I walked across the Park skirting the Harlem Meer, angling always westward towards home. In the quickening air of late October, the city glowed in the sundown, preserved in amber. I called Echo on her cell phone (interrupting a Met gala planning session) and she agreed to meet me for dinner.
I was uneasy about the way she was taking my recent full disclosure. She seemed calm but eerie, as if she had reconciled herself to an unpleasant fate. For me, that is.
We went to a place called Ouest on Upper Broadway and had a good grilled chicken, braised beef short ribs and a bottle of wine. Echo was cheered up by the warm welcome she received from the staff. They always remembered her and made a huge fuss about how beautiful, how elegant, tres chic. Echo relaxed and chatted happily away with everybody in sight, conversing in a beautifully accented French with a bon a fide Frenchman she discovered at the bar. (She spent her junior year at the Sorbonne and visited Paris twice yearly.)
The good feeling kept rolling and Echo entertained me with stories about the stuffy Museum board members and told a couple of amusing anecdotes about life on the road. She had sent the company on ahead to Ithaca.
"Toronto is cancelled by the way. We'll be back early."
"I'm sorry you were cancelled but I'm glad you're coming home. I don't do well without you."
She cut her eyes sharply at me and I knew I hadn't been forgiven at all.
"Really?" she said, "I'm not cramping your style? Maybe I should stay away until you get arrested. You might like to get involved in something really dangerous, you know."
"Darling, how could you be anything but a constant help and delight."
"I could help, you know. Daddy has powerful friends in the police department. He could do something."
"Let's just keep Daddy out of it. Okay?"
"I suppose I understand your reluctance to have him know what's going on."
"I'd prefer to handle things myself, if it's all the same to you."
Echo looked blankly at me. Then she shrugged and said, "I suppose you know what you're doing."
"I do. You'll see. And I'd like to say, I think it's very sexy, the way you're not freaking out over a little trouble."
She smiled and lifted her glass. "It's my specialty. In certain circles I'm known for not freaking out."
The wine was fantastic with the food. Since there was no call for a festive mood, that was reason enough to order shots of Calvados with strong black coffee. The liquor opened my veins and started my blood pumping. The giant killer does its magic and you feel untouchable again.
"Want to hear the good news?" Echo said, "We're booked into the Joyce when we get back."
This was great news. The Joyce Theater is a real dance venue. Established companies perform there. It was a terrific breakthrough for Echo's company and we toasted success. Suddenly it was a party and a hint of the old chemistry was in the air.
We were walking along Central Park West, when a limo pulled up ahead of us. I was thinking slowly because of all the drink. It wasn't until the door of the limo opened and The Ghost appeared that I had the .38 out and in my right hand, pressed to my leg where Echo couldn't see it.
Ghost said, "Senor Cruz will speak with you."
Echo said, "Who?"
I pulled her away a step. "This is the drugs guy. You turn around and walk away."
"Uh, that's unlikely to happen." That said, she marched toward the limo. I hurried to catch her.
"Echo, this will be a lot easier for me if I know you're safe."
"Will you please stop treating me like the girlfriend? I'm not like these dips in movies today. I'm the Bette Davis type. I'm you're wife...for the time being. We're equal. Got it? Now. I want to see a gangster."
I sidled up to the open door and bent down to peek into the car as if I expected a lion to jump out. The limo hadn't appeared that big but it seemed to have a small living room tucked inside of it. The seats were plush and the panels of the doors were gleaming with real polished wood. There was a jump seat opened up from the partition and beyond that a small built-in cabinet with a miniature bar. The interior of the car glowed like butterscotch and aged bourbon. On the maroon carpet a pair of Bally slip-ons peeked from the sharp creased cuffs of navy trousers with a faint hint of a pinstripe. The upper half of the man was enfolded in shadow. A large white hand appeared out of the darkness and I heard him say, "Get in. We'll take a ride."
"I don't like the sound of that," I said.
"There's nothing to fear. Come on," the hand beckoned again, "You like sports?"
"It depends."
"We'll take in the fights. There's been a lot of misunderstanding. Let's talk. Keep the gun if you want. You can be perfectly safe. You have my word."
