(2004) Citizen Vince (10 page)

Vince shakes his hand.

“So did you know the victim? This guy—” He looks up at the sign. “Doug?”

“No,” Vince is more comfortable now lying to this rookie detective. “Just happened to be walking by and saw the cop cars.”

Dupree nods. “Quarter to seven. You’re about the earliest gawker I’ve ever seen, Mr.—”

“I was on my way to breakfast.”

“Yeah? Where you going?”

“Chet’s.”

“Oh, downtown. Yeah, I’ve always seen that place but I’ve never been in there. They got hash browns or home fries there?”

“You know, I’m not sure.”

Dupree laughs. “That’s a long walk, you don’t even know what kind of potatoes you’re getting, Mr.—”

“I like ’em both equally.” Vince looks back inside at the older detectives, who are gesturing behind the counter, presumably toward Doug’s body. “So what happened?”

“In there? No idea. The fellas think robbery.” Dupree sips coffee.

“You don’t think so?”

“There was a robbery all right. But that’s not why he got killed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the guy closes his shop every day at six o’clock, right? But we got the shooting at between midnight and four this morning. Who’s going to think to rob a guy six hours after he normally closes his shop?”

“Maybe it was spur-of-the-moment,” Vince offers. “He surprised a burglar.”

“I guess.” Alan Dupree drinks his coffee. “But if you’re a burglar, would you think you’re going to get anything out of a passport photo shop? After they’re closed? There’s no cash. No stereo equipment. So what—you’re just driving by and you think, Cool, I can steal fake ID? It makes no sense. Unless Doug was into something else—something not on the sign. You see what I mean?”

Vince doesn’t say anything.

“No, I’ll tell you what I think,” Dupree says. “Between you and me?” He leans on the hood of one of the patrol cars and begins blowing on his cold hands. “I think Doug was meeting someone here at midnight. And whoever it was, Doug knew the guy.
Trusted him. A friend. Or an associate. Someone he was working with—and probably not on passports.”

“Why midnight?”

“Last time anyone saw him alive. Wife says he left the house at 11:50.”

Vince stares at the young cop’s face, which is maybe not so young. Jesus. The guy’s playing him. This whole time, the asshole has been interviewing him. Without a lawyer.
Would you come back here…Did you know this guy…earliest gawker I ever seen…long walk, you don’t know what kind of potatoes you’re getting…wife says he left the house at 11:50.

See, the thing is, Doug didn’t have a wife. Ah shit. Vince remembers finding himself in a backyard with a Doberman once. Move slowly. Don’t panic. He sets his face, shakes his head in sympathy. “That’s too bad. Did they have any kids?”

“Four.” Dupree shakes his head sadly.

“No.” Vince covers his mouth and shakes his head. “Four! Jesus, that’s sad.”

Dupree straightens up from the car he was leaning against. Vince swallows. He’s totally screwed this up. Said he didn’t know Doug. And now he’s standing here with ten grand in his pockets outside the business he used to forge credit cards, on the day when the owner of that business has been killed.

Dupree appears ready to ask something else when the door to the passport photo shop opens and a tall, pale cop—older, in walrus mustache and rubber gloves—leans out. “Dupree! What the fuck are you doing out here?”

Dupree turns.

The tall cop steps out in a tight corduroy jacket with elbow patches; looks like an overgrown philosophy professor. “Where’s my coffee?”

“I was…interviewing this witness,” Dupree says.

At the word
witness,
the walrus mutters to himself and comes
outside. “Freezing out here.” The older cop walks right up to Vince, stands only inches from his face. The man is big, maybe six feet three inches tall. His arms are tight in the sleeves of his coat. There is a bit of food—egg?—in his mustache. “I’m Detective Phelps,” he says when he finally reaches Vince. “So why don’t you tell me what you saw, Mr.—”

“Nothing,” Vince says, almost too eagerly. He looks back and forth from one cop to the other. “I didn’t see anything. Like I told Officer Dupree here, I was walking by for breakfast and I saw the cop cars. I don’t know anything about it.”

“Uh-huh.” Phelps continues to stare at Vince for a moment, and then his face reddens and he turns to Dupree. “We prefer our witnesses to have actually witnessed something, Dupree.”

The young cop smiles like someone used to charming his way out of trouble. “Yeah, we hadn’t gotten that far.”

