Near Enemy Read online

  This Loeb, do you know where he taps in?

  Sure. Bad Penny already posted his address, photo, construct coordinates, everything. He taps in from his apartment in Alphabet City, on Avenue D, above his candy shop.

  And this hopper, Penny, you think she was involved in this somehow? Given her grudge against Loeb?

  You kidding? She’s wrapped up in a blanket right now, sipping soup and muttering. One of her hopper friends posted the story online, as a warning to other hoppers. Now all the hoppers are talking about it. It’s all over the old Internet.

  What are they saying?

  Stay out of the limn. Some don’t believe it, of course. Claim what she saw was just a prank. But a lot of people do believe it. And they’re spooked.

  What do you believe, Moore?

  I believe it. After Lesser? I believe it.

  Okay, Moore. Give me that address.

  Outside Stuyvesant, in the abandoned playground, I pull out my phone and punch that same number again.

  Boonce answers.

  What is it, Spademan?

  He’s in a black room, Boonce.

  Long silence. Then he asks.

  Who’s got him?

  I don’t know. Sweepers, maybe. Pushbroom, probably.

  No, a black room is way bigger than sweepers, even Pushbroom. Black rooms don’t even officially exist. Best I know, there’s only one operational black room in New York. It was supposed to be shut down. I can check into it and get back to you.

  By the way, Boonce, it happened again.

  What happened?

  Our friend in the burqa.

  When?

  About an hour ago. Different hopper witnessed it. It’s all over hopper chatter. Matter of time before it becomes a bigger deal.

  Spademan, I made some inquiries, and I was right—this is Bellarmine’s big bombshell. This news about the limn. The one he’s going to drop at the debate.

  When’s the debate?

  In two days.

  So that gives us two days to find Lesser. Which means I have to get going.

  Where are you headed?

  To find out if this guy Loeb is still alive.

  Takes me twenty minutes to get to Avenue D. The downstairs door to Loeb’s building is unlocked, so I head inside and up a flight of stairs to the walk-up and knock twice.

  No answer. But it’s ajar. So I enter.

  Spot Loeb in his bed, still tapped in.

  Apartment’s dark and smells about as good as you’d imagine. Still, I’ve seen enough dead bodies, especially ones lying in beds, to know, even from across the room, that Loeb is never getting back up again.

  Walk closer to the corpse in the cot.

  No marks on him. Looks like he passed away peacefully.

  Either way, I know the world won’t mourn the passing of a lowlife like Loeb.

  Not until they find out how and why he really died.

  Figure I’ll leave him for the neighbors to discover. Three days, bad smell, call the landlord to investigate, always seemed like a quiet guy, etcetera. Tell reporters the usual tale, the kind that gets buried in the back pages of the Post. Which this tale will, until someone pieces it all together. The hoppers’ panicked chatter, and now Loeb’s fresh corpse. And Langland, before that. Someone will add it all up. Tell the world. Seed panic. Probably Bellarmine, unless someone beats him to it.

  Stay out of the limn.

  They’ve found a way in.

  And they can kill you in there now.

  For Bellarmine, the timing couldn’t be better. Whole city hits the panic button a week before the polls? Voters will stampede straight into his waiting embrace.

  Elect the strongman with the soothing promise.

  Sleep Tight.

  Unless I can find Lesser first.

  When I came in, I locked the apartment door behind me to keep out nosy neighbors, so when the key turns in the lock, I hear it turning.

  Whoever’s coming in does it noisily, like they’re not expecting company.

  Door swings open and I’m already waiting.

  But it’s my turn to be surprised.

  She just stands in the doorway, hand on the key that’s in the lock.

  Maybe takes her a second to place me.

  Or to figure out what the hell I’m doing here.

  So I fill the silence.

  Hello, Nurse.

  23.

  Nurse pulls the key from the door and pockets it, slipping it in the front of her crisp white uniform.

  Straightens her hat.

  Spademan. So is this my rain check?

  I’m actually here to see your friend Loeb.

  He’s not my friend. He’s my boss. As of yesterday.

