the captain put Bernie back on the case.”
As if sensing a disturbance in their vaudeville routine, both of them fell silent. Sure enough, the distant bumping quickly grew closer until Bernie limped in. He announced that he had spoken to the captain and got authorization for a one-week surveillance team on the two hot-sheet hotels in the area that still didn’t have cameras in their lobbies.
Then he asked, “Do we have Jane Doe’s name yet?”
“Still waiting,” Annie replied without looking up.
“Get your coat,” he said to me. “We’re hitting the bricks.”
“Where you going?” Annie asked as I wrapped my scarf back on.
“Back to the Blank,” he said. “Shake some monkeys out of the tree.”
Soon we were driving up Eighth Avenue in a dark blue Chevy Lumina. I spotted O’Ryan on patrol with old Lenny Lombardi, the cop who’d been first on the scene the other day. I suppressed the urge to flip Eddie off as we drove past.
The Blank was actually the Templeton Hotel. Bernie called it the Blank because the name had been pried from the rusty metal sign that hung over its entrance on Forty-second Street. Florescent red lettering still flashed the word HOTEL underneath a frame that now only held icicles.
It felt like ten degrees below when Bernie and I left the car and walked up the street. I thought the limp would slow him down, but the pain seemed to be a stimulant. We visited the neighboring shops, where Bernie showed his shield and our Jane Doe sketch to various clerks. None of them remembered her.
As we walked eastward, Bernie’s exposed ears turned as red as brake lights. I wanted to tell him that most of our body heat escapes through our head and that he should wear a hat, but he was clearly the kind who didn’t care for unsolicited advice. As we passed Holy Cross, his right index finger palsied out a slight up-down-right-left motion, the way a lapsed Catholic might from force of habit.
By the time we reached the old McGraw-Hill Building, I was hoping we’d return to the car, but just then Bernie spotted something. A guy wearing a black vest over his old trench coat was passing out business cards to the V.I.P. Club on the corner of Fortieth and Eighth Avenue.
“These guys sometimes are good sources, ’cause they’re stuck out here,” Bernie said. Walking over, he showed the guy the sketch and asked if he remembered seeing her around.
“Sorry,” he replied, handing Bernie a card advertising the nearby strip club.
“Already wanked today, thanks,” Bernie replied. Turning to me he seemed to notice my casual attire for the first time and said, “Listen, we try to dress kind of officey. Dark, loose-fitting slacks and a conservative jacket should do the trick.”
“Fine,” I assured him.
Feeling acutely self-conscious, I caught our reflection in a store window as we walked past. I was wearing an off-white hat and a new suede jacket. Bernie, who was a little shorter and darker than me, was exhaling into his cupped palms to keep them warm. All I needed was a pair of cowboy boots and together we’d look like a tall, androgynous Jon Voight and an older Dustin Hoffman from Midnight Cowboy.
We turned right on Eighth Avenue and walked past the Port Authority. Since 9/11 it had been surrounded by a dozen big concrete planters to protect against possible car bombers. Wishful thinking, I thought. Over Bernie’s head, I saw a billboard that the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association had recently put up: “NYC Cops Ranked #1 in fighting crime. Ranked #145 in Salary. It’s Time to Fix the Injustice.”
“See this?” Bernie said, pointing at the giant turquoise grill of the old bus depot. “When I first started working here, it was the newest, most modern building on the block, now it’s the—”
“No! You’re not supposed to eat sushi on a Sunday,” some young cell-phone retard babbled as he walked beside us. “Cause the last catch is on Friday.”
“It wasn’t until cell phones were invented that I realized exactly how dumb most people are,” Bernie declared.
“Yeah, we went out last night, but absolutely nothing happened!” the cellphoner either didn’t hear or just ignored him.
“’Cause you’re a fucking idiot!” Bernie yelled right in his face. The kid stopped dead on the sidewalk, allowing us to continue without his moronic accompaniment.
Along the east side of Eighth Avenue, from Forty-second down to Fortieth Street, almost all the buildings had either been torn down or were boarded up.
“Bert, my old partner, told me he once dreamed that somewhere on the north slope of Alaska there was a place where all the buildings that are torn down here miraculously reappear.”
Did that include all the rats and roaches, and the riffraff?”
Bernie laughed. “Can you imagine, in the middle of some vast wasteland coming upon a frozen city consisting of all the old tenements and office buildings that this city has sloughed off over the years?” he asked. “The old Penn Station, the two former Madison Square Gardens. . .”
“I guess the Twin Towers would be there . . .”
“I wouldn’t mind going there after I die,” he said. “If you don’t look carefully, I mean really look, you can miss how quickly this city shakes off its old skin. It’s always growing another, taller, glistening new one. In a matter of months there’ll be a row of shiny new office buildings there.” Bernie pointed across the street. Word was, the New York Times was going to move its offices to somewhere along Eighth Avenue.
When we reached Forty-first Street, I noticed Bernie was staring dead ahead. Like a pitbull after a rat, he had caught a scent.
I tried to figure out who he was looking at, but before I could ask him, he pulled out an inhaler and gave it a hard shake, then pressed it three times while inhaling deeply.
“Would you mind looking behind me and tell me if you see any cops?”
“Why?” I asked as I turned, wondering if we needed back-up.
An older African American man in an army coat brushed by me, holding a pair of old shopping bags in each hand. Bernie whipped his arms up in a mock yawn, clocking the poor guy right on the jaw and sending him to the pavement.
“Hey! I don’t see many faces from the old days,” Farrell said, eagerly helping the poor man to his feet. The contents of his shopping bags—packaged bundles of new tube socks—three for ten dollars—were scattered along the icy ground.
“Please, I don’t want no trouble,” the guy said, searching for the black knit beanie that had fallen off his head. I wasn’t sure what to do.
“Say hello to Youngblood Barnett,” Farrell said to me. “Twenty years ago, he helped hookers off the mean streets of Brooklyn.” Youngblood was no longer young.
“Officer,” he replied, “I’ve been out for ten years and I don’t do nothing no more.”
“Hold on,” Bernie grabbed him. “Last time we talked was in Queens Criminal Court.”
“Yeah, and I didn’t get out for twelve years.” Youngblood replied.
“We still have to catch up about Lily,” Bernie said, and he lunged forward, causing Barnett to jump back and smack his head into a bronze statue of Jackie Gleason’s famed TV character, Ralph Kramden, which had been temporarily installed in front of the bus depot.
“You’ve got to be careful,” Bernie said with a friendly grin.
“Look, I didn’t know she worked for you, did I?” Youngblood winced, holding his scalp. “And why would I deliberately kill my best earner?”
“Let’s see, that was around twenty years ago,” Sergeant Bernie replied, “Lily would’ve been near forty now. She’d probably have two kids and a husband somewhere in Elmhurst.”