Control

  Then up and coffee and a bagel bought the night before, the bagel toasted and sometimes with peanut butter, sometimes cream cheese. Then a long letter to Frank Jr., in middle management now at Boeing, and how are the grandkids, that sort of breezy note.

  Then, since his days off were generally Saturday, dress up, the good suit and a fresh ironed shirt and a bow tie for pizzazz, and off to theatre. If there was a new musical in town, he’d head straight for it, buy a ticket or, if they were sold out, a standing room. If there wasn’t a new musical, which was the case today, instead of seeing one, he’d catch maybe four or five.

  But you had to time it just right, and of course, the theatres had to be reasonably close to each other. You could handle Annie and Evita since one was on 52nd Street, the other just around the corner. Sugar Babies was up there too, so that could fit nicely. But if you wanted to add in A Chorus Line you needed track shoes, since the Shubert Theatre was eight crowded blocks away, down on 44th.

  Haggerty felt like A Chorus Line today—-he loved the opening. AH the dancers going “five-six-seven-eight” and their bodies trying to get the steps right—if “Rose’s Turn” gave Gypsy the best ending to any musical, Haggerty felt A Chorus Line laid claim to the greatest start.

  It was almost two and most of the crowd was already in when he walked up to the man taking tickets, flashed the gold badge, and muttered, “just checking,” as he hurried inside. The ticket taker knew his face, but even if he didn’t, no one gave cops or firemen trouble when it came to standing in the back on Broadway.

  Haggerty knew that strictly speaking, what he was doing wasn’t honest—screw “strictly speaking,” it was dishonest But he tried to tell himself he’d paid seven times full price to see the whole show, and if something odd broke out in the audience, well, a detective was already there, ready to quell the disturbance.

  Now there went the houselights.

  Haggerty stood in the back corner; a child again. Of course, he’d never been to Broadway when he was a child, but if he had been so blessed, he knew what he’d have felt then was what he was feeling now.

  Half an hour later he left, stood on the sidewalk, checked the time. It was tricky, doing this kind of thing, because it had to be perfect or it was nothing. You paid to see Babe Ruth hit a home run, not to see the teams run into their dugouts at the end of an inning.

  Hmmm. Although Deathtrap wasn’t strictly speaking a musical —screw ‘‘strictly speaking,” what’s the matter with you today, it’s a play. In any case, Haggerty liked the shocker at the first act curtain and the way the audience buzz-buzzed as they made their way up the aisle. But he also was a peat fan of the title number from They’re Playing Our Song. The problem was they could run very close to each other in time. And if one show started a few minutes late, you could be in trouble.

  Risk it, Haggerty told himself, and he did, catching them both scooting from the Music Box to the Imperial with ease. “Just checking” he told the old lady at the Imperial flashing the gold badge. “Go with God, Haggerty,” she said, opening the door for him, Jetting him bathe in the magic. Haggerty applauded loudly with his big hands, letting the kids up on stage know his appreciation, then went back to the sidewalk, checked his watch, and pleased, walked slowly to the Belasco for the great “Black and Blue” number that summed up Ain’t Misbehavin’.

  Then he went home, poured himself a shot of whiskey, ran the tub. He had been on his feet a good while today, and his legs ached because, strictly speaking, he was no cookie anymore. You must stop with this “strictly speaking” bullshit, he told himself then. You’re old. So he rested in the tub and sipped his drink and then napped, first setting the alarm, and then, rested and cheery, he began to think about dinner.

  That was what Haggerty did on his days off.

  Eric didn’t believe in them.

  Oh, every so often he’d get in his car and just drive, up to New England when the leaves were turning, that kind of thing. Or just pack up and grab some girl or other and hotfoot it down to the Caribbean, leave your mind at home, let your body do the talking. But as a rule, especially when things were going badly, he stayed close to home.

  And things were going very badly now.

  He had spent much of the day at his desk at the 19th, working the phones. But he had gone out several times, once to aid in bringing to justice two adorable-looking eleven-year-old boys who had put a heated iron on the face of a six-year-old girl who lived in the same apartment house. The girl was scarred permanently; the boys thought it was funny.