  I turn and nod toward the stiffening corpse.

  You might want to update your résumé.

  She closes the door quietly behind her, then gestures to Loeb’s dingy flat and laughs drily.

  How the mighty have fallen, huh?

  I’m eager to catch up, Nurse, but first, let’s talk about the dead guy.

  Sure. This happened about an hour ago. I just stepped out to call 911.

  It took you an hour to decide to make a phone call?

  To be honest, I didn’t know what to do. And, to be honest, I never made the call.

  Having stowed the key, she sets down her white leather handbag, then strides across the room until she’s only inches from me. Close enough to put her hand flat on my chest. Close enough to remind us both how much closer we were just a few nights ago.

  Says in a quiet voice. Not pleading. Just explaining.

  Spademan, we both know, I call this in, it’s done for me. I’d say I’d lose my license, but let’s be honest, after Langland, it’s already lost. I mean, look around. This is the only job I could get after losing Langland, and this one I had to find on the Internet, no reference checks, no questions, all cash.

  Gestures to Loeb.

  Too bad today was payday, huh?

  So what happened?

  I don’t know, Spademan. I’ve never lost anyone before, I swear. With Langland, I just chalked it up to the fact that he was ancient. I mean, they warn you this can happen, but—

  Now the tears come. They tumble. And despite myself, I hug her. Don’t quite believe her. But I hug her. Then hear another voice at the door.

  Hello?

  I look up to see a man, hovering in the doorway. Long man, long trenchcoat, long patterned tie, long face. Long hair too, but balding, so he’s got it swept up in a messy comb-over. Best described as balding hippie. Which is the worst kind of hippie.

  Plus, he’s wearing Birkenstocks.

  Trenchcoat and Birkenstocks.

  He gives a cheery wave. Then flashes a badge.

  You all mind if I come in?

  The long man stows the shield and makes his introductions. Offers me a handshake that feels like a wet paper bag full of tongue depressors. Announces cheerfully.

  Detective Dandy. James Dandy. NYPD.

  It takes me a minute.

  Jim Dandy?

  His eye twitches.

  I prefer James.

  Fishes a notebook from his pocket. Old-fashioned spiral-bound. Pinches a tiny pencil. Licks its tip. Looks up at us.

  So I hear we have a body. I’m guessing it’s not either of you two.

  Points his pencil stub at Loeb.

  Oh. This fat fuck.

  Walks over and pokes Loeb in his bed, then scribbles something in the notebook. Turns back to us.

  Well, in my considered professional opinion, he’s dead. Either of you want to fill in the details?

  I’m not sure what to say, and Nurse just stands there, defiant, and Dandy waits, fiddling with his tie knot, until he points his pencil toward Nurse’s red-cross hat.

  I take it you’re the nurse.

  She smiles.

  Excellent deduction.

  Dandy hesitates. Wags the pencil at Nurse again.

  Don’t I know you from somewhere?
r />   You tell me.

  Because you look awfully familiar.

  I look like a nurse. We all look the same.

  No, no, we’ve met before. On another dead-in-a-bed. That’s right. Just the other night. At Astor Place.

  Nurse answers with a tight grin.

  Yes, that’s right.

  Dandy chuckles.

  Rough week, huh?

  Pencil stub swivels toward me.

  And you are?

  I shrug.

  Nurse’s aide.

  Dandy chuckles again. Shakes his head. Nods toward the corpse.

  See, I wouldn’t expect a shitbag pederast like Loeb to have a nurse, let alone a staff.

  Nurse speaks up.

  I answered an ad on the Internet. I just started yesterday.

  Sure. Newly looking for work after Astor Place. Mr Langland was his name, if I recall correctly.

  That’s right.

  Dandy gestures to the body.

  You want to walk me through this one?

  Nurse stalls. So I interject.

  She doesn’t know. She wasn’t here.

  No?

  She was with me.

  Really? Where?

  Down the block.

  Doing what?

  Killing time.

  Dandy shuts his notebook. Says sarcastically.

  Well, I guess that settles it then.

