sister.”
“Fuck you, Novell.”
“No. You’re the one who’s fucked.”
Novell watched Ryan cradle inward to absorb the impact of his words. He swallowed the second scotch and poured himself a third.
13
D anny knelt on his office floor and combed through the debris. It was after three. Maybe he couldn’t face bed tonight.
Danny shuddered. He salvaged his Pulitzer from its broken frame. He’d been twenty-four years old and got it for local beat reporting. The ongoing investigation of the Sandman. His father’s last case.
The Sandman killings. Over a period of ten months, the cops had found twenty-two teenage girls strangled with red ribbons in the Northern Liberties section of the city, and the strangulation had been the kindest thing done to them. Tortured over days and partially skinned, none of the girls had ever been identified.
The lost girls. Who wept for the lost?
His life had changed after that case. He’d become a star in Andy Cohen’s universe, while his father had fallen into the abyss.
His father had brought down the Sandman, a derelict named Paulie Ritter, and then resigned. He had walked away after forty-two years on the job without an explanation and had gone back to their house in South Philly.
When Danny had tried to talk to him, the old man had told him to get lost.
“Give it up, you fucking vulture. I’m done. I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Don’t you want to tell your story?”
The old man’s face had flushed crimson. “You don’t give a shit about my story. You want to make a name for yourself. This is how you get your pound of flesh.” Swaying from side to side, his father had stood in the middle of Third Street. He’d needed a shave, and his shirt was splotched with grease stains. “Stay away from me. Go suck up to that Jew and his cokehead friends you like so much. You make me sick just to look at you.”
By then Danny had learned not to show weakness in front of his father. “So you’re going to go crawl into a bottle and die? That’s fitting.”
The old man had spat in the street. “I am dead, boy. Can’t you hear the banshee wailing? Don’t come back.”
Danny pressed his hands against his forehead. His right eye socket ached as if he’d been punched. Growing up, he’d learned how to take a punch. No choice there. He was the youngest, the runt of the litter.
He pulled out the black-and-white card. It was clearly a membership to a club of some kind. Now he needed to find the club. He turned the card over and stared at the red teardrop. On closer examination, it could have been a flame.
Under the Pulitzer was a broken frame with a picture of Conor staring out. Danny lifted it carefully and carried it back to his desk.
Often at night while working, he’d look up to find Conor standing in the doorway, his left hand stuck in the front of his pajama bottoms and his right hand clutching his blue lightsaber.
“There’s a monster in my closet, Daddy,” Conor would say. “I can’t go to sleep.”
It didn’t matter how many nightlights he’d bought or how many times he’d checked the closet; Danny would end up lying on the bed that always seemed a little too narrow and holding Conor until they both drifted off to sleep. He’d wake up at three in the morning with Conor’s hands twisted in his shirt and a light saber jabbing his gut, and he’d wonder why the monster couldn’t take a night off.
Danny ran his fingers over the edge of Conor’s picture. Now he had the king-size bed to himself and would give everything to feel the weight of his son’s head against his chest again, to untangle those palms from his shirt and breathe in the light sweat and shampoo smell that was Conor.
He draped Beowulf’s tags over the picture.
Before he had a wife and son, Danny had Beowulf. He’d rescued him from a dumpster, a mass of sores and cuts, and Wolf had repaid him with unquestioning love and devotion. Danny picked up a crystal paperweight Beth had given
“Fuck you, Novell.”
“No. You’re the one who’s fucked.”
Novell watched Ryan cradle inward to absorb the impact of his words. He swallowed the second scotch and poured himself a third.
13
D anny knelt on his office floor and combed through the debris. It was after three. Maybe he couldn’t face bed tonight.
Danny shuddered. He salvaged his Pulitzer from its broken frame. He’d been twenty-four years old and got it for local beat reporting. The ongoing investigation of the Sandman. His father’s last case.
The Sandman killings. Over a period of ten months, the cops had found twenty-two teenage girls strangled with red ribbons in the Northern Liberties section of the city, and the strangulation had been the kindest thing done to them. Tortured over days and partially skinned, none of the girls had ever been identified.
The lost girls. Who wept for the lost?
His life had changed after that case. He’d become a star in Andy Cohen’s universe, while his father had fallen into the abyss.
His father had brought down the Sandman, a derelict named Paulie Ritter, and then resigned. He had walked away after forty-two years on the job without an explanation and had gone back to their house in South Philly.
When Danny had tried to talk to him, the old man had told him to get lost.
“Give it up, you fucking vulture. I’m done. I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Don’t you want to tell your story?”
The old man’s face had flushed crimson. “You don’t give a shit about my story. You want to make a name for yourself. This is how you get your pound of flesh.” Swaying from side to side, his father had stood in the middle of Third Street. He’d needed a shave, and his shirt was splotched with grease stains. “Stay away from me. Go suck up to that Jew and his cokehead friends you like so much. You make me sick just to look at you.”
By then Danny had learned not to show weakness in front of his father. “So you’re going to go crawl into a bottle and die? That’s fitting.”
The old man had spat in the street. “I am dead, boy. Can’t you hear the banshee wailing? Don’t come back.”
Danny pressed his hands against his forehead. His right eye socket ached as if he’d been punched. Growing up, he’d learned how to take a punch. No choice there. He was the youngest, the runt of the litter.
He pulled out the black-and-white card. It was clearly a membership to a club of some kind. Now he needed to find the club. He turned the card over and stared at the red teardrop. On closer examination, it could have been a flame.
Under the Pulitzer was a broken frame with a picture of Conor staring out. Danny lifted it carefully and carried it back to his desk.
Often at night while working, he’d look up to find Conor standing in the doorway, his left hand stuck in the front of his pajama bottoms and his right hand clutching his blue lightsaber.
“There’s a monster in my closet, Daddy,” Conor would say. “I can’t go to sleep.”
It didn’t matter how many nightlights he’d bought or how many times he’d checked the closet; Danny would end up lying on the bed that always seemed a little too narrow and holding Conor until they both drifted off to sleep. He’d wake up at three in the morning with Conor’s hands twisted in his shirt and a light saber jabbing his gut, and he’d wonder why the monster couldn’t take a night off.
Danny ran his fingers over the edge of Conor’s picture. Now he had the king-size bed to himself and would give everything to feel the weight of his son’s head against his chest again, to untangle those palms from his shirt and breathe in the light sweat and shampoo smell that was Conor.
He draped Beowulf’s tags over the picture.
Before he had a wife and son, Danny had Beowulf. He’d rescued him from a dumpster, a mass of sores and cuts, and Wolf had repaid him with unquestioning love and devotion. Danny picked up a crystal paperweight Beth had given
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