  Another incident involved a merchant on Third who objected to a pushcart vendor selling belts on the sidewalk when he, the merchant, happened to also sell belts and pay taxes. They had argued, the merchant had pushed the vendor, they argued some more, louder; another push. Then screams, a shove, and the vendor, a young man, had dropped dead of an apparent stroke making the merchant, an honest and decent murderer, but a murderer nonetheless. Eric got little pleasure out of booking him.

  But in many ways the high point of his day concerned Mrs. Atherton. Close to eighty, she lived in a town house on 70th off Park. Her maid, Cleo, had been with her for five years when Cleo told Mrs. Atherton she had to leave because her son OJ. was getting in trouble and she had to return to the islands. Mrs. Atherton insisted O.J. come live with his mother, they fixed up the spare room beside the kitchen, and everything went fine for a week, until today in point of fact, when O.J. raped the old woman. Cleo was the one who called the 19th about it and Eric was the one who got to accompany the old woman to Lenox Hill. The last thing she said to Eric, touching his hand with her broken fingers was, “I don’t want to lose Cleo, I don’t want my Cleo to leave me.”

  All of which led to words with Captain Haig. Captain Haig ran the 19th and was well thought of at Headquarters. He was a ruddy, handsome man, a good drinker, and possessed a wondrous memory for names. Eric felt he was a bigot and genuinely detested him. But quietly. Captain Haig wasn’t crazy about Eric either.

  “He fucked her?” Captain Haig said to Eric. “Eighty years old and he fucked her?”

  Eric suggested the Captain read the report.

  “Was there sodomy?” the Captain asked.

  Eric looked up from his desk. “Do you really care?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I just wondered if it would make your day or not— it strikes me as sort of an imbecilic question.”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  Eric waited for his superior to leave.

  Captain Haig moved in close. “The question had a meaning, because there’s a war going on in the streets, and when Goldwater talked about it all you liberals thought he was a nut, but now you know he was right, and the reason the war’s not going to get any better is because there are facts that can’t be said. They’re different from the rest of us—that’s a fact—no fifteen-year-old white kid would have raped her.” He stalked off.

  Idiot, Eric told himself. He’s an asshole and you know he’s an asshole and he knows you know he’s an asshole so why do you have to call him an asshole? Not smart. Not your basic smooth move.

  Well, blame it on Billy Boy.

  Or rather, on the absence of same.

  That, coupled with any number of other facts. Like no one other than Eric was at all convinced that this William “Billy Boy” Winslow was the killer. He had been spotted only yesterday, or someone like him had been spotted, in South Florida. And there was no connection between the Oliver woman and the clothing salesman other than that both of their necks had been broken. Lots of people got their necks broken, check the files. Also the clothing salesman had a brother-in-law whom he was on the outs with and who had disappeared over the last few days which made him a more than likely suspect. Plus Captain Haig was convinced the killers were young, not so gifted, and black. Only Eric knew. Or thought he knew. Except no one could find him. None of Eric’s “voices” gave a cry. No sound, nothing. Billy Boy had simply disappeared.

 
; “I booked us at Wally’s at nine,” Haggerty said, walking in, sitting on the edge of Eric’s desk. “It’s almost that now, get your coat on.”

  “I guess I’m not so hungry,” Eric said.

  Haggerty got Eric’s coat, tossed it into Eric’s lap. “We’ll have the double sirloin.”

  Eric was very serious about steaks. Whenever a new steak house opened, he was always among the first to give it a shot. But his favorites were never truly challenged: if you were eating alone, the best was Broadway Joe on 46th Street; if there was somebody else, the double sirloin at Wally’s was the outstanding steak in Manhattan. “Will you have it really rare?” Eric asked. “None of your Irish ‘medium’ shit.”

  “Blue we’ll have it,” Haggerty promised. “My sole purpose of this evening is to cheer you up.”

  On the way to Wally’s, Eric told of his talk with the Captain.

