An Absent God Read online

  I woke up late the next day and gave Ophelia a call. The phone rang six times before kicking into the answering machine. I couldn’t tell if the voice was hers, so I didn’t leave a message. Everyone, including Stephen, had urged me to get a machine when I lived in Boston. I still couldn’t stand the stupid things. Someday, when I’d earned enough money for extended psychotherapy, I would explore my phobia about answering machines. For the moment, I chalked it up to my longtime fear of commitment—receiving a message meant I had to call someone back. Ugh.

  My shift at Han’s started at three p.m., so I had a few hours. I decided to hop on the train and take the forty-five-minute journey to Ophelia’s apartment. Maybe I’d be lucky enough to find her at home. The day was pleasant enough for November. The late fall sun poured through the caverns created by Midtown’s high-rise buildings; a few puffy clouds streaked across the sky, weaving between glass and steel. The sun in Manhattan was hardly ever bright. It always had that fuzzy yellowish hue to it because of smog, but its warmth felt good on my shoulders. I wasn’t looking forward to the winter and the overarching bleakness of my apartment.

  I walked to Sixth Avenue and found the Forty-Seven–Fiftieth Streets train station, a stop I rarely used. I didn’t have to wait long to catch an F train down to the Lower East Side Second Avenue stop. Thanksgiving was three weeks away, yet I could sense the holiday spirit in the air. Instead of shoving me aside to get on the train, commuters shoved me and then apologized for it. The miracles had begun, and they weren’t just happening on Thirty-Fourth Street.

  Once off the train, I walked about eight blocks east before turning south into a rather listless neighborhood of brick apartment buildings. Some were run-down: dingy entrances, cracked windows, the brick looking as if it hadn’t been painted in about a hundred years. Others were newer, their sheen yet unaffected by the city. I found Ophelia’s building—one of the older, dingier ones. The greasy lobby door was unlocked. Bits of dirt, chewing gum wrappers, and cigarette butts littered the brown-and-white tile floor along with dead leaves, neighborhood flyers, and advertising circulars. A trick had once told me to be careful on the Lower East Side, particularly on streets ruled by gangs. I wasn’t sure if this was one of those streets, but I kept my eyes open just in case. He had said that if there wasn’t blood in the lobby I’d probably be okay. I looked around for brownish-red spots, but didn’t see any.

  As I stood in front of the buzzer box, I tried hard to remember Ophelia’s real name. Unless she had signed her lease under her drag name, I would be shit out of luck. I scanned the box and found a listing marked Martin/Cox so I decided to try it. I pushed and waited for the voice box to crackle back. Nothing. After four more tries, I figured I’d annoyed the hell out of the neighbors so I left.

  I retraced my steps back to the subway, stopping for a pastrami sandwich at Katz’s Delicatessen. I got back to my apartment about one p.m. and took a nap for an hour before getting ready for my shift at Han’s.

  Norm Han’s first name was nearly unpronounceable to other Americans. Because it began with N, he decided to go by Norm for the benefit of his linguistically challenged friends and neighbors. I think this choice had something to do with the affable character from Cheers, “where everybody knows your name.” But Norm didn’t bear any resemblance to the television character; he was small, thin, and as energetic as a hyper lap dog. He was very happy when the holidays rolled around because he could count on a large contingent of Jewish customers visiting his establishment, as well as his nonreligious Christian and atheist regulars. Han’s had won food awards from several local newspapers and had grown in popularity over the years. All of those facts had sailed over me when I applied for the job. I needed money to pay my drug-dealing landlord and I guess Norm saw something in me that he liked. Since my hiring, the restaurant had gone through a couple of waiters and food prep employees, but, for the most part, once someone got hired at Han’s they were likely to stay. The family managed the restaurant well, and they were kind to their staff.