Phelps turns his thick neck back and smiles at Vince. “Officer Dupree is a little excitable. I’m sorry if he wasted your time.”

“No problem.” Vince starts to back away.

Dupree opens his mouth to object, but Phelps is in his face. “The fuck’s my coffee, rook?”

Dupree looks once more at Vince, then reaches back in his car, grabs another cup of coffee, and hands it to Phelps. Vince turns and begins walking.

He’s ten paces away when he hears Dupree call out: “Enjoy your hash browns, Mr.—”

Vince calls over his shoulder: “I will.”

THE DOWNTOWN PAN AM
office opens at nine sharp, and the first customer through the door is a tall, slender guy in black slacks and a red shirt, with buzzed brown hair crew-cut at the barbershop across the street. He runs his fingers over the stubble in the back; he can’t remember when his hair was this short.

The clerk has trouble fitting Vince’s travel needs. He needs to leave today, but he has some things to do, so he wants to go in the afternoon.

“You’d be better off waiting until tomorrow morning,” says the clerk, shrugging in her robin’s-egg poly Pan Am blouse. “That way you won’t have to lay over anywhere.”

“No,” Vince says, “I need to leave today.”

While the clerk works the phone, Vince brushes small brown hairs off his shirt. After some work, they get it: a 4:30
P.M
. flight to Seattle, followed by a 6:20
P.M
. flight to O’Hare. He’ll spend the night there and catch an early flight the next morning. Vince pays in cash, calls for a cab, and then waits inside until it arrives.

“Thanks for traveling Pan Am,” the clerk says as he ducks out the door. “Have a wonderful time in New York.”

VINCE SITS AT
Chet’s Diner, with two stacks of quarters, a pen and a notebook. He finishes his coffee, glances around carefully, grabs one of the stacks, and steps up to the pay phone. He slides them in one at a time, then begins dialing from memory.

“Banks, Murrow, DeVries.” A secretary.

Vince smiles. He writes on the sheet of paper:
Partner
. Benny made partner. No shit. “Benny DeVries please.”

“I’ll see if he’s in.”

The call is transferred. “Benny DeVries.”

Vince feels warmed by the rapid-fire voice. Benny told him once that he actually spoke quickly on purpose, to give his clients a better deal:
billable by the syllable.

“I’m looking for a lawyer who represents reformed gangsters.”

Benny DeVries is uncharacteristically quiet. “Who is this?”

“You don’t know who this is?”

Nothing.

“You represent so many best friends you can’t keep us all straight?”

“Marty? Is that—?”

His old name sounds so strange, Vince almost wonders. “Yeah.”

“Marty! No shit! How the fuck—where are you?”

Vince looks around the quiet coffee shop. “You couldn’t even imagine.”

“No shit? The feds treatin’ you pretty good?”

“Like a king.”

“You staying out of trouble?”

“Same old. I got some stuff.”

“You back in the credit cards?”

“Yeah.”

“Old Plastic Man.”

“And I see you finally got your name on the door.”

Benny laughs. “Yeah. Couple months ago. You believe that? One good thing about doing big criminal cases—you do tend to get your name in the paper.”

“Listen, Benny. I need to ask you something important. Have you heard anything? About me? Maybe someone knows where I am. Wants to collect the money I owe.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m calling. I thought maybe you could reach out to some people—see if anyone is asking about me.”

“Jesus, I wouldn’t know where to start. The crew you testified against…there’s no one left. You heard about Bailey and Crapo, poor fuckers. And Coletti—he’s pissing in a bag somewhere. Lives in Bay Ridge now, in his kid’s old apartment.”

Vince writes
Bay Ridge
on the notebook page.

“All the old guys are dead or busted, Marty. It’s these new, slick guys now, picked up all their habits out of the movies. Honestly?
You could probably hump down Mulberry with your pants at your ankles, nobody’d think a thing.”

Vince chews his thumbnail. It makes no sense. Somebody sent this guy to Spokane. “How’s Tina?” he asks.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean how’s Tina? Does she ever ask about me?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You know she got married, right, Marty?”

Vince stares out the window. He writes on his page:
Married.

“You there?”

“I’m here.”

“It’s been three years, Marty. People move on.”

“Who is he?” Vince asks.

