Title: January in the City – Part 1
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: Set in January following "Fancy Footwork"
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters belong to Steven Bochco Productions
Summary: Jim's first snowstorm after being shot and Marty has a favor to ask
January in the City – Part 1
January's late afternoon sun tried to brighten the squad room but it just wasn't happening. Heavy low clouds were rolling in and for once the weather forecasters might be right, having just upped their predictions of snow from a dusting to 12+ inches. There was no conversation among the detectives, and even the usual background noises seemed to have disappeared. Karen slouched over her desk staring at her niece's picture, taken just last week at her eighth birthday party. With a furrowed brow, Tom practiced balancing a yellow #2 pencil as if it was the most fascinating skill he had ever sought to master. Jim, having just placed his earphone over his right ear, sat with his fingertips lightly gripping the front edge of his laptop while he gazed off into that place only he knew about. They had just made a collar on a particularly nasty homicide that involved child porn at two local elementary schools, PS104 and PS76 and some others outside the precinct. Usually they talked with one another about how the case fell together after wrapping it up, but maybe it was just the fact that this case really was too much, that caused the shutdown of conversation. Marty sat hunched over in his chair, elbows propped on his knees, watching Dunbar through narrowed eyes.
Maybe Karen's right – maybe Dunbar is lucky he can't see these things, Marty mused to himself, but, geez, where does he go when he spaces off like that?
He raised his head and focused on the clock over the door – four o'clock – at least another hour to go. He slid his eyes over to Tom, then Karen and back to Jim, where they lingered. Marty would really, somehow, like to know what makes that guy tick.
Marty forced his thoughts back to the case they'd just finished, thinking again how glad he was that Marty Jr. was attending school in Connecticut this year. This trial separation with Janet was killing him, but Marty Jr.'s school had been one of those outside the precinct……
God, the thought ripped through Marty like a red hot knife, what would I have done?
The shrill ringing of Karen's phone startled everyone out of their reverie. That yellow pencil snapped in two. Karen sat up in her chair, smacking her knees against the underside of her desk. The way Jim tore that earphone off, his laptop must've made some helluva noise when his fingers slammed down on the keys. Marty, having had some conscious thought in his head when the phone rang, simply took it all in.
Saved by my thoughts, he smiled to himself.
Tuning out Karen's end of the conversation, Marty turned his thoughts to last night's phone conversation with his son – the phone call that gave him this annoying headache. Or more appropriately, the promise he made to Marty Jr. during that phone call that gave him this annoying headache. He reached across the pictures on his desk to the bottle of aspirin sitting on Tom's desk. Leaning back in his chair he opened the bottle and found four aspirin left.
Oh, what the hell, he thought, as he emptied the bottle's contents into his mouth and reached for his water bottle.
I really have to speak with him. I promised Marty Jr. I would, Marty agonized. How the hell do I ask him this?
His mind drifted back to last night. He had spent the whole night tossing and turning in bed, not sure if he slept but definitely remembered some nightmares – or were they conscious thoughts – now he wasn't sure. He had finally given up trying to sleep and had gotten up at five o'clock to go stumbling into the kitchen. He wasn't the best morning person and he had been grappling with Marty Jr.'s request – a very big request – all night long. After pouring a mug of leftover coffee he had padded into the living room and sat down in his recliner next to the window and looked out. He usually always enjoyed the view of the city, but this time it gave him pause. It kind of hit him in his gut.
"He's got me feeling guilty looking out my own window," he had muttered to himself, grimacing after taking a sip of cold coffee.
The headache that had been slowly uncurling itself during the night was now just waiting to spring into all parts of his head. After setting the mug down on the windowsill, he had put his head in his hands and thought how happy he should be that his son was finally enthusiastic aboutsomething in his new school – and now it had happened – with a big project, of all things.
Marty started when Karen dropped the phone's handset into the cradle and brushed past his chair on the way to get a refill of coffee.
What the! he thought while being brought back to the present.
He shook his head slightly but it only made the headache worse. Looking around he noticed that Tom and Jim had gone back to working on their reports on their laptops.
Great, he thought, now I'm the one spacing off.
Again, he thought about that phone call. His son had been so excited describing the very big project his fourth grade class was going to be working on. They had a month to finish it; something to focus on through the gloomy days of winter Mr. Sneed, their teacher, had told them. Great. The words had just tripped over themselves while they had spilled out of his son's mouth: Alex is going to interview Louis Braille, Amy is going to interview Helen Keller, Linda is going to interview Mary Ingalls, but Dad I don't want to interview a dead person, I want to interview a real person, I want to interview that detective guy you work with, can I please, oh please, would you please ask him if I can, oh please?
"Hey," Fisk called to everyone, locking the door behind him after stepping out of his office. "Let's call it a day. Tomorrow will probably be busy with the snow coming."
That's the thing about snow in the city. If everyone stayed indoors it would be beautiful. There is nothing that compares to a fresh blanket of white snow over the city – a true picture postcard. But, no, nobody can stay put. When everyone is trying to get around, four inches can be as bad as twelve. Grand Central is mobbed. Penn Station is mobbed. Cabs are honking and skidding all over the place. There's slippery slush all over the sidewalks and more slippery slush all over the roads. Tempers flare and, hey, let's add in the winter blues after the holiday season for good measure and you've got a fine combination just waiting for something to happen. But, then nighttime comes, the sky grows dark and the lights come on and glisten on any remaining unblemished snow. Even the traffic lights look pretty. People hurry over to Central Park or head over to Rockefeller Center to the skating rinks, stopping at the street vendors to get a hot pretzel or roasted chestnuts to keep warm. And, in case you forgot your hat or gloves, you'll find street vendors selling those, too. If you're lucky, it's still snowing and it's still a picture postcard out there.