  Han’s could have stayed open until midnight like some Chinese eateries, but Norm called it a day around ten p.m. with the doors officially closing at eleven. By the time I got through with my shift, I was tired, but in a good way. And most of that good attitude came from Norm and the way he treated his staff and customers. People liked him and he never took advantage of his patrons or employees. If something was wrong, he made it right.

  Norm came up to me about ten thirty with something in his hand. I was hoping it might be an early holiday bonus, but it was something else—a black cassette tape. I was washing some of the large platters and the heavily soiled pots by hand instead of using the sterilizer unit. My hands were in soapy water.

  “A man dropped this off for you about noon,” he said.

  I looked at the tape and immediately got the creepy feeling something wasn’t right. I studied it closely, wondering if it might explode à la Mission Impossible, an unlikely scenario since it had been in the building for more than ten hours.

  “Who gave you this?” I asked.

  “I told you. A man.”

  I smiled. “I know that, Norm, but could you describe him?”

  He leaned against the sink and said, “He was tall—over six feet. Medium build, not an athlete, but not out of shape either.”

  “What about hair color, eyes?”

  Norm shrugged. “He was wearing a ski cap and sunglasses.”

  “Did he say anything? Did he have an accent? Any distinguishing marks or characteristics?”

  Norm’s face screwed up into a question mark. “What are you? A private detective?”

  “In a previous life,” I said.

  “Well, let me think about this. I was outside sweeping around the door when this guy walked up to me and said this tape was for Desde . . . Desde something.”

  “Desdemona.”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Norm scratched his head. “Is that you?”

  “Long story. I won’t get into it now.”

  “Then he said, ‘Cody,’ so I knew who he was talking about. I didn’t really pay much attention to him. He stuck the tape in my hand and walked off, toward downtown. I put it in my office and was going through receipts when I remembered I had it.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Norm laughed and pushed away from the sink. “Better than average looking. Didn’t knock my socks off, but then I don’t usually go for men.”

  “Your loss.”

  “You can use my office if you want. It’s unlocked. I’ve got a cassette player in there. I’m going back out front.”

  “Thanks,” I said and then wiped my wet hands on my apron.

  I held the tape to the side to get a better look at it in the fluorescent light. It was standard issue, the kind one could get at any record or tape store. Greasy fingerprints, probably Norm’s, smeared the plastic. I walked back to the office and opened the door. Norm’s inner sanctum was controlled chaos. Menus with black and red lettering were scattered across his desk, receipts were poked through a desk needle, a few spotted, white take-out bags were stuffed in the trash can. A banker’s lamp threw off a sickly green light. Cookbooks and Chinese travelogues filled a case behind the desk. I guessed Norm hoped to take a trip sometime to the land of his ancestors, but never made good on the plan.

  On the middle shelf, surrounded by two ruby vases etched with black dragons, was a boom box. The carry handle was broken, but it was otherwise in pretty good shape and seemed to be functional. A collection of Chinese grand opera music and 1980s rock group tapes were piled against its side. I pushed a button and one of the player lids flipped open. I inserted the tape, closed the lid, and pushed the play button.

  The tape hissed through the machine, but was otherwise silent for a few seconds. I was beginning to think the whole thing was some kind of weird Rodney Jessup joke when a voice broke out through the speakers.

  My skin prickled. It was not a normal voice, but one that sounded like it came
from Mars or maybe Hell—Hell was more like it. It could have been male, maybe female. The voice had been altered by a modulation machine. The effect was like talking through a tin can, while waving your hand over the end farthest from the mouth.

  I grabbed a paper and pen off of Norm’s desk and wrote down the words that I was able to make out. I had to listen three times to get them right.

  “Keep out of this. It’s none of your business. Rodney Jessup is a dead man. You will be too unless you keep your nose clean.” And that was it—about ten seconds of speech.

  Okay.

  I was pissed off. One, nobody threatened me, and two, nobody talked to me in bad detective language. Keep your nose clean? I don’t think so.

  Indeed.

