Page 35

THIRTY-FOUR

They are introspective as the taxi crawls its way uptown. This whole expedition was a waste, Alex realizes, feeling heavy. She is no closer to figuring out what happened with Francis, nor does she have a clue who wrote the threatening note. All she has managed to do is traumatize everyone around her. And for what?

Alex is beginning to think that there is no logical order to any of it. It is quite possible that everything happening is completely random. What if, instead of it being a premeditated murder, Francis was in the wrong place at the wrong time, stabbed by someone who happened to be passing by her house with a random urge to kill someone? As for the letters, they were vague enough that really anyone could have written them. Maybe this is all just a distraction, a way for her to avoid thinking about her own failings.

She gives Raymond a concerned glance. He hasn’t spoken a word since leaving the hotel. His eyes look hollow. They pass by the billboards of Times Square. Alex watches the colored lights hitting the origami-fold planes of his face. The taxi stops at a light, and a mass of people swarm the car as they cross Broadway.

“Look at this hellscape,” Janice mutters, dabbing at her forehead with a monogrammed napkin from the Nest as they pass by rows of bad pizza shops and brightly lit stores selling touristy T-shirts and plaster replicas of the Statue of Liberty. “No self-respecting New Yorker would ever.”

They make a right, heading east across town. The foot traffic starts to thin out as they pass Lexington, cutting uptown on Third Avenue.

“Stop the car,” Raymond barks suddenly to the driver. “Right here. Pull over. That’s it.” The taxi swerves to a stop next to a low brick building covered in scaffolding. Raymond thrusts the fare at the driver and fumbles to pull the car door open. Alex thinks that he is going to leave them there, but he stops and peers back at them, gripping the edge of the car door.

“You coming?” he asks gruffly. Alex looks at Janice. She nods, and they scoot out of the back seat. It isn’t until they are out of the cab that Alex sees the subterranean dive bar peeking out over the sidewalk. A neon sign for Budweiser shines out from a clouded window at shin level. They follow Raymond down a short set of steps into the partially submerged first floor of a dilapidated brick building. ATTILA’S BAR reads the rusted black lettering above the frosted-glass door.

Raymond hustles down the steps, into the bar. Alex and Janice follow him. Alex glances back at the steps as she pushes through the door.

The place is small, a low-ceilinged box with a small bar to the right and a pool table in back. The yellow lighting is not there to do anyone any favors, Alex thinks, looking around at the weathered assortment of characters who inhabit the place. All of whom turn to look as the three of them make their way to the bar.

“Are those people actually smoking?” Janice hisses at her. “So retro.” Alex glances around at a large bald man in a leather vest who holds a fat cigar glowing between his fingers. The man gives her a glare and she turns away quickly, not wanting to cause any trouble for them.

“Yep.”

Raymond seems not to have noticed, pushing himself up against the bar and calling out to the bartender, “A whiskey, Michter’s. Neat.”

“What about these two?” The bartender, a man with arms as big as fire hydrants, points at Alex and Janice.

“Do you have any pineapple juice—” Janice starts to say, but Alex gives her a look.

“We’ll do three whiskeys,” Alex says. The bartender grunts his approval, lining up three smudged shot glasses on the bar.

“So, this is where you come in your spare time,” Janice says, looking around the dimly lit room. “Fun-looking group of people.”

Two men look up at them from the end of the bar. Alex braces herself, glancing at the door. She could run if she had to, but what about these two? Her companions are not exactly agile.

One of them nods familiarly, giving Raymond a little wave. “Former Hell’s Angels,” Raymond says under his breath. “Those guys did some informant work for me a while back.”

The bartender slides the shots across the bar. Raymond’s hands are shaking so badly that he struggles to pick up his glass. When he finally gets a grip on it, he throws the entirety back into his mouth, shuddering after. Janice raises her whiskey and gives Alex a look. Alex takes a sip of hers and sets it down, the memory of Howard’s breath in the hall making her stomach roil.

Janice turns toward Raymond. “Okay, now are you going to tell us what the hell happened back there?”

“What did that woman mean?” Alex asks him carefully.

Raymond brings his hands to his face, pressing his thumbs into his eye sockets. “She was the wife of someone I used to work with,” he says quietly.

“An enemy?” Janice speculates.

“No. A friend.” Raymond’s voice tears. He looks away from them, out the window.

Alex can tell that he wasn’t just an acquaintance.

“Why did she say that?”

Raymond stares down at the bar for a beat. Just when Alex thinks he might start to cry, his eyes harden. His knuckles grow white against the empty glass.

“You have to forgive me. All this time.” His voice is ragged. “I’ve been lying.”