  “Lemme see if I’ve got this right now,” Haggerty said when Eric was done. “For no reason other than petulance, you indicated that your boss, your superior, your paterfamilias, was a schmuck.”

  “That was certainly the clear implication,” Eric admitted.

  “Genius,” Haggerty said. “I’ll come visit you when you’re walking a beat again. I’ll bring you hot coffee from Chock Full o’ Nuts to remind you what it was like in the land of the living.”

  Eric brooded in silence, until they got to the restaurant. It was jammed, as always, but they lucked out, being seated at the table they liked best, the round one in the left rear, where Tony was the waiter. He brought them menus; Haggerty shook his head, he didn’t need one, while Eric quickly opened his, studying it to see if anything new had gone in since their last time.

  “We’re having the double sirloin,” Haggerty said, “that much is definite.”

  “An’ how would you like that?”

  “Medium,” Haggerty said and then as Eric’s head jerked up from the menu, eyes glaring, he quickly put up his big hands in a peacemaking position. “Joke, a joke, Eric, just wanted to see if I had your attention. I’m cheering you up tonight, remember?” Haggerty looked at Tony now. “Rare,” he said. “Underlined.”

  “You want it very rare, right?”

  “Wrong, Tony; and we don’t want it blue either—we want it so red and juicy inside just tell the chef to lean the cow against the radiator.”

  Eric smiled, closed the menu. “And the cottage fries crisp, the same with the onion rings.”

  Haggerty nodded. “And bring me a brew.”

  “What kind, Mr. Haggerty?”

  Haggerty shrugged. “Any of ‘em, just so it’s icy cold.” He took the menu from Eric, handed it to Tony. “Hey, let’s start with some pasta as an opener; how ‘bout the shells?”

  “Perfect,” Eric said. Then he shut one eye. “Now, my only problem is, since I can’t have the same kind of beer with the pasta as with the steak, what do I want with what—?”

  “—Tony,” Haggerty interrupted. “Would you give us just a minute alone. I’ll signal for you, all right?”

  Tony bowed, was gone.

  Haggerty looked seriously at Eric now. He took a deep breath. “Look, I know you’re in a foul mood so this probably isn’t the time, and I know I’m supposed to cheer you up and all, and this certainly won’t do that—but I’ve got to say it: Eric, you’re getting to be the bore of the world with this beer fetish. You do it every meal we have together and it’s not a good habit.” He made his voice into a falsetto. “Oh dear, shall I have pale ale with the cottage fries and stout with the onion rings, whatever shall I do?”

  Stung, Eric controlled his voice. “Each beer has its own character, Frank—in a very definite way, beer is like wine—and you want to make the most appropriate selection to augment the flavors of your food. And you call it a ‘fetish’ again, I’ll kick your ass.”

  “I don’t want to make too much of this, Eric my boy, but I know each beer has its own character, its own special taste. Everybody knows that. And anyone with half a brain can tell one from the other. It’s the fucking anguish you go through that drives me crazy.”

  “In point of fact, Frank old fart, in a blind tasting they are very hard to tell apart—even an expert can be fooled.”

  “An expert such as yourself, I suppose. Well, I’m not going to get into a beer tasting contest with you, you’d probably throw in some Icelandic lager that’s illegal in America and carry the day. I just know I can tell beers apart, hell, I’m Irish, I’ve been drinking it long enough.”

  “You think you can tell beers apart?”

  “I absolutely can. Not all of them, obviously, but for example, I can tell a local New York beer from a national brand, and I can tell an American from a European. And Japanese beers never gave me any trouble.”

  “How many drinks did you have earlier?”

  Haggerty scowled, took out twenty bucks, slapped it on the table. “Pick four beers—five bucks for me for the ones I get right, if I miss any, each miss is five for you.” When Eric covered, they signaled for Tony the waiter.

  Five minutes later, Haggerty was staring at four full glasses of beer. “Lemme see I got this right,” Tony said. “One of these is a Kirin, one’s a Bud, an’ there’s a Schaefer an’ a Lowenbrau.” He turned to Eric. “I wrote down which one is which like you said.”

