A Ticket to the Boneyard

I went up to Carole on the break and asked if Toni had been a member of our group. "Came here all the time," she said. "Sober three years. Toni Cleary."



"I can't place him."



"Her. I'm sure you knew her, Matt. Tall, dark hair, around my age. Worked in the garment center, I forget doing what but she used to talk about how she was having an affair with her boss. I'm positive you knew her."



"My God," I said.



"She never struck me as suicidal. But I guess you never know, do you?"



"We went out and spoke together in Queens less than a week ago," I said. "The two of us and Richie Gelman, we went all the way out to Richmond Hill together." I scanned the room looking for Richie, as if he could help confirm what I was saying. I didn't see him. "She seemed in great shape," I said. "She sounded fine."



"I saw her Friday night and she seemed fine then. I don't remember what she said but she didn't seem depressed or anything."



"We had a bite afterward. She seemed solid and content, happy with her life. What was it, pills?"



She shook her head. "She went out a window. It was in the paper and there was something on the six o'clock news tonight. It was freaky, because she landed on some kid fresh out of church services and he was killed, too. Crazy, isn't it?"



Call your cousin, the message read.



This time I didn't have to go through the answering machine. She picked up on the first ring. "He called," she said.



"And?"



"He said, 'Elaine, I know you're there. Pick up the telephone and turn off your machine.' And I did."



"Why?"



"I don't know why. He told me to do it and I did it. He said he had a message for you."



"What was the message?"



"Matt, why did I turn off the machine? He told me to do it and I did it. What if he tells me to unlock the door and let him in? Am I going to do it?"



"No, you're not."



"How do you know that?"



"Because that would be unsafe and you'd know not to do it. It didn't put you in any danger to turn off the machine. There's a difference."



"I wonder."



So did I, but I would keep my doubts to myself. I said, "What was the message?"



"Oh right. It didn't make any sense, at least I don't think it did. To me. I wrote it down right after he hung up so I wouldn't forget it. Where did I put it?"



I suppose I knew what it was. I must have.



"Here it is," she said. " 'Tell him I'm going to take all his women away. Tell him yesterday was number two. No extra charge for the kid on the street. He was a dividend.' Does any of that make any sense to you?"



"No," I said. "But I know what it means."



I called Anita. She had remarried, and it was her husband who answered the phone. I apologized for calling so late and asked to speak to Mrs. Carmichael. It felt strange calling her that, but the whole call felt strange.



I told her I was probably bothering her for nothing, but that there was a situation she ought to know about. I went through it quickly, explaining that a man I'd put away years ago was carrying on a psychopathic vendetta, trying to get back at me by killing all my women.



"Except I don't have any," I said, "so he's been forced to interpret the phrase loosely. He killed one woman who was a witness against him twelve years ago, and he killed another who was the most casual acquaintance of mine you could imagine. I didn't even know her last name."



"But he killed her. Why don't the police arrest him?"



"I'm hoping they will. But in the meantime-"



"You think I'm in danger?"



"I honestly don't know. He may not know you exist, and if he does there's no reason to assume he'd know your married name or your new address. But the guy's resourceful."



"What about the boys?"



One was in the service, the other in college on the other side of the country. "They don't have anything to worry about," I said. "It's women he's really interested in."



"In killing, you mean. God. What do you think I should do?''



I made some suggestions. That she think about taking a vacation, if it was convenient. Failing that, that she notify the local police and see what protection they could provide. She and her husband might even want to think about hiring private security guards. And they should certainly pay attention and see if they were being followed or watched, and should avoid opening doors to strangers, and-



"God damn it," she said. "We're divorced. I'm married to somebody else. Doesn't that make a difference?"



"I don't know," I said. "He may be like the Catholic church. He may not recognize divorce."



We talked some more, and then I had her put her husband on the line and went through the whole thing with him. He seemed sensible and decisive and I hung up feeling that he'd think it through and do something positive. I only wished I could say the same for myself.



I went over to the window and looked out at the city. When I moved in you could see the World Trade Center towers from my window, but since then various builders have come along, eating up different portions of the sky. I still have a fairly decent view, but it's not what it used to be.



It was raining again. I wondered if he was out there. Maybe he'd get wet, maybe he'd catch his death.



I picked up the phone and called Jan.



She is a sculptor, with a loft south of Canal on Lispenard Street. I had met her back when we were both drinking, and we did some good drinking at her place, she and I. Then she got sober and we stopped seeing each other, and then I got sober and we began again. And then it stopped working, and then it ended, and neither of us ever quite understood why.



