Night Work Read online

I drove past my office. Past the old Governor Clinton Hotel, which was now an old folks’ home, around the corner and past the stockade, to the original part of the city, over three hundred years old. Kingston was the first capital of New York State, until that day in 1777 when the British came to burn it down. On the plus side, that meant that no matter how badly things went this evening, it could only end up being the second-worst day in Kingston history.

  I parked on Front Street. It was six thirty-five now. Only one thing I could think of doing.

  I stepped into the Blue Jay Way and ordered a beer from the tall guy behind the bar. He must have been six foot six, easy. I took the bottle to the high table by the front window, hung my coat up on the hook, and sat down. I watched the people walk by and the slow procession of cars on Front Street.

  The tie was a mistake, I thought, loosening it. It makes me look like I’m trying too hard. And I wonder what the odds are I’ll walk out of here and forget my jacket. Probably even money.

  I honestly don’t drink much anymore, but I figured a couple of beers was exactly what I needed. Just enough to take the edge off things. Put everything in a slight fog. And damn, tonight it tasted pretty good, after a long Saturday in the gym, after a long week of chasing my clients around and trying to keep them on the path of righteousness.

  I turned away from the window and looked around the bar. It had been totally redone since the last time I had been in here. New owners, a whole different feel to the place. People were throwing darts in the back. It must have been some kind of Saturday night league, a real serious setup, with two tournament-quality boards and bright track lighting over the whole deal. You probably brought your own darts to this place, and you probably had to be pretty damned good.

  I could get into this, I thought. Something new to focus on. Something to lose myself in, if only for an hour or two. I was always up for that. Anything to get me out of my own head.

  Just then somebody cranked up the jukebox, and I swear to God it was Michael Bolton’s voice suddenly filling the place, some song I couldn’t have named if you put a gun to my head. I looked around to see if it was somebody’s idea of a sick joke. It had to be one of the dart throwers, putting on the lamest excuse for music he could find just to throw off his buddy’s game.

  But no, there was a woman standing there by the jukebox with a dreamy smile on her face, her head moving slowly to the music. She was getting out more singles from her purse, and nobody was there to stop her.

  “’Nother beer?” It was the tall bartender standing over me.

  “In a minute,” I said. “But you’re kidding me with the jukebox, right? You don’t actually have Michael Bolton in there.”

  “What, you don’t like jazz?”

  I waited for the ceiling to cave in on his head, or for the earth itself to crack open beneath his feet. “Please tell me you didn’t just call this music jazz.”

  He smiled at me, went and grabbed the second Bud I didn’t ask for, and put it down in front of me. I shook my head and went back to looking out the window. It was just starting to get dark outside now. I could see a faint reflection of my face in the glass. I still didn’t look ready. Not by a long shot.

  I tried to think of anything else in the world. I ran through my cases, all the clients I had seen that week. Summer is the absolute worst time of year for me. No school, no commitments, just long hot nights with everybody out on the streets, not necessarily looking for trouble but available if trouble happens to drive by.

  The next song came on, and my hand on the Bible, it was Kenny G. On a jukebox in what looked like a perfectly normal bar. That clinched it for me, so I took one more long pull off the beer and left it there. I threw some money at the bartender before he could say a word and left.

  I walked a half block down Front Street, past the Chinese place. The smell made me hungry, even though I was still way too nervous to eat anything. That made me think of dinner, which made me remember my jacket. I went back to the bar and grabbed it.

  When I was back outside, I crossed the street this time and killed a few minutes looking at all the stuff in the pawnshop windows. I had bought my saxophone here, an old Selmer alto with gold finish. I practiced for at least an hour every day, but I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with it. But what the hell. It was another thing to occupy my mind. Pretending I could play the saxophone, pretending I could box. That and the work. The work was always there waiting for me.

  I saw a new sax in the window. I thought to myself, maybe the one I had was defective. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t play anything harder than “This Old Man” after six weeks. But damn, three hundred more dollars.

  Next to the sax was a mace, one of those big sticks with the spiked iron ball attached to one end with a chain. It looked like the real thing, too. Like you could cause some serious harm with it. It made me wonder what kind of life you’d have to be living if you woke up one morning and had to go pawn your mace.

  A car drove by slowly, loud music throbbing in the warm night air. I could feel the bass notes under my feet. I took one quick look at the faces inside, saw only the glowing red tip of the driver’s cigarette. But the girl sitting next to him, I thought I recognized. Her head was tilted back, both of her hands held high through the moon roof, reaching for the stars.

  I couldn’t even place the name, but I remembered something about a box cutter smuggled into school. She didn’t use it, I thought. That’s right. I remember now. In the moment of truth, she didn’t actually cut anybody. Assuming that’s the same girl … If it is, hell, she’s just out riding around on a hot night. No real trouble there.

  I can’t help thinking this way. Everyone I see, especially the kids on the verge of adulthood, I imagine the traps dug on either side of them, the wild animals waiting at the bottom. Tiger on one side, alligator on the other. Just waiting. Most days it’s a useful way to see people. It makes me good at what I do. Which is usually the only reason I get up in the morning anymore. But eventually it takes its toll on me.

