“You wouldn’t know what to do with it if you had it.”
“I just stick in my dick and move it around. Hehheh.”
Rackman drove through the darkening streets to the Bowery while Doolan finished the first pint of wine. Crossing Fourteenth Street, they came to the area of pawnshops, saloons, and porno movie theaters that comprised the classy part of the Bowery. Rackman parked in front of a store that sold work clothes and camping equipment. Its windows were crowded with denim jeans, boots, jockey shorts, backpacks, and jackets similar to the one in the back seat. Rackman pulled Doolan into the store, which was staffed by Hasidic men in black pants, white shirts, beards, and yarmukles.
One of the Hasids, whose skin was so pale you could almost see his bones, stepped forward. He had a potbelly, skinny arms, and was in dire need of physical exercise. “Can I help you?” he asked in the guttural tones of Eastern Europe. His beard was light brown and his eyes were wary.
“Hi,” Rackman said with a big smile. “I’d like to get one of those nice red and black wool jackets for my friend here.”
The Hasid looked at Rackman and Doolan as if they’d come from another planet. “This is your friend?”
“That’s right.”
The Hasid shrugged and led them past stacks of jeans and racks of shirts, through the tent section and the boot corner, to the cluttered room where jackets of wool and down were piled on shelves.
The Hasid looked at Doolan as though he was a piece of shit. “He should be a thirty-eight.”
“We can try one on him,” Rackman replied.
“If he tries it on he’s got to buy it, because we won’t be able to sell it to anybody else.”
“Give him a forty, then.”
The Hasid climbed the ladder and muttered to himself as he looked in the collars of jackets for sizes. Rackman watched, feeling uneasy as he always did in the presence of pious Jews. He felt guilty for not being more religious, for not upholding the traditions of his people, and believed that Jews like this Hasid despised him for being assimilated, but Rackman had been born and raised in America, as were his parents, who were minimally religious. He couldn’t understand Hebrew, wouldn’t know how to behave in a synagogue, and deep down thought the Jewish religion was a museum of obsolete rituals and beliefs. What did it matter whether a particular edible substance was eaten with another edible substance? How could a person wear two feet of twined hair around his ears and believe that had religious significance?
The Hasid descended the ladder with a size forty red and black jacket of the same brand and style worn by the Slasher.
“You like it?” Rackman asked Doolan as the Hasid held it up.
“Don’t like the color,” Doolan grumbled.
“But it’s the same color as the other one,” Rackman protested. “I’m getting you this one to replace the other one I’m taking for evidence.”
“Don’t like the color.”
“Why the fuck not!”
“It reminds me of the dead girls.”
The Hasid raised an eyebrow. “What dead girls?”
“Do you have this jacket in any other colors?” Rackman asked.
“It also comes in green and black squares, but I don’t know if I got any left in his size.”
Rackman looked at Doolan. “Will you take one in green and black if he’s got any left?”
“I like green.”
“That must be because it goes with your eyes.” Rackman looked at the Hasid. “A green and black jacket for my friend, please.”
The Hasid made a face and climbed the ladder again.
“I really like green,” Doolan said drunkenly.
“You’re going to be the best-dressed man on the Bowery.”
The Hasid came down the ladder with a green and black jacket in size forty. “This what you want?”
Rackman looked at Doolan. “What do you say, champ?”
Doolan looked at it, nodded, and pursed his lips. “I like that one. Lemme put it on.”
“If he puts it on, he’s got to buy it,” the Hasid said.
“We’re going to buy it, don’t worry.”
Gingerly the Hasid helped put the jacket on Doolan who stumbled in front of a mirror and looked at himself. “It’ll do the trick,” he said, smiling at himself.
“How much is it?” Rackman asked.
“Forty-three ninety-five.”
“You take Master Charge?”
“You got some identification?”
Rackman whipped out his shield. “Will this do?”
“Better you should show me a driver’s license.”
Rackman and Doolan accompanied the Hasid to the front counter, where the transaction was made. Then they left the store, Doolan looking down at his new coat and touching it. In a few weeks when it was warm he might get five dollars for it at one of those used clothing stores.
They got in the car and Rackman drove around the corner, parking beside a vacant lot with a high chain fence around it. He reached under the seat and took out the second pint of wine. “Care for a drink?” he asked, wagging it in front of Doolan.
Doolan lunged for it, but Rackman pulled it back and pushed Doolan away. “Start talking, you motherfucker. Where’d you get the jacket?”
Doolan touched his sleeve. “You just bought it for me.”
“I mean the red and black jacket in the back seat.”
“Oh, that jacket.”
“Yeah, that jacket.”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’d better get sure, or I’ll take the one you’re wearing and keep it for myself.”
Doolan squinched shut his eyes and tried to remember where he found the jacket. No images appeared in the blackness. “I can’t remember,” he said.
“Can you remember when you got it?”
“A few days ago.”
“Where have you been for the last few days?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re a real fuck-up—you know that, Doolan?”
“Yeah.”
“You said before that you thought you’d be able to remember where you found the jacket, didn’t you?”
“I did, but I can’t remember now.”
“Let’s take it one step at a time, Doolan. Do you think you found it in the Village around where you were picked up?”
Doolan shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“And you already said you didn’t get it in Chinatown or Little Italy, right?”
“Right.”
“How about the Lower East Side?”
“I don’t like to go to the Lower East Side because the people like to pour gasoline on drunks and set fire to them.”
“That leaves the East Village. Did you find it in the East Village?”
Doolan thought for a few moments, then jumped as if somebody grabbed him. “Hey you know what?” he asked with a smile as the dawn of realization broke over him.
“What?”
“I think I got it around here.”
Rackman looked out the windshield. “Here?”
“I think so.”
“This street?”
“One of the streets around here, because I remember I was in one of them Ukrainian neighborhoods when I found it.”
“Would you say it was between Third and Second Avenue?”
“I’d say between Third Avenue and Avenue A.”
“That’s a lot of territory.”
“I’m doin’ my best.”
“Let’s narrow it down a little more. Was it below Fourteenth Street?”
“Yeah, because there ain’t no Ukrainians above Fourteenth Street.”
“Between Fourteenth and Houston?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go for a little ride. Maybe we’ll see something that’ll jog your memory.”
Doolan jumped up again. “Hey wait a minute!”
“What is it?”
“There was a newsstand on the corner. I remember because when I walked by I was thinking that I needed something to eat.”