Chapter 5:

Careful What You Wish

On their way home from the Hoboken PATH station, Snake suggested they take a stroll and cut through the park. Freaky John and Margaret didn’t have a problem with this. It was a bright, sunny day and the park was in full bloom.

The park ran the length of three city blocks, plus two blocks wide, surrounded on all four sides by low brick walls, outside of which were bustling streets and an assortment of shops and restaurants. Inside the brick walls, though, a paved walking and biking path perused the perimeters, undulating among the flowerbeds and benches. On the south end was a children’s playground, with a chain-link fence to keep the kiddies in and the creeps out. The north end housed tennis and basketball courts. The middle section was a broad expanse of bright green grass, bisected by a brick walkway that led up to a big octagonal gazebo where they sometimes held summer concerts.

As they walked, an orange-gold butterfly with a distinctive black pattern on its wings fluttered out from a nearby tree branch and hovered in the air before them.

“Oh, a Monarch,” Margaret cooed. “Isn’t it pretty?”

Snake stuck out a finger and the insect perched there. “Not a Monarch, hot stuff. What you got here’s obviously a Viceroy.”

Margaret hmmphed skeptically. “Monarchs all have that color and pattern,” she said. “I must have seen a million of them in San Francisco.”

“This is a Viceroy, fuckin’ Limenitis archippus. Monarch’s Danaus plexippus, and they both share the pattern of the Queen butterfly, the Danaus gilippus. Totally different species here.” Snake paused to excavate something from his nose with the hand that wasn’t holding the butterfly. “This is a female. The males have a pheromone spot in the center of the hindwing, right about there.”

Freak nodded sagely. “Plus Viceroys are non-migratory, right?”

“Oh, they fuckin’ migrate, but not like the Monarch. Monarchs are famous for their migrations.” Snake nodded at Margaret. “That’s probably why you know them so well. In the winter, they all head to California. Am I right?”

“That’s right. Every fall.” Margaret cocked her head to one side. “How do you know so much about butterflies?”

Freak cleared his throat. “Dude. Monarchs are in Colorado and California, right?”

“Yeah, and Viceroys and Queens, but Queens can live fuckin’ anyplace, almost. They’re hardier, and they’re fuckin’ whores, man, they’ll reproduce six, seven generations a year.”

“Did you guys watch a special on the Nature Channel or something?”

Freak was laughing. “Fuckin’ butterfly whores.”

“Slut-terflies!” Snake shook his finger, and the insect flew away. “Get out of here, slut!”

Margaret rolled her eyes. Maybe they’d just been making it up.

The trio entered by the north side, circumventing a tennis game and emerging from the walking path onto the grass. On the lawn over by the gazebo, a slender blond woman in a lime green tank top and black and lime workout shorts led a group of about fifteen people in a tai chi lesson. She held her body in perfect control, moving with quiet, dignified power and grace. Snake leaned up against a bench and sighed wistfully. “Sheila.”

“Fuckin’ Sheila, all right.”

“Who’s Sheila?” Margaret frowned. Surely Snake couldn’t have that many girlfriends.

“Her. Girl Snake’s had a crush on the last couple years. Works at the Wellness Center,” Freak said, gesturing with his head toward a building on the west side of the park.

“She teaches yoga,” Snake murmured, with appropriate reverence. “Contortions and everything.”

“Yoga? Really?” Margaret took greater interest in the tai chi artist. “I haven’t gotten around to signing up for yoga since I moved here. You think it’s okay if I go talk to her about it after the class?”

Freak shrugged. “Looks like it’s breaking up now. Go ahead. She’s nice, she’ll help you out.”

“She wears toe rings.” Snake grabbed the park bench for support. “And the tiniest little silver earrings, you wonder how she got something that small around her little earlobe.”

“Okay. See you guys later.” Margaret jogged carefully across the grass in her sling-backs and waved down the yoga teacher.

Freak shrugged, apparently indifferent to the charms of Sheila. “I’m heading back to the apartment. You coming?”

