“Guys like me. Interesting.”
“You know what I mean, don’t go getting all politically correct on me.”
Donald poked his head between the seats. “I’m glad you found such satisfaction in playing your games, Rick, really I am. But you’re pushing forty, maybe it’s time to focus on something a tad more adult.”
“You’re just bitter. All that fancy bullshit—books and classical music and all that poof-poof crap—none of it mattered in the long run. You can recite a poem some guy wrote a hundred fucking years ago, and you know all about plays and paintings and all that crap. So what? You ended up ditching college and living in Potter’s Cove working a regular job just like the rest of us. At least I got—”
“Both of you just shut the fuck up, all right?”
Donald disappeared into the back and Rick looked at me with genuine surprise. I turned away but heard him mutter something unintelligible, and from the corner of my eye saw him shake his head.
We headed into the south end of the city, one of the rougher areas of New Bedford. Even in such weather, the streets seemed unusually empty, the city unnaturally quiet, as if in anticipation of our arrival.
“Nice neighborhood,” I mumbled.
“Fucking shit-bin.”
“As Melville said, ‘Such dreary streets’,” Donald offered quietly. “Such a historically significant city, such decent, diverse, hard-working people, yet still so dreary in some parts. I wonder what Herman would think of her now.”
“Drugs, that’s the goddamn problem,” Rick said, turning onto a side street. “Drugs are ruining this country, and let me tell you—”
“Is there anything you don’t have an opinion on?” Donald asked. “The city’s been on the rise for quite some time now.”
“I got your rise right here, swinging.” The Jeep slowed and Rick pulled over into the only vacant space, a spot near the top of the block. The narrow street consisted of two-story tenements with tiny fenced-in yards and side driveways. Most were dilapidated and in various stages of disrepair, and even bathed in steady rain, strewn garbage and assorted filth defiantly clogged gutters and stained sidewalks. It seemed darker here; as if night had not yet fully released the city like it had the outskirts and beyond, as if the dreary streets Melville had written about in Moby Dick could still be conjured more than 150 years later. Rick pointed over my shoulder. “That’s it.”
The building stood on the corner; the front yard cordoned off by a rusted chain-link fence, the tiny section of grass beyond unkempt, cluttered with toys and other debris. I felt my stomach clench as I noticed a small window along the base of the tenement. Somewhere on the other side of that grimy pane of glass one of my best friends had lived out the final days of his life and eventually killed himself. My eyes shifted to the windows on the first floor. One facing the street was filled with light.
How could anyone continue to live there after what Bernard had done?
I tried to picture him walking this block, moving through the rickety gate and going inside. I tried to picture him alive here, but all I could see, all I could sense, was death.
“Let’s go.”
Rick’s gruff tone snapped me back, and I was out of the Jeep and standing in the rain before I’d even thought about it. Donald, looking nauseous and pale, stepped out just as Rick rounded the front of the vehicle and set the alarm with a push of a button on his key chain. We all stood there a moment, watching the building like children staring down the local haunted house.
The next street over emptied into an enormous vacant and weed-infested lot, beyond which loomed one of the more infamous housing projects the city had to offer. I vaguely remembered cruising that project nearly two decades before while still in high school, searching for a quick pot buy before heading off to a party in nearby Westport.
This seemed like another life entirely, and maybe it was.
“OK,” I heard Donald say through a lengthy sigh. “Let me do the talking.”
With Donald in the lead we moved through the gate and huddled near the front door. I could sense the ocean nearby, its smells and sounds and physical presence always evident, watching and whispering reminders that it was still the pulse of the city, and like an audacious child, it would not be ignored. Despite having lived my entire life within walking distance of the Atlantic Ocean, I was reminded how oddly uncomfortable it made me. Like the living thing it is, the sea had always seemed ominous and threatening to me, a malevolent sentry eager to swallow me whole if only given the chance. The idea of drowning, of dying at sea was terrifying, and unlike most residents of southeastern Massachusetts, I was not an avid swimmer, only set foot on a boat if I absolutely had to, and wouldn’t eat seafood with a gun to my head. The ocean had always been something I found fascinating but beautiful only in a fatalistic sense—much the way a tornado or a particularly violent storm could be beautiful—that by its very nature and power its magnificence was inherent. But it was also something I wanted to experience only from a comfortable and presumably safe distance. Living here meant that the ocean was always with you—always close—and even when you couldn’t see or hear or smell it, you could feel it.
Why I was so focused on the ocean at that point I don’t know, but death was on my mind, sharing space with the first sensations of fear. Beyond the door, somewhere in the bowels of this slowly decaying building, Bernard had died—had been dead—and no matter what was or wasn’t said or done, we were too late.
Donald rapped on the door and the sound brought me back around. When no one answered, Rick gave it a try and seconds later we heard locks disengaging. I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as the door swung partially open to reveal a tired-looking, slightly overweight woman. Her dark eyes narrowed a bit at the sight of us. From deep within the apartment behind her I heard a child’s voice interspersed with sounds of a television. She stared at us questioningly.
“Hi there.” Donald forced a smile. “Is Sammy in, by any chance?”
The woman nodded, held up a finger then closed the door.
“The bitch even speak English?” Rick mumbled.
Before Donald could argue with him or I could tell them both to knock it off the door opened a second time, this time fully, and a large man in a tank top and a pair of Dickeys stood before us. With thick and well-muscled arms covered in tattoos, a shock of dark bushy hair and more than a day’s growth of beard, he was imposing and seemed anything but pleased with our presence on his steps. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry to bother—”
“What do you want? I know you?”
From his expression I knew Rick felt challenged and planned to respond. He opened his mouth but Donald spoke before he had the chance. “I’m Donald LaCroix, I spoke with you late last night on the phone.”
The man relaxed a bit. “Oh, you Bernard’s friend?”
“Yes, we spoke last night.”
“Right, right, OK.”
Donald motioned to Rick and me. “Rick Brisco and Alan Chance.”
He gave a quick nod, a genuine smile, and shook our hands in turn. “Bernard talked about you guys all the time, come on in out of the rain. Sorry, we don’t get a whole lot of people coming to the door this time of morning, especially on a Saturday. Never know today, right?”
As he stepped back and let us pass, we all moved into a cramped and dim foyer. An adjacent hallway emptied into a well-lit kitchen near the rear of the building. To our immediate right was a modestly furnished den where two young girls sat in front of a console television eating cereal, and to the left was a closed door I knew without being told led to the basement.