The Complete Deemer by Dallas Murphy

Author:Dallas Murphy [Murphy, Dallas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brash Books, LLC
Published: 2015-01-14T07:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

SHORTLY AFTER FIRST light, I took Jellyroll for a walk in the park. The homeless still slept on the hillside in cardboard boxes and refrigerator crates. Some stirred, peeked out of their crates for a glimpse at the new day that held nothing new for them. Others would probably never wake up. Due to the cutbacks, the city didn’t collect the dead with regularity. I picked up Jellyroll’s shit—healthy—with a Chinese-restaurant menu, and as I dropped it in the basket, I felt intense melancholy for those in the crates, for the city, for myself, and for Jellyroll. This might be the last shit I’d be around to shovel. Who could predict what would happen out there in the wilds of New Canaan? Back at the apartment, I kissed him good-bye, and I could tell he was wondering, What’s the big deal about today? Dogs love routine, but today was decidedly different.

I phoned Norman Armbrister at precisely nine. I told him to meet us—on foot—at the Riverdale side of the toll bridge across the Harlem River. He giggled at my security measures and said, “Okay, Captain, I’ll be there.”

I was acting by rote, paying the man behind the bulletproof glass for the overnight garaging, starting Crystal’s car in the gloomy garage recesses, and driving it toward the light. Like my dog, I’ve always been fond of normalcy. There could be no more normalcy. Here I was, an eccentric hermit who habitually thought through even the simplest of day-to-day actions from all possible perspectives before deciding to do nothing; any other decision seemed too complicated. Now I was leading a covert incursion against a racketeer’s suburban mansion to rescue my lover who may or may not be there. I didn’t hold out much hope of success. Hopelessness—yes, that was the feeling I was trying to repress by living in the moment—step on the gas, step on the brake, as needed, don’t wreck the car driving around to Broadway to pick up Calabash. At least stave off the ludicrous.

It had taken most of last night, a bottle of rum, and more than one gasper to explain the events of the past several days to Calabash. I told him about Trammell’s disappearance, Bruce’s beating, Crystal’s kidnapping, my own kidnapping, about Chet Bream and the tape. Then we began to talk about the plan.

“Hmm,” said Calabash after I’d finished. I didn’t take that “hmm” as a sign of enthusiasm. He began to unpack lethal objects from his black gym bag, to clean and load them. Hmm…

Calabash was clutching that gym bag when I picked him up on Broadway. He scrunched into the Toyota, his head bent against its roof. We drove south on the Henry Hudson in light traffic. I almost missed the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel entrance. Tunnel entrances require a degree of driving precision.

“You okay?” Calabash reasonably wanted to know.

“Oh, sure, fine, great.”

“We don’ want to get killed on de way.”

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