“I think I’ll stay here a few minutes.” Snake eased down onto the bench and gazed over where Margaret and Sheila were now talking. “The view’s fuckin’ awesome. Man, can you imagine a threesome with those two?”

“Yeah, whatever. See you later.” Freak turned and started walking back to the apartment.

Cutting through the park was a real time-saver, of course. Every once in a while, the park entrances would be closed for an event, a concert or whatever, and then you’d have to walk way the hell around the whole place, tacking on an extra three blocks, almost. But most of the time you could just cut through, like Freak was doing now.

He emerged on the southwest corner of the park, passing Food Town on the right, went west a block and then south again, coming up across from home. If he went a couple blocks further and made another right, he’d be at Snake’s place. Down the street from Snake’s was the house where Freak himself had grown up. No doubt about it, this was Freak’s territory, and he loved it.

A police car was parked in front of the apartment building when he arrived. Not a cruiser, but an unmarked car, with a spotlight over the driver’s side mirror and no chrome anyplace. New York plates, he noticed. Nobody in it, either.

No stranger to the police, Freak was on his guard when he unlocked himself into the building. He paused in the vestibule and listened. Nothing. Opened up his mailbox, pulled out some junk mail and a circular. Listened again.

Still nothing. Very interesting.

Keys in hand, though his apartment door wasn’t locked, Freaky John trotted up the stairs to the second floor, rounding the corner to find nobody there. Strange. Cops couldn’t be here for anybody on the third floor—they were all straight up there—and there weren’t any first-floor apartments. The first floor was taken up by a dry cleaners and a dentist’s office. The second floor was all singles—Freak, Margaret, Mr. Hersch and some architect guy who was never home. Since Architect Guy was guaranteed not home—fuck, maybe not even in town, right now, knowing what Freak knew of him—and Margaret was still over at the park, and Freak himself hadn’t broken any laws lately that he could think of, besides the usual ones, that meant the cops were probably paying a visit to Mr. Hersch. And that could go either way, depending on what kind of a day Mr. Hersch was having.

Saul Hersch had been a fixture in the neighborhood for years, at least since Freak was a little kid. Always nice, never yelling at kids in the street, willing to help Freak and Snake out more than a few times in their younger days. The kind of guy who always had a smile on his face and a box of cookies open to share. The kind of man you never called by his first name, out of respect.

Freaky John was worried by the possibility of the cops getting Mr. Hersch on a bad day and misunderstanding him, or even worse, getting hosed with the fire extinguisher and taking poor Mr. Hersch away. He knew he shouldn’t think about it, since it was probably inevitable, but the idea just wouldn’t leave his head.

Quietly, Freak dashed into his own apartment and opened a cupboard. What did he have that was still sealed… Leaving the mail on the countertop and grabbing a paper bag from under the sink, Freak tossed in a couple cans of soup and a box of crackers. Silently, he made his way back into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him. Since Mr. Hersch had almost certainly let the cops in, the apartment door might be unlocked. Freak took a deep breath and took a chance.

Holding the bag up on his chest so his view appeared to be blocked, Freak pushed the door open, barged in and kicked it shut behind him, saying, “Okay, Mr. Hersch, I think I got everything—oh! Hey.” He looked innocently down at the cops, one older male, one chunky younger female, on the flowered sofa opposite Mr. Hersch in the overstuffed wing chair. “Sorry to barge in on you and your friends, Mr. Hersch.”

Mr. Hersch smiled benevolently. “Oh, not at all, Jonathan, not at all. We’re just having a chat. Would you like a cookie?”

Saul Hersch was having a good day, he could see that now. Cups of tea, china servers of milk and sugar, and a plate of Pepperidge Farms cookies were laid out on the coffee table. Freak relaxed a little, although he still wanted to know what was going on. “No, that’s okay. I’ll just leave your groceries in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Jonathan. I’ll settle up with you later.” Saul Hersch lowered his voice conspiratorially, but Freak could still hear him. “Such a nice boy. Law student. Runs errands for me occasionally—you know, I am getting on.”

The heavyset male cop laughed, a chummy laugh. “You don’t look a day over seventy, Mr. Hersch.”