  I’m serious. We’ve been out for hours. Just got here ourselves. You can ask the neighbors.

  And your name is?

  Name’s Spademan.

  Dandy smiles.

  Well, that’s certainly memorable. Mr Spade Man. Don’t even need to write that down.

  Let me ask you something, Detective Dandy.

  Shoot.

  They let you wear sandals on the job?

  He looks down at his Birkenstocks. Wiggles his toes. Toes crack. Looks back at me.

  I got foot issues. Fallen arches. Occupational hazard.

  Okay. Here’s my other question. How’d you even know to come up here to look around?

  I’m a detective, Mr Spademan. That’s my job. I detect.

  Because I figured Loeb here would have festered for weeks if we hadn’t found him. Recluse like him.

  Dandy scratches at a wild eyebrow with the pencil stub’s eraser. Almost loses his pencil in the thicket. His eyebrows look like two birds taking flight. Notices me noticing. Gestures to his brows, then points to his balding head.

  God’s idea of a joke, right? Never where you want it to be.

  Pockets the pencil.

  Anyhow, we got an anonymous call about a body an hour ago. I happened to be in the neighborhood, so I said I’d drop by.

  And you know Loeb?

  Oh, sure, I know him. Local diddler. Every neighborhood needs one.

  But you never took him in?

  Oh, I’d have loved to. But he’s never diddled anyone out here, best we know. And what people do in there—

  Dandy shrugs.

  —is what they do in there.

  I find I’m developing a fondness for Dandy, despite myself. Figure I’ll prod him a little. See if he’s got any more information that might come in handy. Who knows?

  Handy Dandy.

  Detective Dandy, that’s two dead tappers turning up in less than a week. That’s not suspicious?

  Nurse shoots me a look. I shoot one back. Call it a draw.

  Meanwhile, Dandy stashes his notebook and starts rummaging through his trenchcoat pockets. Looks distracted while he answers me.

  Hey, it happens. Friend, to tell you the truth, I don’t concern myself too much with the electric wonderland. I work out here. With the real bodies.

  Finally finds what he’s hunting for, which turns out to be a pack of cigarettes. Taps one out. Protruding butt looks like a chimney on a factory. Offers it to both of us in turn and we both decline. Dandy shrugs and sticks the butt in his mouth, stows the smokes and starts another pocket excavation. While he talks, his cigarette bounces like a conductor’s wand, counting the orchestra in.

  And see, because I’m out here with the real bodies, that means that, unfortunately, even when a fetid ball-hair like Loeb expires, I have to make inquiries. You know? Especially when we get an anonymous tip to check it out.

  Still rummaging. Seems frustrated. Looks up. Cigarette bobs.

  I don’t suppose for some reason either of you carries a lighter?

  I pull out my Zippo. Spark it. Dandy looks pleasantly surprised. Dips his cigarette, then takes a deep inhale. I ask him one last question.

  You ever work with a cop named Joseph Boonce?

  Long exhale.

  Boonce? Never heard of him.

  How about Robert Bellarmine?

  Dandy chortles.

  Bellarmine? Of course. Never met him personally. I’m way too low on the totem pole for that. But I know him, sure. Everyone does. That cop’s going to be our next mayor.

  Dandy must have decided he’s gotten as much as he’s going to get from us, up to and including the light from my Zippo, because in the end he doesn’t even stick around long enough to finish that smoke.

  Butts it out on Loeb’s belly. Looses an acrid stink. Dandy looks at us conspiratorially. Bounces those Groucho brows.

  The guys from forensics are not going to like that. At. All.

  Then he scribbles something and rips the page from his notebook. Holds it out to Nurse.

  Like I said, on the department totem pole, I’m so low that I’m basically underground. But I do like to solve mysteries. So if you hear anything else about suspicious deaths among the tapped-in, give me a call.

  Dandy’s about to leave when he remembers one last thing. Snaps his fingers. Goes back to pocket-fishing. Pulls a card out. Hands it over.

  I found this on the doormat outside. Must have fallen down from the jamb when you opened the door. Mean anything to you?