  “Thank you, Tony,” Eric told him.

  “Don’t mention it; you get all kinds in here.” He backed away, went about his business.

  Haggerty stared dumbly at the four tall glasses with the bubbles rising inside. “What have I got here again?”

  “Kirin, Schaefer, Lowenbrau, and Bud.”

  “Well, the Bud’s a cinch, my old man was big on Bud, I could tell that eyes closed.”

  “Don’t close your eyes; listen to me now, I’m trying to be helpful. The color’s important. So’s the bouquet, so be sure you sniff all four before you taste any. And once you actually do taste, try small sips of each, comparing the nuances and…”

  Haggerty grabbed the glass on the left, chug-a-lugged half of it, set it down, belched, and said, “Definitely Bud.”

  Eric just shook his head. “You haven’t tasted the others yet.”

  “Don’t need to—that one’s the Budweiser, you want to double the bet, I’ll double the bet.” He slapped another twenty on the table.

  Eric matched him, then signaled for Tony. He pointed to the half-empty glass at Haggerty’s left. “Which is that?” Eric asked.

  Tony consulted a piece of paper. “That’s the Budweiser,” he said, then he said “coming,” as a customer down the line raised a hand.

  “That really pisses me,” Eric said.

  “Got a very distinctive bouquet, the Budweiser does,” Haggerty told him. “Not to mention outstanding nuances.”

  “I can still win the next three,” Eric said.

  “Wrong. The best you can do is break even-—Fm a whiz when it comes to Japanese beers.”

  “On account of your old man was Japanese, I suppose.”

  “You’re a really bad loser, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all, I just hate it when ignorance comes out on top.”

  “We had a very nice Japanese couple lived down the block and Helen got on very well with this Mrs. Mifune and I got on good with him—we tossed down a lot of suds between us, and it was him explained about oriental beer.”

  “Explained what, for Chrissakes?” Eric said.

  “Explained how they put a sake-like quality in their brew— sake’s very big in Japan.”

  “I know about sake—it’s a rice wine, but it’s got not a goddam thing to do with beer!”

  “Well it wouldn’t to you, being an outsider and all—”

  “—I don’t believe this,” Eric satd.

  Haggerty tasted the beer on the right of the four. “No sake quality there,” he said. Then the third from the right. “Same.” He pointed to the second beer. “That’s gotta be it, that’s the Kirin.”

  “Aren’t you even gonna ta
ste it?”

  “Don’t get so upset, if you want me to taste it, I’ll taste it.” He did. Then nodded. “Very sake-like; definitely Kirin.” He handed the glass to Eric—”Drink some of that and you’ll get what I mean about the sake quality.”

  “I don’t want any goddam Kirin, thank you, and I read every book on beer in print and not one of ‘em mentioned something called “sake quality.’”

  “Were they Japanese books?”

  “Of course they weren’t Japanese books.”

  “Well then.”

  “Tony,” Eric signaled, and when the waiter was beside the table Eric said, “Is the glass he’s holding the Kirin, I don’t think it is.”

  Tony looked at the beers, then consulted his piece of paper. “Fm sorry, Mr. Lorber,” he said, then he held the paper out for Eric to see. “Check me if you want.”

  Eric shook his head. “Not necessary, thanks.” He sat back in silence. “I’ll tell you what infuriates me,” he said finally. “It’s not the money. And it’s not that I dislike you personally—you’ve saved my life any number of times, I tend to take that kind of thing into consideration when! judge a person’s character. And it’s also not that what you’re doing is incredibly hard—-these are not good tasting conditions, too much noise makes it hard to concentrate, too much smoke doesn’t help either. No. What really ultimately ticks me off is the knowledge that no matter how long we live, you’ll never let me forget this.”

  “I’d like to tell you I wouldn’t ever bring it up again, but I haven’t got that much character.”

  Eric put his head in his hands and stared at the last two glasses. “Taste them and tell me, which is the Schaeffer and which is the Lowenbrau?”