"Jack," Echo whispered, "what are you doing with that thing!"
I pulled her aside and said quietly, "I'm going to shoot this guy if he acts up. Now please don't meddle with my resolve. Okay?"
"Jack, please don't shoot anybody!"
"Oh brother."
I moved toward the door of the car. Another light snapped on inside and I had my first look at Buddy Cruz. My idea of a Colombian drug lord was a fat guy covered in gold chains and a Guyabera shirt open to his ankles. That wasn't Cruz. He must have been wearing ten thousand bucks worth of impeccable good taste. No jewelry except for a wedding band and a wafer thin gold watch on his left wrist. Check the estimate: That watch alone cost ten thou.
He was handsome, in his forties, oozing with well being and confidence. He looked like Keith Hernandez without the mustache posing for the cover of GQ. His haircut, for instance, was perfect.
I still hesitated to get in. You can dress a panther in a tux, but that doesn't mean it's a good idea to stick your head in its mouth at feeding time. I looked over at The Ghost waiting with his hand on the door. He would stand there until you and all your kind got tired. Or until you died. His line went back to an ancient Aztec idol carved out of rock. He could wait a thousand years.
I turned to Echo and said, "I have to talk with this guy. You go on home."
"I don't think so," she said, and got into the car.
I looked to the sky and the sky was no help, so I followed her. It was a comfort to have the .38 in my sweaty, jittering palm.
The Ghost got back into the car and sat on the jump seat one hand looped through the strap hanging from the doorframe. There was room to spare for all of us. Cruz was acting the gracious host asking Echo what she wanted to drink. There was an unopened bottle of Vieuve Cliquot in a bucket of ice on the floor.
"Champagne, thank you," said Echo.
"Why not," I said, "It's a special occasion." Your last night on earth has to qualify.
Cruz nodded at the Ghost who plucked the bottle and wrapped it in a linen napkin. I almost fired the .38 when he popped the cork, I was so tense. I took my finger off the trigger. Cruz handed Echo a glass of the champagne and she took it as if she'd been drinking in limos with droggistas all her life. I accepted my glass and sipped. Even in my slightly disembodied drunken state I could tell it was the Grande Dame, first class wine.
Cruz said, "See, 'Selmo? Teddy was right. We leave this man alone, he comes to us with what we want. And such a charming young lady." Cruz's accent got thicker when he addressed the Ghost. He turned to Echo. "I'm sure you will help your man see sense, won't you?"
Echo was sipping champagne and said gaily, "I've been trying to get him to see sense for years." She didn't sound a bit nervous but that could have been the drinks. I cleared my throat and nudged her. Having your wife around while you try to play tough guy isn't easy, but she was having a civilizing influence on the proceedings.
"Mr. Murphy, I hope he will be reasonable and listen to me but Anselmo wanted to visit you again. He's patient about most things. About you ..." Cruz waggled his manicure in the air. "Teddy told me that you are no fool. I'm glad to see you are not."
I said, "His pal with the big knife didn't get the message evidently."
"You were fair game at the time. And he was embarrassed. At being beaten and left in a toilet." His slight smile quickly died on his lips.
"I wasn't wild about getting a beating from him either."
"Yes. You have a point. But he felt his honor was stained. Ha! Toilet stains! Ha!" This was a big joke and the ghostly Anselmo simulated a smile. Cruz said, HA! one more time before he went on. Echo grimaced with distaste and I was glad to see it; she'd been too impressed with the gentleman act. She hardened a little bit after that.
Cruz said, "He's a good fighter that boy. But has more guts than brains. Maybe it will teach him something. Still, what do you expect?"
"I expect not to be punched up and fried on my own front burner for something I know nothing about."
"Oh, so you're the people responsible for that," said Echo.
"Honey, not now."
"If not now, when? Look, Mr. Cruz, we have a co-op board to answer to. We can't have that kind of thing happening. In future let's work something else out: if you want to beat Jack up, just call and I'll send him over to the Park where it can be done a little more discretely, okay?" She had the tone you use when asking the neighbors to turn down the stereo.
"It won't happen again, senora. I am a legitimate business man. I don't want so much publicity, so much involvement with the police. It's not necessary, is it?" He gestured at the gun in my hand. "Not necessary."