“Her husband? He’s a good guy. Clean. Played on our softball team. That’s how she met him. We went to districts. Almost won the whole thing.”

“What’s he do?”

“Outfield,” Benny says.

“No, asshole. What’s he do for a living?”

“Oh. He’s an air-traffic controller at Kennedy.”

Vince holds the phone away from his head for a few seconds, then puts it back. “Look, Benny. There was this guy from Philly…Ray Something. Stocky, black-haired. A contract guy, real thick-necked type. They brought him in to do Jimmy Plums over some jukeboxes in Queens. Remember that guy?”

“Marty. I do five or six criminal cases a month now. I can’t keep all the guys straight. I can’t even remember which ones owe me money.”

“No, you’d remember this guy. Real hard-ass. Had these big black eyebrows like two mad caterpillars. Called everyone chief.”

“Why’s it so important, this guy?”

“Because…” Vince looks around the diner. “He’s here.”

“What do you mean?”

“He showed up in my town. Tried to take me for a drive last night.”

“A contract guy is there? Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

“What’s he want with you?”

“What do you think he wants? To be my friend?”

“Christ. Are you sure?”

“Benny! The guy tried to take me for a drive!”

“Okay. Well, I can ask around, find out who hired this guy.”

“What’s his name?” Vince asks.

“What’s whose name?”

“The guy Tina married. Your brother-in-law.”

“Oh. Jerry. His name’s Jerry.”

Vince writes on the page:
Jerry.
“What’s his last name?”

“Come on. Don’t do this, Marty.”

“Just tell me her last name.”

Sighs. “McGrath. Jerry and Tina McGrath.”

Vince writes
Tina McGrath
on the page. “They still live in the neighborhood?”

“No. They moved out to Long Island.”

Vince writes
Long Island
on the page. “Thanks, Benny.”

“Look, Marty…”

“I’ll talk to you soon, buddy.” Vince hangs up. Stares at the notebook page:
Partner. Bay Ridge. Married. Jerry. Tina McGrath. Long Island.
Not exactly the information he was looking for…or maybe it was. Vince crumples the page, returns to his table, and stuffs the wad of paper in his empty coffee cup. He looks over at the other stack of quarters on the table, and knows he won’t need them.

VINCE DUCKS THROUGH
a neighbor’s backyard, climbs over the fence, and drops into the window well behind his own house.
When he’s sure it’s empty, Vince uses his elbow to break the window, uses his foot to clear out the glass, and slides into his basement. He steps on the washing machine and hops down, climbs the stairs, and comes out in his kitchen—at least, what’s left of it.

They’ve done a number on the place, cabinets thrown open, food tossed around. His box of dope is gone from under the sink. He expected that. Volcanic ash is everywhere. The little bit of cash he kept in the kitchen is gone. He steps into the living room: magazines and newspapers tossed everywhere. They even tore off the back of his TV. This is why he keeps his money at the donut shop, and why he keeps the mailman’s name, address, and phone number in his head. In the bedroom Vince’s clothes are everywhere, bed tossed, nightstand cleaned out. Vince turns the nightstand over. Taped to the bottom is a worn letter. Every bit of information on the envelope has been cut out by an FBI censor, except the name of the person who mailed it:
Tina DeVries
. Vince always meant to answer the letter, but he didn’t know what to say. He sets the letter on the nightstand and sits on his bed, looking around at the piles of clothes.

Finally he stands and starts packing his duffel. He is pulling the zipper on the bag when the doorbell rings. Jesus. This day. He looks around. He takes the manila envelope with the ten grand in it and stuffs it in his duffel. Then he reaches for the narrow, eight-inch section of pipe that he used to scare the poor kid in the Impala. He looks through the front window and sees a tall woman at the door, holding a handful of brochures and wearing a button that reads:
Anderson for President.

Vince opens the front door a crack. The woman is professional looking, tall and blond, with big round glasses and horse teeth.

“Hello, sir. Shirley Stafford. I’m canvassing for John Anderson for President. I was wondering if I could talk to you.”

“I’m in kind of a hurry,” Vince says.

“I understand. Are you a member of one of the two political parties, Mr.—”

“Camden. No, I’m not a member of either party.”

“And are you a registered voter, Mr. Camden?”

“Yes.”

“And would you classify yourself as undecided at this point?”

Vince opens the door wider. “Matter of fact, I am undecided.”