Play Dead

“I have not ordered that you be killed; it is not something that interests me either way,” he says. “That is why you are still alive. But you have the potential to interfere with something that does interest me, and you would be well advised to be very careful.”

“So you didn’t have me shot at on the turnpike?”

He doesn’t respond, and I assume it’s because he’s already answered the question by saying he didn’t order me killed. Instead he looks at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”

“Okay. I have no desire to interfere in your activities; all I want to do is get an innocent man out of jail. But to help me in my noninterference, can you tell me anything about the night of the murder?”

He thinks for a few moments, as if measuring his response. “You lawyers have a tendency to go from A to B to C to D. Sometimes A doesn’t lead to D. Sometimes they are on two entirely different roads.”

“That might be a little cryptic for me,” I say. “Can I assume you have no interest in the Evans case? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“That is what I’m telling you. But I am also telling you to be very careful.”

He turns back to the game, thus announcing that my presence is no longer welcome. I turn and leave, and the two men follow me until I’m back in the main casino room.

I spot Vince at a craps table, his arm around the woman standing next to him. There is a large pile of chips in front of them. “Okay,” I say. “I spoke to him. Let’s get out of here.”

He turns and looks at me, then at the woman he has his arm around, then back at me. Finally he picks up one of his chips and hands it to me. “Here, kid. Get yourself a cab.”

* * * * *

I WAKE UP to the whirring sound of my exercise bike.

It is not a sound that I hear frequently, since I have long treated the bike as a piece of furniture. Of course, it has more than just aesthetic value; I use the handlebars as a place to hang shirts.

Once I am able to pry my eyes open, I look over and see Laurie pedaling furiously. Her energy level is now inversely proportional to my self-esteem. We made love last night, and it left me so exhausted that it feels as if it will take someone with a shovel to get me out of bed. Yet either I have been unable to remotely tire Laurie out, or she is in a desperate rush to get somewhere but isn’t aware that the bike is stationary.

“What time is it?” I ask.

Laurie looks over at me, then at her watch, while continuing to pedal. “Four thirty.”

I look toward the window. “And it’s dark already?”

“In the morning, Andy. It’s four thirty in the morning.”

Tara and Reggie are paying no attention to this repartee; they are sound asleep on their beds. “Are you delivering newspapers or just out for a scenic ride?”

“I’m sorry, Andy. I exercise when I’m feeling stress.”

“You exercise every day of your life.”

“But I usually wait until six.”

“Why so stressed?” I ask.

She stops pedaling, comes over and sits on the side of the bed. “Today is my last day here. I leave tomorrow morning.”

I knew that, but it still hits me like a two-by-four in the head. I say this despite having no idea what a two-by-four actually is.

“How about if we spend it together?” I ask.

She smiles. “I’d like that. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, how about if we get dressed and go into the city?” I don’t have to specify which city; any time someone in North Jersey mentions “the city,” they’re talking about New York.

Laurie reacts, surprised that I would say that, since she knows I’m not a big fan of driving into the city. “What for?”

“I thought maybe we could spend some time in the Bronx talking to people who knew one of the guys that tried to kill me.”

She smiles again. “You really know how to show a girl a good time.”

I shrug. “I’m just an incurable romantic.”

Antwan Cooper, the driver for Archie Durelle the night they shot at Sam Willis and me, lived on Andrews Avenue in the Bronx. It is just across the street from the campus of Bronx Community College, which took it over from NYU in the seventies.

The campus seems like an idyllic oasis in the midst of what is a very depressed, run-down area. The people who live in houses like Antwan’s have a hell of a lot more to worry about in their daily lives than chemistry homework.

Laurie and I pull up in front of the house, which seems to defy the laws of physical construction just by the fact that it is standing. There are holes in the structure where there should not be holes, and boards over where there should be holes, such as the windows. Above the front door there is the outline of Greek lettering, indicating that this was once a fraternity or sorority house.

Sitting on the stairs is a very large young man who looks frozen in time, like a statue. His 250 or so pounds are sort of folded over, his chin resting almost on his knees. His clothing is nondescript except for a Mets hat and outlandish new sneakers that probably set him back two hundred and fifty dollars. He gives absolutely no indication that he has even seen us pull up, or that he is alive.