The old man was amused. “Have you had your eyes checked lately?”

Freak finished putting his own groceries away in Mr. Hersch’s cupboards and went ahead and grabbed a cookie as he passed back through the sitting room. “I’ll be home this afternoon if you need me.”

“Thank you, Jonathan. I’ll come by later.” So he’d bring the groceries back and assure Freak that everything was on the up-and-up, or at least under control. That was good. Another sign that Mr. Hersch was having one of his better days. That pleased him, because Freak missed the old Mr. Hersch, and sometimes—fuck. He hated to feel anger toward anybody, but you’d think at least the old man’s daughter would come around once in a while. It wasn’t right. Mr. Hersch could use somebody to take care of him.

Back in his own apartment, Freak wondered if lighting up with the cops still across the hall would be tempting fate. Probably. He settled for a beer instead.

It looked like everything was fine over there, but Freak kept an ear out, just in case. He clicked on the television, turned down the sound and went into the kitchen to make himself some lunch. It was practically four o’clock, and Freak was starving.

There was a can of beef barley soup in the cupboard that was calling Freak’s name. Checking the kitchen, he remembered that the can was across the hall. Fuck. He opened the fridge. A package of smoked ham, some cheese…no bread. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Maybe Margaret was home. She’d have bread. She was one of those people who always seem to be prepared for eventualities like sandwiches and shit. Might even have rye bread on hand. And mustard. Smacking his lips, he went into the living room and pounded on the wall. No answer. Not home yet.

Freaky John opened his front door, crept out into the hallway—silently, so as not to disturb the cops, still in there with Mr. Hersch—and tried Margaret’s door. Locked. Shit.

Well, no alternative, he supposed. Freak returned to the living room, shouldered open a window and clambered out onto the fire escape.

Margaret’s living room window was locked, too. What was it with this girl and locking things? Not surprisingly, the bedroom window was also locked tight. God damn it all to hell. There went the rye and mustard.

When Snake returned, Freaky John was sitting in the living room, eating smoked ham straight out of the package. Snake stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “Aren’t you Jewish?”

“Kosher.” Freak stuffed another handful into his mouth.

“Kosher?”

“Yeah. Kosher ham.”

Snake shrugged and flopped down onto the couch. “Ham is kosher? I had no fuckin’ idea. Learn something every day, huh?”

“Bacon’s kosher, too.”

“No shit. Get outta town.” Snake picked up a magazine from the floor and started flipping through it. “Whatcha watching?”

Freak gestured at the TV. Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman were having a serious conversation in what looked like an early 70s newsroom. “I don’t know that the fuck they’re doing.”

“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”

“No. They look like cowboys to you?”

“Not really,” Snake allowed. “The Sting?”

“I don’t think so.”

Snake raised his head up and squinted at the silent television. Now Redford and Hoffman were having a clandestine rendezvous with a mysterious suited stranger in a parking garage. “The Graduate?”

Freak popped some more ham and thought for a moment. “Nobody’s banged Anne Bancroft yet. But maybe.”

“They’re midgets, you know.”

“Who?”

Snake pointed at the TV. “Those two. Everybody else in the movie, the whole fuckin’ cast, is picked on account of their height. So the stars don’t look tiny.”

Freak was skeptical. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why go to all that trouble, if they could just hire normal-size actors?”

Snake mulled this over. “Affirmative action, probably. Equal Opportunity and all that bullshit.”

That sounded reasonable enough. Freak finished his ham and started in on the cheese. Snake went back to his magazine. From the hallway came sounds of movement. Freak stopped chewing and listened. Mr. Hersch’s voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. Another voice, the cop who’d spoken earlier, responding. The tone didn’t seem negative, at least. Now the sound of footsteps receding down the stairwell.

A knock on the door.

Snake sat up and snapped his fingers. “I got it! Dr. Strangelove!”

Freak nodded at the TV. “Yeah, that’s probably it.” He pushed himself up from the chair and went to peer through the peephole in the door. Mr. Hersch squinted back at him.