When she answered I said, "Jan, it's Matt. I'm sorry to be calling so late."



"It is late," she said. "Is something the matter?"



"Definitely," I said. "I'm not sure whether or not it affects you. My fear is that it might."



"I don't understand."



I went through it in a little more detail than I had with Anita. Jan had seen the TV coverage of Toni's death, but of course she hadn't suspected that it was anything other than the suicide it appeared to be. Nor had she known that Toni was in the program.



"I wonder if I ever met her."



"You could have. You came to St. Paul's a few times. And she got around some, spoke at other meetings."



"And you went on a speaking date with her? You told me where but it slipped my mind."



"Richmond Hill."



"Where is that, somewhere in Queens?"



"Somewhere in Queens, yes."



"And that's why he killed her? Or were the two of you sort of an item?"



"Not at all. She wasn't my type and she was involved with someone at her job. We weren't even buddies particularly. I'd talk to her at meetings, but that speaking engagement was the only real time we ever spent together."



"And on the strength of that-"



"Right."



"You're sure it wasn't suicide? Of course you are. That's a stupid question. Do you think-"



"I'm not sure what I think," I said. "He got out of prison four months ago. He could have spent the whole four months tagging along behind me and he wouldn't have seen me spending time with you. But I don't know what he knows, who he talked to, what kind of research he might have done. You want to know what I think you should do?"



"Yes."



"I think you should get on a plane first thing in the morning. Pay cash for your ticket and don't tell anyone where you're going."



"You're serious."



"Yes."



"I have good locks on the door. I could-"



"No," I said. "Your building's not secure, and this is a man who gets in and out of places and makes it look easy. You can decide to take your chances, but don't kid yourself that you can stay in the city and be safe."



She thought for a moment. "I've been meaning to visit my-"



"Don't tell me," I cut in.



"You think the line is tapped?"



"I think it's better if nobody knows where you're going, myself included."



"I see." She sighed. "Well, Matthew, you've got me taking it seriously. I might as well start packing right now. How will I know when it's safe to come back? Can I call you?"



"Anytime. But don't leave your number."



"I feel like a spy, and an inept one at that. Suppose I can't reach you? How will I know when to come in from the cold?"



"A couple of weeks should do it," I said. "One way or the other."



On the phone with her, talking with her, I had to fight the urge to grab a cab to Lispenard Street and set about the business of protecting her. We could spend a few hours drinking gallons of coffee and having one of the intense conversations that had characterized our relationship from the night we met.



I missed those conversations. I missed her, and sometimes I thought about trying to make it work again, but we had already made that attempt a couple of times and the reality of the situation seemed to be that we were through with each other. We didn't feel through with each other, but that was how it seemed to be.



Back when it all fell apart I'd called Jim Faber. "It's just hard for me to grasp," I told him. "The whole idea that it's over between us. I honestly thought it would work out."



"It did," he said. "This is how it worked out."



I almost called him now.



I could have. Our arrangement was that I wouldn't call him after midnight, and it was well past that. On the other hand, I could call him any hour of the day or night if it was an emergency.



I thought about it and decided the present circumstances didn't qualify as an emergency. I wasn't in danger of taking a drink, which is the only sort of emergency I could think of that would justify waking the guy up. Curiously enough, I didn't even feel like drinking. I felt like hitting someone, or screaming, or kicking the wall down, but I didn't much feel like picking up a drink.



I went out and walked around. The rain had tuned itself down to a light drizzle. I walked over to Eighth Avenue and let myself be drawn eight blocks downtown. I knew her building, I'd walked her home. It was on the northwest corner, but I didn't know whether her apartment fronted on the street or the avenue so I couldn't tell just where she'd come down.



Sometimes a jumper lands with enough force to break up the concrete. I didn't see any broken pavement. Of course she'd had Fitzroy there to break her fall and absorb most of the force of it.



No stains on the pavement. There would have been blood, probably a lot of it, but there had been plenty of rain to clean up whatever the janitorial crew might have missed. Of course it doesn't always wash away. Sometimes it soaks in.



Maybe there was blood there and I just wasn't seeing it. It was night, after all, and the pavement was wet. You wouldn't be likely to spot bloodstains under such conditions, especially if you weren't sure exactly where to look for them.



There are bloodstains all over the city, if you know where to look.



All over the world, I suppose.



I must have spent an hour walking. I thought of stopping at Grogan's but I knew that wasn't a good idea. I wasn't up for conversation, nor did I want to allow myself the self-indulgence of barroom solitude. I just kept on walking, and when the rain picked up I didn't even mind. I walked on through it and let it soak me.