There was a blower the size of a stuffed suitcase mounted above and to the right that poured warm air down onto the threshold and kept the cold from infiltrating the place. I stepped in and stood in the airflow for a few seconds, rubbing my hands and resisting the urge to raise them up into the heater's hot face. To my right there was a thigh-high freezer chest with sliding, frosted-up glass doors that ran the length of one wall. The Daily News, the Inquirer and three different racing forms were stacked on its back edge. To the right were three rows of shelves with groceries and snacks and the kinds of cleaning products and paper goods you might run out of on an irregular basis at home. It was the kind of place your mom would send you for a gallon of milk or bag of sugar. I took a few steps in and spotted the stacked glassed coffeepots in the far left corner, warming on a stainless hot plate, and walked that way. There was no one behind the counter at the far end of the single room. No radio drone. No television hissing on a shelf under the rack of cigarettes.
I poured a twenty-ounce cup and the aroma of the steam was fresh. The top pot had been full. There was no decaf. I had no use for the open pint of half-and-half and packages of sugar. I took a careful sip and checked the rack of packaged treats beside me. Tastycakes, as advertised. I grinned and picked up a butterscotch package, my favorite as a kid, and tore the cellophane open and took a bite. I might have even closed my eyes because when I took another sip of coffee to wash down the flavor, a young man was standing behind the counter, staring at me.
I finished my swallow, tipped the cup and said: "How you doin'?"
He simply nodded and turned away. I guessed his age at somewhere in his early twenties. His shoulders were thin and his face angular and drawn under a mop of straight black hair that covered his eyes when he bent his head forward. He was shuffling something under the counter and did not look up so I shifted my weight from side to side while I finished my snack. Behind the clerk was a hanging roll of lottery tickets next to a Philadelphia Flyers calendar next to an eight-by-ten portrait of a dark-haired girl whose crooked smile and too wide eyes said that she had to be Faith Hamlin. She had been given a place of honor where everyone could see her, where everyone who bought a pack of cigarettes or loaf of bread could remember.
I tossed the rest of the cake and its wrapper into a small trash can and stepped over to the counter. The kid didn't look up.
"How, uh, much do I owe you?"
He finally met my eyes through a strand of hair. I raised the cup and gestured back toward the rack of snacks. "This and a Tastycake," I said.
"Two-oh-four," he said without moving to the register, just waiting while I dug into the pocket of my sweatpants.
"Who's the girl?" I said, nodding at the framed photo and trying to be nonchalant while I sorted some bills. "She's pretty."
The kid's brow wrinkled at the question and he actually started to turn around to see what I was talking about but stopped himself halfway. He turned back and I put three ones into his outstretched hand. His wrists were skinny and knotted. He stepped back and rang up the sale and was snaking out change with long, pale fingers.
"You a cop?" he suddenly said, and I may have mistaken the flat tone as an accusation. Maybe he was being a smart-ass because I was asking questions. Maybe it was something else. But I had an odd, sudden urge to reach over and snap his bony wrists.
"No," I said, trying to match his bluntness. "Why?"
"I dunno," he said pouring ninety-six cents into my palm. "You just look like a cop."
"No," I said again. "I'm not from around here."
"Yeah," he said, pulling a strand of black hair away from his eyes. "Have a nice day."
My coffee was cold by the time I hit Jefferson Square and I tossed the cup into a trash can. I jogged the rest of the way back to Gaskill with the thought of a hot shower motivating me and the same thought keeping at bay the proposition of having dinner with my ex-wife. I got to Moriarity's by seven thirty and sat at the end of the bar by the door so I wouldn't miss her coming in. Billy had left a message for me to call him. When I reached him at his office he told me he'd gotten a call from Rodrigo Colon. One of the cruise workers had been roughed up outside the medical clinic by some muscle who had approached the group in an alley where they were smoking. It had been a warning and the only translation the workers came away with were shut up and go home to Manila or their injuries from the explosion would be minor in comparison.
"So he wasn't from the recruiters in the Philippines?" I'd asked.
"No, Rodrigo said he was American. White and bigger than you. Someone with an ugly or vulgar mouth," Billy said. "That was the best description he could give. He said he and the rest had decided to stay inside for a few days. Keep to themselves and lay low, but it definitely put a damper on his recruiting efforts."
I figured I already knew who Ugly Mouth was. Bat Man's jaw would still be wired from my head-butt. I told Billy I would wrap up here as soon as I could.
"So how's it going up there?" he'd asked.
"Thirty-six degrees and drizzle," I said. "And I'm having dinner with Meagan in about an hour." I had never heard Billy whistle before and he hung up before I had a chance to ask his meaning.
I was into my second beer and was eyeing the Schnapps when she finally arrived, fashionably fifteen minutes late. She was in a long cashmere coat and scarf and wasn't wearing a hat despite the drizzle. I had never seen her wear anything over her blonde hair unless a uniform demanded it. She opened the coat and put her shoulders back to shrug the coat off into the hands of a mildly surprised hostess. She had on a sweater and a dark skirt underneath. At least two guys at the bar subtly turned to admire the sweater.
She came over and as I started to slide off the stool she said: "Sit, Max. Let's have a drink at the bar first."
She positioned herself on the stool next to me and crossed her legs with that sound of nylon and surveyed the long room-bar running the length of one wall until a step up into a dining space at the very back. Small tables along the other wall. A few booths just to the left of the entrance. Dark wood, ferns and neon liquor signs throughout.
"My God, Max. The place hasn't changed in ten years." She smiled. "I feel like a college girl."
Just two blocks from Jefferson Hospital, Moriarity's was a favorite of the nursing and medical students and was mostly filled with a younger crowd.
"You never went to college, Meagan," I said.
She smiled and her eyes stayed bright.
"I feel like a college girl," she repeated and then ignored me for a few beats. "Get me a Merlot will you, Max?"
She waited until she'd had a taste and then asked: "So, how often do you get back, Max? Keep in touch with any guys from the old days?"
"This is actually the first time I've been back to the city since I left, Meg. With my mom gone, there wasn't much reason."
She gave me a look of sympathy and then realized it was misspent on me.
"So this inquiry about Colin O'Shea is strong enough motivation to get you here?"