“I’m on number three.”
The barkeep hovered expectantly. “J.D. neat,” said the newcomer. “And hit my friend here again.” He studied Harvey’s glass, then raised hooded eyes as cold-blooded and hard as a snake’s. “What is that?”
“Stoly’tini, twelve to one.”
“I like talkin’ to a man who speaks my language.” The big man in the yellow sweatshirt flipped a twenty onto the bar as their drinks arrived.
Harvey wondered if he could make it out the door if he decided to run for it. He might make it out the door, but not into his car. Was the killer armed? Would he pause to pick up his change before he came charging after him? If Harvey did make it to his car, the man would surely see what he drove, and his tag number — if he didn’t already have them. Had he been followed? Or had the big man methodically checked every bar in the neighborhood? At this hour, Harvey’s little Geo could easily be forced off the road with no witnesses. He could call the police, but how would he explain why he was at the murder scene? He would probably rot behind bars longer than the killer.
The big man sighed aloud in gratification after knocking back half his drink. “The program really tends to ruin your drinking, you know?”
Harvey did not answer, his mind racing. The man half turned to him. “You were starting to share back at the meeting,” he said carefully, “think you said something happened tonight, then you bolted like a deer who just saw Bigfoot. What the hell happened?” He waited for an answer.
“Nothing,” Harvey said weakly. “Nothing that a few more of these won’t cure.” The man wasn’t as handsome up close, he realized, raising his glass. His skin was rough and craggy, a small scar bisected one eyebrow, and there was a mean curl to his thin upper lip.
“A woman,” the man persisted, a knowing undertone to his voice. “Has to be. I bet that’s it.”
Yeah, Harvey thought. It’s a woman. The problem is, her lips are blue, she’s dead, and you killed her. He nodded, unable to trust his voice. He felt his eyes tear and looked away.
“They drive us all nuts. Yeah,” the man continued philosophically, “we all have our addictions, our weaknesses, that’s why it’s lucky that we all understand and support each other.” He took another gulp of his drink, then peered closely at Harvey. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere, other than a meeting? I’m sure we’ve crossed paths, I just can’t place it.”
“I don’t know,” Harvey croaked. “I’m not good at faces.” He cleared his throat and got to his feet.
“You live somewhere around here?” the man persisted. “Hey, where ya going?”
“Gotta go drain the lizard, be right back. Order us a coupla more. I shall return.”
Leaving his change on the bar, Harvey strolled past the rowdy pool players to the men’s room, trying to look casual and nonchalant.
He had remembered correctly. There was a pay phone in the men’s room and it worked. He punched in the familiar number, willing his sponsor to be home, willing him to answer.
“Thank you for your call,” the machine’s robotic message began.
“Phil, pick up, pick up, for God’s sake!” Harvey muttered, glancing at the door behind him.
“Harv, that you? What happened at—”
“Thank God you’re there, Phil. No time to talk, I need your help.”
“Where are you?”
“Never mind, Phil. That tall guy in the back tonight, by the coffee urn, the one in the yellow sweatshirt. Do you know him? Who is he?”
“Sure,” Phil said slowly. “Quiet, intense type o’ guy, shows up sporadically at the Garden Avenue meetings and the group over at St. John’s. Left right after you did.”
“What’s his name? What’s he do?”
Harvey gasped as the door opened, nearly dropping the phone, but it was only one of the pool players, a bone-thin Oriental with dyed-blond hair and a nose ring. The man went to a urinal, ignoring him.
“Where the hell are you, Harv?”
“Who is he?” Harvey hissed, his voice frantic.
“Calm down, calm down, son. Some kinda general contractor, he builds houses. Name is Ray, drives one o’ them pickups, big blue one, a Cherokee, I think, with the company name on the doors. Can’t think of it off the top of my head.”
“Ray. A contractor. Thanks, Phil. Later.”
“Wait a minute, Harv. Where—”
Harvey hung up. When the pool player left, he unlocked the narrow window and struggled to open it. His hands were sweaty and slippery. It had been painted shut and wouldn’t budge. Panic-stricken, expecting his drinking companion to burst in at any moment, he upended a wastepaper basket and, ankle throbbing, climbed atop it to gain better leverage. With a desperate wrench he threw open the window, grasped the sides, pushed off with his good leg, and managed to half drag and half hoist himself through. He tumbled forward and landed on his hands and knees in the alley.
He lurched to his feet, wincing at the pain from his ankle, and tried to catch his bearings. The blanket of stars overhead earlier had vanished, and the night looked as murky and unpromising as Harvey’s future. How had an evening he had looked forward to so much ever come to this? Tears flooded his eyes, but no time for regrets. The big man had to be wondering where he was. He would check the men’s room any minute now. He would see the open window.
Harvey half ran, half limped to the parking lot behind the building. There it was. A blue Cherokee, RAYMOND KARP CONSTRUCTION lettered on the side. A built-in toolbox rested in the bed of the truck, double locked, then secured by a padlocked chain. Harvey memorized the tag number and the wording on the door, then scrambled into his Geo. As he looked back he saw no one.
He drove aimlessly, focused on the rearview mirror. Not until certain he was not being followed did Harvey head home. He knew the big man could track him down, but it would probably take him a day or two. Harvey parked two blocks from his own place anyway, then walked cautiously to his apartment, scanning the darkness. Safely inside, he felt weak with relief.
His locks were the best — he had installed them himself — but straining and grunting, he pushed his mother’s old china cabinet against his front door, just in case. He then lined up his coffee mugs and mismatched jelly-jar drinking glasses along the windowsills, and balanced saucers on a kitchen chair placed against the back door. He took a ball peen hammer from his tool shelf to bed with him, then tried to sleep, his throbbing ankle elevated on a pillow. But he was still wide awake as the sun rose, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sounds of breaking glass or china crashing to the floor.
Before brewing his morning cup of English breakfast tea, Harvey channel-surfed the early-morning news. They all had the story. The murder was apparently the most newsworthy of that day’s three Miami homicides. Channel 7 aired footage of the shrouded corpse being taken away. Harvey shuddered, the remote in his hand, watching as they wheeled her out and down the stairs on a gurney, an inanimate form beneath a blanket. He remembered her energy, her spirited and distinctive walk, and heard her name for the first time: Sandra Dollinger, twenty-four years old, receptionist at a South Beach photo studio. Somebody’s daughter, somebody’s child. Harvey wanted to weep, overwhelmed by mixed emotions. Why did he ever go there? Why hadn’t he gone sooner? Had he been first, she would have been cautious, frightened, more security-conscious. Perhaps the killer never would have gotten to her. Never again, Harvey swore, if somehow he got through this, he would never again risk his life, his freedom, everything. Nothing was worth this.
“I can’t believe it,” a woman neighbor was saying in the Channel 10 report. She looked pale and near tears. “We’ve lived in this building for five and a half years, and nothing like this ever happened before. We didn’t know her well. But she seemed nice, always said hello, always friendly.”