  It was easy to deduce that I wasn’t dealing with the Mafia or any other organized gang; they didn’t use tapes and voice modulation to make their point. When Jimmy Hoffa disappeared, he was gone forever, never to be seen again, no threats needed. Quick and efficient. That was the way real killers operated. This one had me worried.

  Norm stuck his head in the door as I was taking the tape out of the player.

  “Secret admirer?” he asked.

  “Yeah. But not the kind I want.”

  I slid the cassette into my pocket, walked out of the office, and returned to the sink. I stuck my hands in the hot, soapy water and considered my options. I could call Rodney Jessup and ask him what was up. I could call the police and report a threat made on two lives. Or I could lie low and see what developed. The last option had the most appeal. I wasn’t sure I wanted to return to all the drama that had risen like a hydra during the Combat Zone murders. I was still haunted by the memory of Chris Spinetti, former Boston police detective, blowing his brains out in the Déjà Vu, an adult film theater in Boston. I would never forget his face or the blood. And then there was Stephen, a friend I loved and later found decomposing on a mountain in New Hampshire. The pain and shock of that day sometimes came flowing back to me like taking a plunge into an icy river.

  Another more frightening thought crossed my mind. This wannabe killer was an amateur, and amateurs were the worst. They had a penchant for really fucking things up, and usually taking a lot of innocent people with them. That scared the shit out of me.

  Norm came back from up front with the last of the platters. I slid them into the water and washed away while plotting my next course of action. Nothing extraordinary jumped into my head. I needed a day or two to figure out what I would do. In the meantime, I’d concentrate on finding Ophelia Cox.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  I HAD OPHELIA’S ADDRESS AND PHONE NUMBER. I called her apartment the next day about ten a.m., and the answering machine picked up again. I didn’t leave a message. The thought of schlepping downtown only to stand in the lobby of Ophelia’s building didn’t thrill me. How could I find Ophelia in a city of seventeen million people? Plan B. I thought about where Ophelia might be if she was free for the day. Ophelia was never free, but that was another story.

  Plan B called for me to visit a few local haunts—ones I suspected she might frequent. I knew these places existed, but since Stephen’s death I had been a good boy. I didn’t drink or do drugs anymore. I had cut back on cigarettes, weaning myself down to about three-quarters of a pack a day. Not good, but better than two packs a day. I avoided the siren call of porn theaters and strip bars and focused my energy on working out instead. I ran as much as I could—the cigarettes didn’t help. And, besides, the porn theaters and strip clubs were on their way out. Rudy Giuliani was cleaning up Times Square, block by dirty block.

  My midtown neighborhood was as good a place as any to find Ophelia, knowing her history of cruising for paying tricks. I could have read some Shakespeare or Marlowe, but I wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t think I’d run into Ophelia, but stranger things had happened. Something told me I should cruise down Eighth Avenue, walk by a couple of the bookstores, pass by the strip clubs, and maybe end up on Forty-Second Street. My gift of prophecy was kicking in big time—at least the Boston fortuneteller who’d told me I had such power might think so. If I didn’t find Ophelia, maybe I’d head down to the Village for tea.

  I pulled on a pair of leather pants, not exactly appropriate attire for a midmorning November stroll, but what the hell. I topped off my ensemble with a long-sleeve black T-shirt and my jean jacket, picked up my keys, and headed for the door.

  I passed by the dinette table and felt the cassette tape staring at me. The sight of it sent a jolt through my body because it reminded me that a wacko knew way too much about me. The window in my kitchen didn’t show much more of the outside world than people’s ankles, given that my apartment was more or less underground. I lifted a slat up in the venetian blinds over the sink, and stared warily through the dirty glass and security bars. The parking spots outside were devoid of Mercedes and nobody seemed to be hanging out on the corner. My half-assed attempt at personal reconnaissance didn’t give me much comfort, but I figured it was safe enough to go outside.

