Small Town

God, couldn’t he just go? He’d been there only a few minutes, he hadn’t touched a thing or met a soul, so couldn’t he just slip out and rejoin the world of the living? This job, like all the jobs, was off the books, and he doubted that Molly (with her skull literally smashed in, Christ, who could have done a thing like that?) even knew his last name.

He’d waved to the Korean woman in the nail shop.

But would she remember? And what could she possibly say? Yes, I see boy come to clean. He wave to me sometime. He nice boy. She couldn’t exactly tell them anything that would have them making a beeline for his door.

Lois would know what to do.

But he didn’t need to call her to know what she would tell him. For God’s sake, Jerry, be a grown-up. You’re a citizen and you just discovered three dead bodies, so what the hell do you think you’re supposed to do? Butch up and make the call.

He reached for the phone, saw that the receiver was off the hook. That might be important, he thought. It might be a clue, there might be fingerprints or trace evidence on the phone.

God, he didn’t want to do anything wrong.

He let himself out, found a pay phone at the corner of Third Avenue. It would be easy to keep walking, but he heard Lois’s voice in his head, telling him to butch up, and he dialed 911 and gave his name and the address of the crime scene, and told the operator what he’d found. Yes, he said, he’d wait for the officers at the scene.

The responding officers were two uniformed cops from the local precinct, a man and woman his own age or younger, and he answered their questions but held back the part he didn’t want to mention. He’d have to, he knew that, but he might as well wait for the detectives to get there. Otherwise he’d only have to go through it a second time.

The detectives were older than he was, which was at once reassuring and intimidating. One was black and one was white, and both were balding and out of shape and looked uncomfortable in their suits and ties.

They went over the same ground the uniforms had covered, but more thoroughly. They wanted to know the routine at the apartment — when did they open, what time did they shut down, how many girls worked there, and did anybody stay on the premises overnight. He answered what he could, explaining that all he did was come in and clean the place when nobody was around. He didn’t even know for sure what sort of establishment it was, insofar as no one had ever come right out and told him, although it did seem pretty obvious to him. They agreed that it seemed obvious, all right.

Then they wanted to know where he’d been during the past twenty-four hours, and how they could verify his whereabouts. He told them all that, and the black cop made notes, and the white cop said, “Pankow, what’s that, Polish? You grow up in Greenpoint, by any chance?”

Hamtramck, he told them. And where was that, somewhere out on the Island? No, he said, it was a suburb of Detroit, and predominantly Polish.

A lot of Polish people lived in Greenpoint, the cop said, and he agreed that they did. You ought to go there for pierogi and kielbasa, the cop said. He sometimes did, he said, when he got the chance.

Then he said, “There’s something else you ought to know.”

Oh?

God, he didn’t want to do this. But he’d already started, and besides they’d find out themselves and wonder why he hadn’t said anything.

“Last month,” he said. “I had a client in the Village, I used to clean her apartment once a week. Somebody strangled her, and I was the one who discovered the body.”

They stared at him, and the black cop said, “The woman, she sold real estate? And they got the guy, some kind of writer. Aren’t you the guy who—”

“Destroyed the evidence,” he said. “She was in the bedroom so I started in the living room. I thought she was sleeping.”

“Well, they got the guy,” the black cop said, and the white cop said he hoped he hadn’t done any cleaning this time. He assured them he hadn’t.

“These women here,” the white cop said, “you wouldn’t make that mistake. You’d know right away they’re not sleeping.”

The black cop’s name was Arthur Pender. His partner was Dennis Hurley. Pender said, “That is one hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? You think you’re hiring somebody to mop your floors, turns out he’s the angel of death.”

“They already got somebody for the one in the Village,” Hurley said.

“Maybe it gave the kid ideas. Maybe he liked the attention he got finding a body and decided he’d like to find a couple more.”

“He seem to you like somebody who was enjoying the attention?”

“Looked like he wished the floor would swallow him. Can’t see him doing it, either, gentle guy like him.”

“You’re saying that ’cause he’s gay.”

“Well, yeah, I guess so.”