Manhattan Nocturne Read Free

lights, some on, some off, or more graffiti, or rotting shelves of flowerpots, or riggings of clothesline from which flapped socks or panties or babies’ pajamas. The scene was bizarre and ominous and in no way unusual.
    Then I spotted the police and the firemen and the kids on bicycles. It’s the kids that tell you whether the scene is still hot—they lose interest quickly, especially when the gore is not as good as what they see on TV, and if they’re milling around, starting to argue and roughhouse, then the situation is getting cold, the bodies gone, the witnesses hard to find. This scene looked like it had only about ten minutes left in it. I stepped through to get the story and was glad to see no TV vans around. The regular cops don’t usually recognize me, but when somebody’s been killed, a homicide detective is there soon, and often we’ve talked before. (I should admit right here, early on, that I’ve been sewn in with the cops for a while now—one of the deputy police commissioners under Mayor Giuliani, Hal Fitzgerald, is my daughter’s godfather, which is good and not good: you start trading favors, you forget what the sides are, you forget you’re playing on opposite teams. This was another obvious fuckup that I didn’t avoid.) The captain in charge, a tall guy with red hair, told me what had happened: a young father living on the fourth floor of one of the buildings had not paid his cocaine tab; some nice people had forced their way into his apartment to
scare him or to whack him—it wasn’t clear—and ended up setting the place on fire. The captain recounted the incident duly, his eyes holding the brick horizon, thinking, it would seem, of anything else—his children, his wife, his boat—anything other than another case of what cops sometimes call “misdemeanor homicide.” You got anything more? I asked. Maybe there was a fight, he shrugged, or one of the bullets hit the gas stove. Or maybe the two shooters lit the fire on purpose—the details were as yet unknown, since the girlfriend was in shock and had been taken to the hospital, and of the three other adults who had seen what happened, two were nowhere to be found (probably nervously drinking in a bar in another borough by now) and the third was dead. What was certain was that after the shooters left the apartment they had jammed an old bed frame between the blue metal apartment door and the hallway wall. The door opened outward, in violation of all relevant New York City public-housing codes, and thus the woman had been trapped in her burning apartment with her baby and a shot-up boyfriend.
    I walked into the project’s common area and scrounged around long enough to find one of the neighbors, a woman in her late twenties in a black winter coat. She lived across from the apartment in question. The interview wouldn’t take long, just a few questions. So people will know what happened, I usually say, accompanied by some scribbling in a notebook (only rarely do I use a tape recorder—it scares people into silence, and besides, I always remember the good quotes—they stick in your ear). The woman held a baby in a snowsuit on her shoulder, a baby most interested in this man who was a funny color. The black eyes in the tiny brown face searched mine, and for a moment the world was redeemed. Then I asked the woman what she had witnessed. Well, I wasn’t expecting nothing to happen, she said, ’cause it was still morning and usually things like that don’t happen in the morning, everybody be sleeping. She possessed a handsome face with strong features, but when she lifted her gaze up to the apartment, the windows of which had been shattered from the inside by the firemen’s axes, I saw that her eyes were rheumy
and tired. The fire had smudged the brick wall of the building, and the firemen had hurled charred household items out of the window: a kitchen