Free Innocent Monster by Reed Farrel Coleman Page A
Authors: Reed Farrel Coleman
conspiratorially. “The truth?”
“Nothing but.”
“I think she’s hoping he drops dead. Then his new crap becomes valuable crap and his old crap becomes extremely valuable crap.”
“Why?”
“Because if he’s dead, he won’t be able to produce any more crap. They’ll do retrospectives and the critics will reevaluate him and he’ll become in death what he wasn’t in life. Nothing like a little death to raise your profile in the art world.”
“But what makes the gallery owner so hopeful about Martyr kicking?”
“His habit.”
“Heroin?”
“Yep.”
“Bad?”
“He’s the man on the monkey’s back, not the other way around.” She frowned. “Damn. I don’t suppose I should have told that to a cop.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’m not interested. Do you have an address for him?”
She hesitated. I didn’t jump on her. If she needed a push, I knew how I’d push, but bullying wasn’t the way to go.
“Swear to me it’s not about the drugs,” she said, flicking a Rolodex card with her fingers.
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Here.”
I wrote the salient information down and thanked her. She smiled that smile at me again, only this time her intentions were a little more obvious.
“You’ve got a beautiful smile, but I’m old enough to be your father.”
“I love my father.”
“He’s a lucky man. Bye, Lenya.”
Given what Rusk and Lenya told me, I half expected Nathan Martyr to be living down a rat hole and sleeping on a bed of used needles. Some rat hole! The address Lenya gave me turned out to be a converted factory building in DUMBO—Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass—not more than a ten-minute walk from Bordeaux In Brooklyn. The bricks had been repointed and the terra cotta work around the huge arched windows had been beautifully restored. Anyone living above the fifth floor would have spectacular views in any direction.
The doorman was an ex-cop. I didn’t recognize him by face, but by attitude. He gave me the you’re-not-getting-past-me stare when I came through the wrought iron and glass entrance. His “Can I help you, chief?” sounded more like a threat than a question. I guess if I lived in this joint and shelled out what the residents paid for the pleasure, I’d want this guy as my gatekeeper too. But from where I stood, he was just an annoyance, an obstacle to get around that wasn’t going to make it easy for me.
“Relax,” I said. “I used to be on the job too.”
There were two ways he could go with that. Either he would give up the hard-ass stare and ask me about where I’d served and how long ago and who did I know that he knew, or he’d harden and get defensive. I hoped for the former, but was betting on the latter. I wasn’t wrong.
“Yeah, you and thousands of other guys,” he said. “If I got a stiffy every time an ex-cop stepped through that door, I wouldn’t need Viagra. Whatchu want?”
I learned a long time ago, before I ever got on the cops, that backing down to a guy like this was a big mistake. I met a hundred guys like this prick when I was on the job. Some people become cops because it’s in their blood. Some, like me, stumble into it. Then there are assholes that want the gun and badge, guys who want the power of the state to sanctify their bullying. Bullies are bullies, in uniform or out. Truth be told, I hated the bullies much more than the people I arrested.
“Take it down a notch on the heavy routine,” I said, staring back at him with unfriendly eyes. “I’m here to see Nathan Martyr, 6E.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Not unless he reads minds.”
“Name?”
“Moe Prager.”
“What should I tell him this is about?” the doorman asked, his tone a tad more mellow.
“Sashi Bluntstone.”
“The missing kid?”
“Yeah, her. I’m working for the parents.”
“I already talked to the Nassau cops,” he said. “He was here the day the kid disappeared. They got my statement.”
Okay, that
“Nothing but.”
“I think she’s hoping he drops dead. Then his new crap becomes valuable crap and his old crap becomes extremely valuable crap.”
“Why?”
“Because if he’s dead, he won’t be able to produce any more crap. They’ll do retrospectives and the critics will reevaluate him and he’ll become in death what he wasn’t in life. Nothing like a little death to raise your profile in the art world.”
“But what makes the gallery owner so hopeful about Martyr kicking?”
“His habit.”
“Heroin?”
“Yep.”
“Bad?”
“He’s the man on the monkey’s back, not the other way around.” She frowned. “Damn. I don’t suppose I should have told that to a cop.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’m not interested. Do you have an address for him?”
She hesitated. I didn’t jump on her. If she needed a push, I knew how I’d push, but bullying wasn’t the way to go.
“Swear to me it’s not about the drugs,” she said, flicking a Rolodex card with her fingers.
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Here.”
I wrote the salient information down and thanked her. She smiled that smile at me again, only this time her intentions were a little more obvious.
“You’ve got a beautiful smile, but I’m old enough to be your father.”
“I love my father.”
“He’s a lucky man. Bye, Lenya.”
Given what Rusk and Lenya told me, I half expected Nathan Martyr to be living down a rat hole and sleeping on a bed of used needles. Some rat hole! The address Lenya gave me turned out to be a converted factory building in DUMBO—Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass—not more than a ten-minute walk from Bordeaux In Brooklyn. The bricks had been repointed and the terra cotta work around the huge arched windows had been beautifully restored. Anyone living above the fifth floor would have spectacular views in any direction.
The doorman was an ex-cop. I didn’t recognize him by face, but by attitude. He gave me the you’re-not-getting-past-me stare when I came through the wrought iron and glass entrance. His “Can I help you, chief?” sounded more like a threat than a question. I guess if I lived in this joint and shelled out what the residents paid for the pleasure, I’d want this guy as my gatekeeper too. But from where I stood, he was just an annoyance, an obstacle to get around that wasn’t going to make it easy for me.
“Relax,” I said. “I used to be on the job too.”
There were two ways he could go with that. Either he would give up the hard-ass stare and ask me about where I’d served and how long ago and who did I know that he knew, or he’d harden and get defensive. I hoped for the former, but was betting on the latter. I wasn’t wrong.
“Yeah, you and thousands of other guys,” he said. “If I got a stiffy every time an ex-cop stepped through that door, I wouldn’t need Viagra. Whatchu want?”
I learned a long time ago, before I ever got on the cops, that backing down to a guy like this was a big mistake. I met a hundred guys like this prick when I was on the job. Some people become cops because it’s in their blood. Some, like me, stumble into it. Then there are assholes that want the gun and badge, guys who want the power of the state to sanctify their bullying. Bullies are bullies, in uniform or out. Truth be told, I hated the bullies much more than the people I arrested.
“Take it down a notch on the heavy routine,” I said, staring back at him with unfriendly eyes. “I’m here to see Nathan Martyr, 6E.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Not unless he reads minds.”
“Name?”
“Moe Prager.”
“What should I tell him this is about?” the doorman asked, his tone a tad more mellow.
“Sashi Bluntstone.”
“The missing kid?”
“Yeah, her. I’m working for the parents.”
“I already talked to the Nassau cops,” he said. “He was here the day the kid disappeared. They got my statement.”
Okay, that