“HOW MUCH did they all freak out?” asked Tracy, pouring two glasses of our go-to red, an Artesa Cabernet. Hands down, it was our favorite vineyard during our trip to Napa years ago.
We were hanging out in the kitchen after I got back from New Haven. I’d already changed into the home uniform: jeans, bare feet, and my Stones T-shirt.
“On a scale of one to ten, it was a solid eight and a half,” I said. “The collective gasps were louder than last year, although not quite as loud as the year before. That class was like Spinal Tap; it went to eleven.”
“What about the kid?” asked Tracy. “Was he believable?”
“Best one yet,” I said before raising my glass. “Cheers once again to the Yale School of Drama.”
Every year the dean sends over one of his most promising male students, and every year the kid doubles over after I hit him. But he’s really just taking a bow. Always smiling, he pops right up and lifts the bottom of his hoodie to reveal a body protector, the kind boxers wear when sparring.
Can we ever really judge behavior by the behavior itself?
Lesson learned. Most often, we can’t.
“You know what I love the most?” said Tracy. “You always swear the class to secrecy afterward so they don’t spoil it for future classes, and they always keep their promise.”
“That’s one of those counterintuitive things about human nature,” I said. “One person with a secret is more likely to reveal it than a whole group.”
“Did Freud say that?”
“No. Reinhart did.”
Tracy shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“Yeah. Me, either,” I said, reaching for our stack of takeout menus. “So what are we in the mood for? Pizza? Chinese? Sushi?”
I should’ve known better. Tracy certainly did. He pulled out the drawer next to the dishwasher, grabbing the birthday gift he gave me after we first moved in together. Dinner a-go-go, he called it.
From day one, we could never decide what we wanted for takeout, so Tracy took the spinner from an old Twister game he found at a flea market and wrote the names of all our favorite restaurants in the colored circles ringing the dial.
Best. Gift. Ever.
“Chinese it is,” I said after the spinner settled on “Han Dynasty.”
I was about to phone in our usual order (mu shu pork, chicken with broccoli, and two spring rolls) when Tracy pointed over my shoulder. “Hey, turn it up,” he said. “Have you been following this?”
Our small TV in the kitchen was on, the sound muted. I grabbed the remote next to me and hit the volume.
“What is it?” I asked.
Once again, I should’ve known better.
“This serial-killer story really exploded while you were in Maine with your dad,” said Tracy. “It’s crazy, right?”
At least I’m pretty sure that’s what he said. All I could really hear was the voice of my conscience. You still haven’t told him yet?
I stared at the TV, watching the five o’clock local news. On one side of the split screen was the anchor talking about “a series of murders linked to playing cards and all linked presumably to one killer. They’re calling him the Dealer.”
On the other side of the screen was a wide shot of the pressroom at City Hall. The podium was empty, but every single seat in front of it was taken, as was every inch of wall space along the sides. It was standing room only, and even through the TV you could almost smell the blood in the water.
“Mayor Deacon’s press conference is scheduled to start any moment now,” continued the anchor. “According to reports, one of the main questions will be: When did the mayor first know about this serial killer now terrorizing the city?”
Right on cue Deacon appeared from stage right, squaring up behind the podium. At least he had the courtesy not to be late to his own funeral.
Of course, as much as that was the vibe, the truth—Deacon’s version of it, at least—was going to be different. It was sure to be convincing, too. Deacon was, after all, a gifted politician. He never went anywhere near a microphone without knowing exactly what he wanted to say.
Better yet, without knowing who was going to let him say it.
“A hundred dollars he calls on Allen Grimes for the first question,” I said.
Before Tracy could even respond, Deacon parted the sea of shouting voices among the press corps, his index finger landing directly on Grimes. “Yes, Allen, go ahead,” he said.
Tracy turned to me, stunned. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Funny you should ask,” I said.
Chapter 51
COLTON LANGE, ace closer for the New York Yankees, hated being a celebrity, especially when he was home in Manhattan, where he was raised. The relentless attention, life under a microscope…it sucked.
He even hated the supposed perks—people always buying him drinks and picking up his tab in bars and restaurants. Bullshit. Nothing was ever free.
Damn right he was complaining. Why the hell did people think they could stop him on the street simply because they rooted for him on the mound? The endless picture and autograph requests…the unsolicited critiques whenever the team lost a few games in a row…he had to put up with all of it. And he hated it.
But there was one thing Colton Lange hated even more about getting recognized all the time.
It made it almost impossible for him to buy his heroin.
“Wait here; I’ll be back in five minutes,” he told the Uber driver, a kid in his twenties who was gripping the steering wheel of his Prius so tightly that Lange, even through his dark sunglasses, could see the whites of the kid’s knuckles.
“I don’t know, man,” said the kid. He was wearing a lumberjack-plaid shirt and a knitted hat, the de rigueur outfit of a Brooklyn hipster. He was also nervous as hell.
This wasn’t Brooklyn. It was Harlem. At two in the morning.
“You don’t know what?” asked Lange from the backseat, the edge in his voice confirming that he knew exactly what the kid meant. Moreover, he couldn’t give a rat’s ass.
“This neighborhood,” said the kid, craning his neck. “I’m just saying.”
Lange smiled underneath the fake mustache he sported when making his late-night junk runs. The mustache was added to the disguise back in the pre-Uber days, when cabbies still managed to recognize him despite the sunglasses and the do-rag he wore over his blond hair. Post-mustache, his record was perfect at remaining unrecognizable. Lange truly was incognito.
This kid, on the other hand, was as obvious as they come. Like so many of the other drivers before him, he’d never actually set foot in the ’hood. Of course that’s why Lange always listed a “safer” destination when ordering the ride, only to announce the change of plans when the car arrived.
“C’mon, don’t be a racist,” Lange would then say when the driver hesitated. They always hesitated.