Free Manhattan Nocturne by Colin Harrison Page B

elsewhere. Guy died of a broken heart before he hit the water. When they pulled him out he was still wearing his hat.”
    â€œCome on.”
    â€œHey, I’m not lying.”
    â€œGuy jumps off the Brooklyn Bridge and his hat stays on?”
    â€œI’m telling you, the police said his hat was still on.”
    â€œCome on, Bobby.”
    â€œHey, call them yourself.”
    â€œIf it was a hat, it must have been a football helmet.”
    â€œNo, it was a Yankees cap.”
    â€œHe had duct tape keeping that hat on!”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen it was fucking glued on his head, Bobby!”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAll right. You saving me a good one?”
    â€œMatter of fact, I—wait, sorry again—hold on.”

    I closed my eyes, listened to the chaos downstairs. You want more Cheerios on it? Juicee! Juicee! Yes, Tommy. Here. Eat the eggie. Na! Mommy cooked them for you. My wife was a fucking saint. I was lucky to be married to her. Man sees a peach-colored gown, gets an erection. Who cares if her husband got run over by a bulldozer? Fuck me. I was a cur with a hard-on. Lift up your head, I thought, see how it feels. Head just not right. Should drink more often, get used to it. I’d given some kind of cheesy speech. She’d seen right through it. Pick up the cereal, sweetie, please sit up, please, Sally, sit up this minute. I can’t. Sit up, you’re spilling your cereal all over the—I said SIT UP! All right, that’s it, young lady, get down, now! Are we protecting your virtue or mine? Wan eggie! You just threw your eggie! Too coal! Too cold? Ya. I’ll heat it up. Mommy, when people die, do their bodies get all rotten? Who told you that? Lucy Meyer. Lucy Meyer said that? Wan eggie! Yes, Tommy. Sweetie, when people die, they still have a spirit. What is spirit? It’s, uh—here, sweetie. Too ha! It’s not too hot! What is a spirit, Mommy? Blow on it, sweetie. Too ha! Just blow on it. Bwow? No column was due today, I’d just make some calls, mess around in the office, pay bills. Get up, you fucker. Still drunk. A spirit is … it’s your heart, sweetie, it’s who you are. But Mommy, when you die, does your spirit fly home to God? Who told you that? I can’t remember. Did Josephine tell you that? Fucking jig baby-sitter preaching voodoo Catholicism. Sweetie, do you have poopie? Nah. I think you have poop in your diapee. Make a few calls, get the mortgage check into the mail. No poo diapee! Forget the woman, who you may now remember as the most beautiful woman you never fucked. Let’s get down, sweetie, you ate most of the eggie. No poo! I think you have poopie. Eyes blue as a mailbox. You’re still drunk but I think you can … get up, do it, you can do it, I can do it, I was doing it, I was sitting up, back in the game, and Bobby was back on the line: “Porter, I do got a woman shot last night on the Upper West Side in a Chinese laundry. Maybe the boyfriend.”

    â€œWhat’s good about it?” I asked, squinting into the sun from the window.
    â€œDied holding her wedding dress.”
    I swung my feet off the side of the bed. Uglier every year, the ingrown nails permanent. “What did she do?” I said.
    â€œAccountant, age thirty-two.”
    â€œBoyfriend?”
    â€œInsurance guy, age fifty-six.”
    â€œShe went for the older guys.”
    â€œMaybe she had a daddy thing going.”
    â€œI can hear you eating the doughnut, Bobby.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYou’ve got to start washing the ink off your hands!”
    â€œThe coffee cancels it out.”
    I sighed. “They know where he is?”
    â€œNo, but they’re looking.”
    I stood, and heard a Froot Loop crunch under my foot.
    â€œTV do it last night?”
    â€œHappened too late.”
    â€œThe wedding dress, just standing there, boom?”
    â€œYeah. I got the wedding dress bit just for