"Jack, put that away." This was Echo.
"Look, Cruz," I said, trying to regain some control, "My wife is unused to this sort of thing but I know what you are."
"I deal in precious metals. Gold, silver, and platinum."
"Right. For a legitimate businessman you have some rough associates." I looked at Anselmo. "I'm not a hero. Let the politicians fight the war on drugs."
He laughed and said, "Obama. No. The Republicans understand business. Reagan. The Bushes. Great men."
"Yeah, they're super. I used to work for them. They tried to get me killed. But the point is, I'd like to go back to the peaceful life I had before Mickey dragged me into this."
"That's easy. Return my property."
"I don't have it. But I've talked to Mickey."
"Good. Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"That isn't much help, is it?"
"Mickey's unbalanced, but he's not stupid. He wants to have a few assurances before he puts himself at your mercy."
"Assurances?" He rose up off the seat and turned his body in my direction. For a simple precious metals dealer he had a quick temper. "Assurances? I assure him of this: he gives back to me what he robbed or I am pretty Goddamn mad."
"That's the idea. I think Mickey wants to survive this."
"You think he wants to survive?"
"You don't know Mickey that well, do you?"
Cruz slumped back and fumed silently before he said, "He was recommended by a friend."
I was tempted to sow a little distrust here. I would have enjoyed nothing more than seeing Teddy and Cruz at each other's throats. And I knew just how to get them going. However, I didn't want to complicate things until I had a good idea where the chips would fly, so I held my tongue.
Cruz rubbed his stomach, as if he were trying to gentle a growling animal.
"How about you?" he said, "You want to survive?"
"Definitely."
"Where's my dog?"
"I don't have any dog." True. Animal Medical Center did. Just the same, my heart did a stutter step.
"You understand the reason we thought you were involved?"
"Yeah." I shrugged. "But that's Mickey Dolan. He might make lists but that doesn't mean he gets around to following through."
"I want that dog back. You tell Mickey."
"I like animals too, but what's so special about the dog?"
"That animal is a champion. Fifty fights he is undefeated. I want that dog to breed. He is worth a lot to me. Do you laugh at sentiment?"
"Not unless it's the funny kind."
"The last fight Duro fought for me was against a young dog. Very strong. Duro missed his grip and the big black got his jaws into the skin at the throat. He didn't choke off Duro's air, which would have been the fight, but Duro bled - how that dog bled! He would not give up. He pulled and pulled trying to free himself. His feet braced. So." He put out his hands to show us. "Finally - you could hear the ripping of his own flesh - Duro pulled away. The big black was standing there, a piece of Duro's bleeding hide hanging from his jaws. Duro crushed the life out of him. Then he fell unconscious. I picked him up myself. His blood soaking me, tears pouring down my face and I took him home. Most men would say the dog was finished, put him down. But a dog like that is hard to kill. I love courage more than anything. I want that dog. He is my luck. You understand?"
"I think so. You like the dog."
"I love that dog."
"I see."
He stared at me a long time and I looked away. Echo held out her glass for more champagne.
"What do you think of the car, Madame," he said.
"Very nice." Her face had settled into a neutral mask during his story.
"I wasn't born in this car you know."
"Really?" she said.
"I don't know where I was born. But the first thing I remember, really remember, I'm eating out of a garbage can in Bogota. You ever been that hungry?"
"Of course not."
"No, of course not. This is America. Even the poor here are rich. But now I can be eating in the finest restaurant in the world. Places in Paris so fine they have no name. You have to be invited to dine. The finest food. And when I eat, I still smell that garbage can. You understand?"
Echo was studying him now. "I think so," she said.
He nodded his head for a while. "I hope you do." He wasn't just popping off. He wasn't going to eat out of garbage cans ever again and he wanted me to know it. The bodies could stack up or not: He was ready to die in order to eat at Le Tour D'Argent. All I had on the line was our lives.
The windows of the limousine were dark, smoky, almost black. I couldn't see a thing. I felt we were headed north. The feel of the tires on the pavement changed and I knew we were crossing a bridge.
Echo was going to the Bronx for the first time in her life.