  I walked by Artie’s, checked my watch, thought yeah, this is the place I really need. It was the only other bar on Front Street, now that JR’s had been turned into some kind of New Age body salon. Artie’s was old-school, the kind of place that was maybe eight feet wide, all the way back. You had to squeeze your way past the men on the stools. And no jukebox.

  Yeah, a shot and another beer would work. Watch the game on the television above the bar. Maybe forget this other thing entirely. Just bag it and spend the evening right here.

  I kept walking, avoiding that temptation. It was a beautiful night. Get some air, walk around a little more, get yourself psyched up.

  I checked out the Uptown, the little jazz club on the corner. Having this place in town, it was a miracle. All of the other stuff that was going on here in uptown Kingston—the art galleries, the upscale antique stores, even the dance studio—it was all worth it if it meant having a real jazz club, too. We were just close enough to New York City that a really good player would make it up here once in a while. Tonight there was a trio scheduled—nobody I’d ever heard of, so it could have been three guys trying to be the Bill Evans Trio and sounding more like “Jazz-tastic” at the Holiday Inn. Or it could have been something real and amazing. Maybe I’d get over to hear for myself tonight, if I suddenly found myself free. Or hell, maybe if things went really, really well …

  Yeah, right, Joe. That’s gonna happen. I checked my watch. Twenty minutes until Zero Hour. I walked around the block again. I walked slowly so I wouldn’t sweat. Last thing I needed. I checked my hair in a storefront window, straightened my tie. I didn’t look myself in the eye this time.

  It was seven fifty, time to head over to Fair Street. I rounded the corner, past the Senate House. I didn’t stop to read the historic landmark signs. I could have recited them, I’d been in this town so long. All my life. I kept my head high, taking deep breaths, walking straight ahead to my final destination.

  This is some
thing you need to do, I thought. You know this. You set this up yourself and now it’s time to go through with it.

  It was seven fifty-seven when I got there. In the past, it would have been a welcome sight. The brick walls, the red awnings, the gold letters stenciled on the windows. Le Canard Enchaîné. A real French place, run by a couple from Paris. I could see they were doing good business tonight. It was a perfect Saturday night, and I could hear people talking, laughing, enjoying themselves.

  This will be easy, I told myself. It’s just a blind date, right? You’ve faced a lot worse. You sparred with Maurice and it only took nine stitches to sew up your eyebrow.

  And on the job, hell. You’re a probation officer. You’ve had guns pointed at you. Knives. Two-by-fours. Garden hoses.

  And then Laurel.

  If you can face what they did to Laurel and still be standing here today … you can face anything.

  Anything.

  Even a blind date.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, took one more deep breath, and then opened the door.

  After two long years, it was time to start my life again.

  TWO

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the sudden bright light. All the old photographs from Paris, the whole mood of the place, it made you feel like you really were stepping into another country, and another time. It was one of a hundred little surprises this town could spring on you at any moment, that you’d find a place like this on one of its sleepy back streets. Jacques, the owner, came over in his apron and asked me if he could get me a table. I told him I was there to meet somebody. He gave me a sly little smile, and maybe that was my first good break of the evening.

  “I think I know who you’re looking for,” he said. His Parisian accent was as genuine as the cuisine. “She’s sitting at the bar.”

  “Can you point her out to me?”

  “You’ve never seen her?”

  “No, I haven’t.” I didn’t want to have to explain.

  “I think you’ll know her.” He lifted one hand toward the bar. I thanked him and walked over alone.

  There were five people at the bar. Two obvious couples, and then one woman on the end. The bartender was setting her up with a glass of white wine.

  I cleared my throat. “Marlene?”

  She looked up at me, cataloguing all the little things you notice the first second you meet somebody— eyes, mouth, hair, weight, clothes, all going into the computer for instant processing. I was doing the same thing, of course—in my case making inevitable comparisons to Laurel, something I’d probably do with every woman I meet for the rest of my life. Marlene’s hair was so much darker, absolutely jet black. She had brown eyes to Laurel’s green. Marlene had more curves. Definitely more curves. She was wearing a blue summer dress.

  “Joe,” she said, standing up. “Glad to meet you.”

  We did the awkward blind date thing for a moment. Do I give her a quick hug? Kiss her on the cheek? I settled for the safe handshake.

  “Jacques tells me you just got here.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You want to sit down here or get a table now?”

  It looked kind of tight at the bar. I’d end up squeezed next to her and I’d have to try to talk to her like we were both standing on the same milk crate. “Why don’t we sit down?”

  She took her glass of wine with her. I found Jacques again, and he showed us to our table. It was the one right by the front window with the white lace café curtains. I pulled out her chair for her, and then just about knocked the whole table over when I tried to sit down myself.

  “As you can see,” I said, “I’m poetry in motion.”

  She smiled politely. I got in the chair without further incident and straightened my tie. We both looked at the menus. There were seven hundred things to talk about, but I couldn’t begin to think of one.

