Free Fatherhood by Thomas H. Cook Page B

windows, a thudding rumble that briefly draws Max Feldman from the photographs on his desk, Lynn Abercrombie sprawled across the floor of her Tribeca apartment, shot once with a snubnosed .38, no real clues save the fact that she lay on her back with a strand of long blond hair over the right eye, maybe done by a fan of Veronica Lake, some sick aficionado of the noir.
    The rain falls upon the tangle of steel and concrete, predator and prey. It slaps the baseball cap of Jerry Brice as he waits for Hattie Jones, knowing it was payday at the all-night laundry, her purse full of cash. It mars Sammy Kaminsky’s view of Dolly Baron’s bedroom window and foils the late-night entertainment of a thousand midnight peepers.
    On Houston Street, it falls on people drawn together by the midnight storm, huddled beneath shelters, Herman Devane crowded into a bus refuge, drunk college girls all around him, that little brunette in the red beret, her body naked beneath her clothes, so naked and so close, the touch so quick, so easy, to brush against her then step back, blame it on the rain.
    Lightning, then thunder rolling northward over Bleecker Street, past clubs and taverns, faces bathed in neon light, nodding to the beat of piano, bass, drums, the late-night riff of jazz trios.
    Ernie Gorsh taps his foot lightly beneath the table.
    Not a bad piano .
    Jack Plato, fidgeting, toying with the napkin beneath his drink, a lot on his mind, time like a blade swinging over his head.
    Fuck the piano. You hear me, Ern? 484 Duane. A little jewelry store. Easy. I cased it this afternoon .
    Ernie Gosch listens to the piano.
    Jack Plato, slick black hair, sipping whiskey, cocksure about the plans, the schedule, where the cameras are.
    Paulie Cerrellos is backing the operation. A safe man is all we need. Christ, it’s a sure thing, Ern .
    Ernie Gorsh, gray hair peeping from beneath his gray felt hat, just out of the slammer, not ready to go back.
    Nothing’s ever sure, Jack .
    It is if you got the balls .
    It can’t if you don’t got the brains .
    Plato, offended, squirming, a deal going south, Paulie will be pissed. No choice now but to play the bluff.
    Take it or leave it, old man .
    Ernie, thinking of his garden, the seeds he’s already bought for spring, seeds in packets nestled in his jacket pocket, thinking of the slammer too, how weird it is now, gangs, Aryans, Muslims, fag cons raping kids in the shower, deciding not to go back.
    Sorry, Jack . Rising. I got a bus to catch .
    The eyes of the rain see the value of experience, the final stop of crooked roads. It falls on weariness and dread, the iron bars of circumstance, the way out that looks easy, comes with folded money, glassine bags of weed, tinfoil cylinders stuffed with white powder, floor plans of small jewelry stores, with Xs where the cameras are.
    At 8 th Street and Sixth Avenue, Tracey Olson leaves a cardboard box on the steps of Jefferson Market. Angelo and Luis watch her rush away from inside a red BMW boosted on Avenue A, the rain thudding hard on its roof.
    You see that ?
    Wha ?
    That fucking girl .
    What about her ?
    She left a box on the steps there .
    What about it ?
    That all you can say, whataboutitwhataboutit ?
    Luis steps out into the rain, toward the box, the tiny cries he hears now.
    Jesus. Jesus Christ .
    On 23 rd , the rain slams against the windows of pizza parlors and Mexican restaurants, Chinese joints open all night.
    Sal and Frankie. Sweet and sour pork. Moo goo gai pan.
    So, the guy, what’d he do ?
    What they always do .
    He ask how old ?
    I told him eighteen .
    Sal and Frankie giggling about the suits from the suburbs, straight guys who dole out cash for their sweet asses then take the PATH home to their pretty little wives.
    Where was he from ?
    Who cares? He’s a dead man now .
    That plum sauce, you eatin’ that ?
    At Broadway and 34 th , the million eyes of the rain smash against the dusty windows of the rag trade, Lennie