“Hey, Mr. Hersch!” Freak opened the door wide to let him in. “What was that about?”

“Old friends, of sorts,” Mr. Hersch chuckled. “Making inquiries about an art theft. Unfortunately, I couldn’t help them.”

“An art theft,” Freak mused. “Have a seat, I happen to know something about an art theft that happened a couple of days ago.”

“Really? In the city?” The old man sank thoughtfully into Freak’s chair. “It wouldn’t be an exhibition of medals, would it?”

“And reliefs and maquettes,” said Snake. “A whole exhibition, man, fuckin’ gone.”

Mr. Hersch considered this carefully. “You boys didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”

The response was unanimous. “Fuck, no!”

“Ah. I thought not. You’re good boys. I’ve always thought well of you.”

Freak smiled fondly. “But the cops suspect Margaret. You remember Margaret, she’s the one that moved in next door.”

Mr. Hersch thought for a moment. “Is she the brown-haired girl with glasses?”

Snake nodded. “In the flesh.”

“Ah, I thought as much. They mentioned something like that. Suggested that perhaps I would be involved in it somehow, since I live so close to the girl who was present at the theft, but of course I make a point of never being involved in anything of the sort. I can’t. The cardinal rule, boys—never ask how the customers procured their wares.”

“Were the cops respectful?” asked Freak. “You didn’t have to answer their questions, but you were cooperating.”

“Oh, of course. I’ve known Detective Pisciotta for years. He knew I hadn’t anything to do with the heist. He knew me back in the old days, you understand, and he knows I’ve retired. I believe he was more interested in getting background information on art medals and coins.” Suddenly, Saul Hersch looked tired. “What was her name again?”

“Hot stuff.” Snake shook his head to clear it. “Margaret, I mean.”

“Yes, of course. The police mentioned her. They said she lives here in this building.”

“She does. You know her.” Freaky John leaned forward and took a good close look at his friend. “You feeling okay, Mr. Hersch?”

“I have a feeling that I know something about the medals. I can’t explain it.”

Snake sat up. “No shit! Like a psychic feeling?”

“No, no.” Mr. Hersch looked troubled. “Just…it’s hard to remember things nowadays. I know I’m old and my memory’s not what it used to be, but it’s very frustrating sometimes. It’s as though something is just at the edge of a darkness, but the light won’t reach. I’ve just realized that I do know something. I just can’t remember what.”

Freak nodded grimly. “Mr. Hersch, I’ve seen these commercials, there’s this drug that helps people like you who have Alzheimer’s—”

“Nonsense,” the old man snapped. “I don’t have Alzheimer’s. I’m just getting on.”

“You sprayed us with a fire hose last night.”

Saul Hersch was shocked. “I never!”

“You did, Mr. Hersch.”

Snake nodded in agreement. “It was fun. You thought we were aliens.”

Freak patted the air in front of Snake, indicating he should shut the fuck up. “Sometimes when you’re feeling kind of vague like this, you get kind of suggestible. Like I could say anything, and you wouldn’t have a fuckin’ filter in your mind to figure out what’s true and what’s not. That’s not right, Mr. Hersch. I think this little pill could help you.”

Mr. Hersch sighed and stared out over the coffee table toward the opposite wall. “I don’t know.”

Snake rapped Mr. Hersch’s bony knee. “I’ll drive you to the doctor if you want.”

“Yeah, maybe we can get this straightened out. The pills don’t work for everybody, but maybe they would work for you. Let’s go back to your apartment and call your doctor. Deal?”

“Let me think about it.” Mr. Hersch pushed himself up from the chair. Really, he wasn’t in that bad of a condition, physically. “I should go.”

Freak stood up to walk him to the door. “All right, Mr. Hersch. I’ll call you later, all right?”

“Thank you, Jonathan. Snake.” Mr. Hersch smiled sadly and shuffled back across the hall.

Freak watched his neighbor close the door gently behind him and came back into the apartment. He was still hungry. Maybe he could open that can of beef barley soup—but Mr. Hersch hadn’t remembered to bring it back.

Fuck.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.