night with the boys or girls. No, we were usually hired after the papers were served, when motel bills, fancy gift receipts, and hidden assets needed to be tracked down. Divorce tended to get ugly and very expensive, emotionally and financially, for everyone involved.
“Kids?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Twin girls. The bitch moved ‘em out of state. Like cutting the heart right outta me, taking them from me that way. Things are a
“Are you a town resident, sir?” he asked, his deep voice only adding to his already serious intimidation factor.
I pressed the talk button. “No.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“An appointment? No. This is a public museum, right?”
“Yes, sir, but to town residents only at this hour. Non-residents do need an appointment before noon.” He had a bit of southern cooking in his voice, southern Brooklyn.
“I’m here to see Wallace Rusk, not the art.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“You’re kidding me, right? Don’t you have any other lines in this play?”
“Excuse me, sir, but do you have an appointment?”
I thought I saw the corner of his lip curl up a little.
“Funny man, huh?” I reached into my back pocket and did something that was either going to get me a face to face with Rusk or arrested... maybe both. I clanked my old NYPD badge hard against the door glass. “That’s my appointment, motherfucker. Now open the fucking door!”
His face remained impassive, but he unlocked the door and held it open for me ever so politely.
“Sorry,” he said, “just doing my job, you know?”
I didn’t push it. First, because he was right. Second, because I didn’t want him to take a closer look at my tin.
“Forget it.”
“I’ll get Mr. Rusk for you. What’s your name, Officer?”
“Prager, but I’d rather go surprise him.”
“He’s not gonna like that.”
“Too fucking bad.”
“Hey, I need this job and trust me, that man’ll can my ass if you go in unannounced.”
Then it hit me. “You’re Jimmy Palumbo, offensive tackle out of Rutgers,” I said, snapping my fingers. “The Jets drafted you third round ten years ago, right?”
But instead of smiling, the big man’s expression turned sour. “Eleven years ago. Might as well have been a million.”
“You went to New Utrecht High, right?”
“Lafayette.”
“I went to Lincoln when Lafayette was our big rival... a long time before you went to school. Really rare for a local guy to make it in the NFL.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You fucked up your knees, didn’t you?”
That didn’t improve his mood any. “Both of ‘em, yeah. You got a good memory for bad things, Officer.”
I rolled up my pants and showed him the maze of scars that covered my knee. I would have also showed him the scars on my ankle, but that was a road better left untraveled. Besides, these days, I only limped on the inside.
“Holy shit!”
“No arthroscopic surgery when I went down,” I said. “They used to cut you open like a fish and see what they could see. I had three surgeries, four weeks of PT with each one, and a pain script.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Me too. So why you working this gig?”
“Divorce,” he said as if it explained everything.
Maybe it did. My two trips down that path had been amicable, but that was more rare than you might think. Some of the work we did at Prager & Melendez had been for divorce lawyers. We didn’t handle the slimy end of things. We didn’t videotape or tap phones or entrap spouses out for the night with the boys or girls. No, we were usually hired after the papers were served, when motel bills, fancy gift receipts, and hidden assets needed to be tracked down. Divorce tended to get ugly and very expensive, emotionally and financially, for everyone involved.
“Kids?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Twin girls. The bitch moved ‘em out of state. Like cutting the heart right outta me, taking them from me that way. Things are a
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