  “Have you been here before?” she said.

  “A few times. It’s a nice place. Have you?”

  “No, I’m kinda new in town.”

  “That right? Where are you from?”

  “I had a place in Manhattan,” she said. “I was teaching at Parsons for a while, but … Well, it’s a great place to live, but things got a little crazy.”

  “How was it crazy?”

  “I just needed a change in scenery. I took a year off, to see if I could get a business started up here.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “I was teaching jewelry design,” she said. “I’ve got some pieces at one of the stores on Wall Street. I was thinking maybe I could even open up a place of my own.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Good.” I nodded my head like an idiot for a few seconds, having no idea what to say to that. Jewelry design. Almost any other subject, I’d have a chance.

  The waitress saved me. We both ordered the beef bourguignon, with a bottle of red wine. Neither of us was up for the escargot appetizer.

  “Okay, we have that much in common,” I said. “We don’t eat snails.”

  She smiled again. She had a great smile. This was what they meant by “raven-haired beauty,” I thought, her hair so black but with every other color shimmering as the light hit it. Purple, red, blue, the exact blue of her dress. I straightened my tie again. It felt like it was strangling me.

  “So tell me about you,” she said. “No, wait, let me guess.”

  She leaned back in her chair and looked at me.

  “You look like you’re in really good shape,” she said. “So I’m going to say you’re a personal trainer.”

  “Nope. I do help out at the gym sometimes. I don’t think that counts, though.”

  “Which gym?”

  “Anderson’s. Down on Broadway, by the YMCA. It used to be the Kingston bus station. Now it’s just a place for boxers to work out and spar, that kind of stuff.”

  “You’re a boxer?”

  “Kind of. I mean, not really. It’s just something I’m doing these days.”

  “What, just for fun?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say for fun. It’s usually not fun.”

  “Okay,” she said. I could tell she wasn’t quite getting it. “That scar over your eye? Was that part of you not having fun boxing?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, rubbing my left eyebrow. “That was just a couple months ago.”

  “You don’t seem to have any brain damage.”

  “I hide it well.”

  “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To hit the other guy in the head until he loses consciousness?”

  I waited a moment to see if she was joking. Apparently she wasn’t. I cleared my throat and waded right in.

  “You’re right,” I said. “And believe me, I’ve met a few retired boxers who can’t even speak straight.”

  “Because of too many concussions.”

  “Uh … Yes. I guess you’re right. But if you do it the right way …”

  “What, you mean never get hit?”

  “If you wear the right kind of headgear …” I said, “and you wear twelve-ounce gloves …” I knew I wasn’t going to win this one. I should have just done a Roberto Duran right there, taken out the mouthpiece and said, “No más.”

  The waitress brought over the salads and saved me yet again. It was like getting a long standing eight count. She even did the whole routine with the giant pepper shaker.

  “I’m sorry,” Marlene said when the waitress was gone. “I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot. I just never really understood boxing.”

  I had to smile at that one. That’s exactly what Laurel used to say.

  “It’s a great way to stay in shape,” I said. “That’s really all I’m doing now. All training and no fighting. Story of my life.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that.”

  “And you can’t beat the ambience of an old bus station. It’s so great I even live there.”

  “Hmm.” She took a bite of lettuce and nodded. That was a good move on my part, telling her I live in a bus station. Like money in the ba
nk.

  “Best thing is, it gives me something to offer my clients,” I said. “It’s something to keep them off the streets—you know, give ‘em something positive to focus on.”

  “Your clients?”

  “I’m a probation officer.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Kids mostly. My knuckleheads.”

  “Is that the technical term?”

  “They’re juvenile delinquents until they hit sixteen. Then they’re PINS until they’re eighteen. Persons in need of supervision. But I call them knuckleheads. It sounds more positive, like it’s just a phase they’re going through.”

  “I guess I can see that.” She took another bite of her salad. “So probation, you say … Is that the same thing as parole?”

  I put my fork down. I knew I was about to launch into my speech, but there was no power on earth that could stop me. So many people had no idea what I really did for a living.

  “Okay,” I said. “The main thing about a parole officer is that he’s really working inside the prison system. Sometimes, right in the prison facility itself. When you get out on parole, he’s the guy watching you, ready to put you back inside if you slip up.”

  “Right…”

  “As a probation officer, I work for the court. As soon as you’re arrested, I’m already gathering information about you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m the one who’s going to write up the recommendation for what your sentence should be.”

  “The judge doesn’t do that?”

  “Well, he can follow my recommendation or not. He usually does, but ultimately it’s up to him. If you end up getting a term of probation, then I’m the guy who helps you live up to it.”

  “So that’s totally different from what a parole officer does…”

  “A parole officer puts you back in prison. He’s your worst enemy.”

  “But you make sure they don’t go to prison in the first place,” she said. “So you’re like their best friend.”

  “Exactly. Sometimes their last and only friend.”

  “But what if somebody’s on probation and can’t stay straight?”