needed a new floor. Plaster work. He was shooting that goddamn M-15, it was a mess.”
Lily looked away: “That’s what they used on Walt. An M-15. A full clip: they emptied a full clip into him. They found pieces of him all over the block.”
“Jesus . . .” Lucas groped for something else to say, but all he could find was, “How about you? Are you okay?”
“Oh, sure,” she said, and fell silent.
“The last time I saw you, you were on a guilt trip about your old man and the kids . . . .”
“That’s not over. The guilt trip. Sometimes I feel so bad I get nauseous,” she said.
“Do you see the kids?”
“Not so much,” she said sadly, looking away from him. “I tried, but it was wrecking all of us. David was always . . . peering at me. And the boys blame me for leaving.”
“Do you want to go back?”
“I don’t love him,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t even like him very much. I look at him now, and it all seems like bullshit, the stuff that comes out of his mouth. And that’s weird, because it used to seem so smart. We’d go to parties and he’d spin up these post-Jungian theories of racism and class struggle, and these phonies wouldstand around with their heads going up and down like they were bobbing for apples. Then I’d go to work and see a report on some twelve-year-old who shot his mom because he wanted to sell the TV to buy crack, and she wouldn’t let him. Then I’d go back home and . . . shit. I couldn’t stand listening to him anymore. How can you live with somebody you can’t stand listening to?”
“It’s hard,” he said. “Being a cop makes it worse. I think that’s why I spent so much time with Jennifer. She was a professional bullshit artist, but basically, she knew what was what. She spent the time on the streets.”
“Yeah . . .”
“So where’re you at?” he asked again.
She looked at him unsteadily, not quite nervous, but apprehensive somehow. “I didn’t want to get into that right away—I wanted to get you committed first. Will you come?”
“Somebody new?” he asked, his voice light.
“Will you come?”
“Maybe . . . so you’ve got someone.”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of? What’s that?” He hopped off the chair and took a turn around the room. He wasn’t angry, he thought, but he looked angry. He reached down and turned on the TV and a tinny, distant voice instantly cried, “Kirrrbeee Puck-it.” He snapped it off again. “What does ‘sort of’ mean? One foot on the floor at all times? Nothing below the waist?”
Lily laughed and said, “You cheer me up, Davenport. You’re so fucking crass . . . .”
“So . . . ?” He went to the window and looked out; the thunderheads were gray, with soaring pink tops, and were bearing down on the line of the river.
She shrugged, looked out the window past him. “So, Iwas seeing a guy. I still am. We hadn’t started looking for an apartment together, but the possibility was out there.”
“What happened?”
“He had a heart attack.”
Lucas looked at her for a minute, then said, “Why does that make perfect sense?”
She forced a smile. “It’s really not very funny, I’m afraid. He’s in terrible shape.”
“He’s a cop?”
“Yeah.” The smile faded. “He’s like you, in some ways. Not physically—he’s tall and thin and white-haired. But he is—was—in intelligence and he loves the streets. He writes articles for the Times op-ed page about the street life. He has the best network of spies in the city. And he has a taste for, mmm . . .” She groped for the right phrase.
“Dark-eyed married women?” Lucas suggested, moving closer.
“Well, that,” she said, the tentative smile returning. “But the thing is, he likes to fight . . . did like to fight. Like you. Now he can’t walk two dozen steps without stopping for a breath.”
“Jesus.” Lucas ran a hand through his hair. He’d had nightmares of being crippled.
Lily looked away: “That’s what they used on Walt. An M-15. A full clip: they emptied a full clip into him. They found pieces of him all over the block.”
“Jesus . . .” Lucas groped for something else to say, but all he could find was, “How about you? Are you okay?”
“Oh, sure,” she said, and fell silent.
“The last time I saw you, you were on a guilt trip about your old man and the kids . . . .”
“That’s not over. The guilt trip. Sometimes I feel so bad I get nauseous,” she said.
“Do you see the kids?”
“Not so much,” she said sadly, looking away from him. “I tried, but it was wrecking all of us. David was always . . . peering at me. And the boys blame me for leaving.”
“Do you want to go back?”
“I don’t love him,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t even like him very much. I look at him now, and it all seems like bullshit, the stuff that comes out of his mouth. And that’s weird, because it used to seem so smart. We’d go to parties and he’d spin up these post-Jungian theories of racism and class struggle, and these phonies wouldstand around with their heads going up and down like they were bobbing for apples. Then I’d go to work and see a report on some twelve-year-old who shot his mom because he wanted to sell the TV to buy crack, and she wouldn’t let him. Then I’d go back home and . . . shit. I couldn’t stand listening to him anymore. How can you live with somebody you can’t stand listening to?”
“It’s hard,” he said. “Being a cop makes it worse. I think that’s why I spent so much time with Jennifer. She was a professional bullshit artist, but basically, she knew what was what. She spent the time on the streets.”
“Yeah . . .”
“So where’re you at?” he asked again.
She looked at him unsteadily, not quite nervous, but apprehensive somehow. “I didn’t want to get into that right away—I wanted to get you committed first. Will you come?”
“Somebody new?” he asked, his voice light.
“Will you come?”
“Maybe . . . so you’ve got someone.”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of? What’s that?” He hopped off the chair and took a turn around the room. He wasn’t angry, he thought, but he looked angry. He reached down and turned on the TV and a tinny, distant voice instantly cried, “Kirrrbeee Puck-it.” He snapped it off again. “What does ‘sort of’ mean? One foot on the floor at all times? Nothing below the waist?”
Lily laughed and said, “You cheer me up, Davenport. You’re so fucking crass . . . .”
“So . . . ?” He went to the window and looked out; the thunderheads were gray, with soaring pink tops, and were bearing down on the line of the river.
She shrugged, looked out the window past him. “So, Iwas seeing a guy. I still am. We hadn’t started looking for an apartment together, but the possibility was out there.”
“What happened?”
“He had a heart attack.”
Lucas looked at her for a minute, then said, “Why does that make perfect sense?”
She forced a smile. “It’s really not very funny, I’m afraid. He’s in terrible shape.”
“He’s a cop?”
“Yeah.” The smile faded. “He’s like you, in some ways. Not physically—he’s tall and thin and white-haired. But he is—was—in intelligence and he loves the streets. He writes articles for the Times op-ed page about the street life. He has the best network of spies in the city. And he has a taste for, mmm . . .” She groped for the right phrase.
“Dark-eyed married women?” Lucas suggested, moving closer.
“Well, that,” she said, the tentative smile returning. “But the thing is, he likes to fight . . . did like to fight. Like you. Now he can’t walk two dozen steps without stopping for a breath.”
“Jesus.” Lucas ran a hand through his hair. He’d had nightmares of being crippled.
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