  Forty-Seventh was filled with the usual people: grandmas toting groceries and a few teenagers hanging out on the stoop who should have been in school. I said hello to a couple of neighbors whom I had gotten to know as customers at Han’s. I didn’t find people in New York to be unfriendly; in fact, they were pretty nice to me. I just hadn’t been in the mood to make friends.

  By the time I got to Eighth, the makeup of the street had changed. The Avenue was an odd mixture of tourists wandering through the theater district, businessmen and women, along with the regular denizens of Hell’s Kitchen who were barely clinging to life. I could spot them a mile away. I was in their shoes when my parents kicked me out of the house at fifteen. It didn’t take long for me to turn tricks because I needed food and a place to stay.

  Some of the guys looked like cheap pimps in brown suits from a bad gangster movie. Drug dealing twenty-year-olds stalked the street as well. They had that vacant zombie look on their faces, pasty white with plum-colored circles under their eyes. They were almost always dressed in dirty blue jeans and jean jackets. Then there were the hustlers, mostly young, a few good looking, but most with creased skin, greasy hair, and bad teeth. They usually hung out in the doorways or plastered themselves against a building until the proprietor told them to move on. These kids were not high-paid escorts with muscles. These were the lanky, starving boys who were kicked out of their homes because they were gay or “problem children.” Some of them were orphans dropped on the street like abandoned dogs. The tragedy of these kids’ lives made my stomach turn. I knew how hard it was to make a living on the street.

  And how dangerous it could be.

  I walked past the peep shows, the gaudy, electric, hypnotic world of sex, as enticing and addictive as opium. I half expected to see Ophelia’s tall, statuesque figure gracing the door of a club. What a lady she was.

  When I first met her in Boston she was like a dream, resplendent in a sleek white gown, satin gloves, and white heels. She was holding court at a drag bar in Bay Village. The club’s spotlights reflected glittering sparkles on her dress and ignited a few in my eyes as well. Her skin was a mocha-chocolate brown, which made her look like a confectioner’s creation, like a soda to be sipped. Her long, thin fingers with fire-engine-red nails held a mineral water laced with lime. I walked into the bar looking for a trick, and ended up leaving with a friend who taught me how to be a lady. Ophelia instructed me in the ways of superior drag: how to hide my Adam’s apple, how to shave excess body hair, how to apply makeup and nails, and how to use my voice as an instrument of illusion. She became my instructor and I was her willing student. Later, I was able to mix the two aspects of my life I loved best: leather and drag. Everything I knew about becoming a woman I owed to Ophelia Cox.

  Ophelia was expensive and everyone in Boston knew it. She had been turning tricks for as long as I had known her. Most drags didn’t, but Ophelia learned early on in her career how to make money. She provided grea
t service and no john ever complained. She took an occasional hit off a joint, but who didn’t? Otherwise she was as clean as the US Navy pulling into port. She was rarely out of character, except when we were having sex—that was when Robert came out. Most of the time, Ophelia was “on,” like a slightly demure version of Grace Jones. After a few dates, usually midweek on a slow night for johns, we’d end up in a sexual romp in one of our bedrooms. The next day, we’d spend a lazy afternoon together in each other’s arms. That was how I got to know the real man behind the persona. The dresses he wore hid a slim body, thinly muscled and surprisingly fit for a drag queen. It was strange to see him out of makeup, stretched across the couch in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, his wide smile beckoning me to snuggle beside him. He was handsome with dark eyes and lashes made more dramatic by the lasting imprint of eyeliner and mascara. His face was somewhat androgynous, with strong cheekbones, but not alien or eerie in any sense. A spark flared between us, but it was extinguished by the reality of our lives. With both of us hustling, there was little time to form a lasting relationship. So, we grew apart and eventually lost touch with each other.

  Then Stephen Cross came into the picture and my life changed, as our involvement and my investigation into the Combat Zone murders grew.

  A few out-of-towners gathered around the entrance to a strip club to gawk and snap pictures of the gaudy interior, but Ophelia was nowhere to be seen.