  I take it. Read it.

  PUSHBROOM.

  I shrug.

  Nope.

  He winks.

  Well, keep it. As a souvenir.

  Then he salutes and says he’ll see us around, and disappears back down the stairwell.

  I pocket the card. Nurse pockets the slip. Then says to me.

  Well, I suddenly find myself free tonight. How about you, Spademan? You got any pressing plans? Or should we find a way to kill some time together?

  24.

  Puzzle it out. Assemble an inventory of what I know so far for sure.

  In short, not much.

  Someone grabbed Lesser and dragged him to a black room. Someone found a way to kill people through the limn. And someone apparently hired Pushbroom, the cutthroat sweeper agency, to track down and murder all the people in the nuts-and-bolts world that I actually care about.

  Might be the same someone, in all three cases.

  Either way, I’m still stuck wondering what exactly I’ll find when I rip open the envelope at the end of this game.

  Because so far?

  No clue.

  Though I am starting to wonder if I won’t find Nurse’s name in there somehow.

  Either that, or she’s turned out to be the world’s unluckiest nurse.

  In the meantime, the Pushbroom calling card stuck in the doorjamb at Loeb’s apartment is troubling me, so I tell Nurse I’ll spring for a cab to take her home. Just to be safe.

  She protests. A little.

  Less about the cab than about going home alone.

  You remember I live up near Fort Tryon Park, right? That’s a two-hundred-dollar fare, easy. Two fifty with tip. And I never did get paid by Loeb.

  I pull out my money roll. Count what’s left, which isn’t much. Not enough to cover the whole ride, but maybe enough to start a conversation.

  So we flag a cab. Open negotiations.

  Cab pulls up a half hour later to the gates of Fort Tryon Park, a patch of tree-choked wilderness nestled high on the rocky northern tip of Manhattan. It’s late now, long past midnight, and Nurse g
ets out, alone, and thanks the driver, then stoops to snatch her white leather handbag from the backseat. She stands upright, straightens her skirt, her white uniform bright as a flare on the darkened block. Closes the back door and turns to walk home. Cab’s taillights pulse red, then the cab pulls away, down into the further darkness of the avenue, shrouded under a canopy of drooping branches.

  And Nurse heads off alone, clutching her bag, toward the black iron entrance gate to the park.

  It’s pretty safe to assume she doesn’t notice the Town Car with its headlights off, half a block back, that’s been following the cab since midtown and is now rolling to a stop.

  Safe to assume, too, she doesn’t notice the two men inside the Town Car. Both in gray coveralls. Pushbroom in script stitched over their hearts.

  Safe to assume she doesn’t notice them get out of their car together.

  Or notice that they follow her into the darkness of the park.

  Nurse’s cab pulled away already. Disappeared up the street.

  Then stopped.

  Now sits idling.

  Cabbie having already killed the lights.

  Cabbie sits in the driver’s seat and watches in the rearview as the two men in the coveralls get out of their Town Car and trail Nurse.

  Then the cabbie turns the ignition off. Gets out of the cab. Tosses his tweed cap into the backseat.

  White knight in a yellow cab.

  Okay. I confess.

  I’m the cabbie.

  The Pushbroom card was troubling me, and I wanted to keep an eye on Nurse, so I convinced the real cabbie to grab coffee for an hour and rent his cab to me. Let me drive Nurse home. Just to be safe.

  Put down a hefty deposit, too, and promised him double on my return. Cabbie wasn’t hard to convince. Seemed eager for the coffee break.

  Even threw in the tweed cap for free.

  Nurse told me she lived near Fort Tryon Park, but I didn’t expect she lived in Fort Tryon Park. Because best I know, there’s nothing in Fort Tryon Park save for trees, the Cloisters, and bushes reliably bursting with cutthroats and pervs.

  I quicken my step to catch up to Nurse and her two pursuers. By the time I pass through the gates of the park, Nurse has twenty paces on the men behind her and I’m a good twenty paces behind them.

  But closing.

  The four of us, now in a loose caravan, wind through the wrought-iron entrance gate.