Having just finished closing up his laptop after Fisk's suggestion, Jim leaned back and gripped the arms of his chair. He heard the squeaky caster on Karen's chair as she resettled herself, but he couldn't tell if Marty and Tom were still there. Even slightly cocking his head to listen didn't help. Jim spun a 180 in his chair and, reaching out gently with his hands, squared himself off with the small file cabinet behind his desk so he knew he was facing toward the window. Before shutting down his laptop he had listened to the weather forecast – newly revised again for more snow since the storm might be tracking further south of Long Island, so the city and the southern shore of Connecticut would probably take the brunt of it.
"Karen?" Jim asked softly.
"Yeah?" came her muffled reply, letting Jim know she was preoccupied with something on her desk.
Choosing his words carefully, he simply asked, "Are we alone?"
"Ah, no," she answered after a short pause.
From the direction of her voice Jim knew she was looking at him so he gave a short nod. Karen's squeaky caster came closer and he felt her next to him as he turned his head to face her.
"Do you need something?"
Need something – no, want something – yeah, maybe, he thought with a slight shake of his head while he carefully schooled his features into that bland expression he tried so hard to effect.
"Nah," he told her, "I was just wondering……is it was snowing yet?"
"Oh……," her voice trailed off, "ah…..no, not yet. But if the sky's any indication it's gotta start any time now."
He nodded his thanks and turned his face back toward the window, effectively shutting her out. Jim listened as Karen squeaked her way back to her desk. He idly wondered if the pigeons were still out there on the ledge, huddled together to keep warm.
"Hey, Jim," she called over a moment later, "how does Hank like the snow?"
"I really don't know, we only had that little dusting last month," Jim responded, grateful for a conversation he really didn't mind having out in the open.
He gave a signal to Hank, who stood up and put his head in Jim's lap. Jim bent his head until his nose nearly touched Hank's head.
"Hey boy, what do you think about snow?" he murmured while lifting the dog's head and giving him a scratch under the chin.
Tom called over, "Jim, you gonna take him to the park so he can enjoy the snow? Nothing like a snow-covered dog."
"You know," Jim responded carefully, "we probably won't get anything. How many times have the forecasts been wrong…….get everybody worked up for nothing." But, somehow he knew this was going to be a big storm and Christie was going to want to go out in it. Like they always did – they'd hike over to Brooklyn Bridge Park and play – like kids.
Except for last winter, he realized with a start, pursing his lips together and wondering about the present. Would they now?
"Well, I hope it starts soon," Tom enthused as he shrugged into his coat, "I'm going to meet Jolene over at Carnegie Deli and hope it's snowing before we leave so we can walk up to Central Park for a carriage ride. She loves how the trees look in the snow."
"Yeah, Christie likes them, too," Jim picked up, swallowing hard. He lifted up one corner of his mouth.
"I gotta go, too," Karen piped up, "that was my sister on the phone. She thinks she's gonna get snowed in so I'm gonna bring her a pizza. But, hey, maybe Jim's right and it'll be a big nothing."
"See ya tomorrow," Marty said.
Jim listened to Tom and Karen's footsteps grow faint as they left the squad room together. Now he knew Marty was still here. Scooting his chair over to his desk, he slid his hand across the top of his scanner until he touched his glasses and put them on. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, willing the tight feeling to go away.
Night always comes early to the city during the winter months. In a matter of minutes, twilight gives way to inky darkness, as it settles down between the tall buildings, fingering its way along the streets. Twinkling lights emerge victorious as they finish their march against the encroaching nightfall. Some of these lights seem to be suspended in mid-air, the bridges blending into the dark. Other lights reach endlessly up into the sky, held up by the now obscured skyscrapers. Down near the street level, inside the squad room, darkness was warring with the overhead fluorescents, casting an eerie glow overeverything, neither yet a winner.
Marty stretched over to Tom's desk and flicked on the big desk lamp there.
Why'd he have to go put those glasses on? Marty let out a breath, he's so damn unapproachable with them on.
He'd been mentally kicking himself for the promise he'd made to his son. If he didn't speak up soon he was going to lose his chance – and have to tell Marty, Jr. over the phone tonight? No way. But now he was going to have to speak to those glasses, those damn, don't fck with me, glasses.
After glancing at his watch to see it was four-thirty, Marty watched Jim check his own watch by snapping open the crystal and gently placing a finger inside to feel the hands. After closing the crystal he gathered the rest of his belongings.
Bending down, Jim reached under his desk to retrieve his bag. He started to slide his laptop into the front compartment and then stopped, fiddling with the latch. At that moment, Hank lifted his head, giving his dog tags a jingle. Jim smiled.
Marty watched the smile disappear as Jim began to worry his lower lip with his teeth. He bent his head down and removed his glasses, rubbing his right eye with the back of his hand.
"Marty?" Jim hesitated.
"Yeah?" he tried to sound disinterested.
"Is your laptop still powered up?" Jim queried.
"Yeah…," Marty answered, wondering where this was going.
Jim lifted his head. "Would you check the forecast? Where's the snow line?"
What's with the damn snow? Marty wondered.
"Ah, sure. Let's see…" He tapped on several keys and clicked the mouse a few times. "Looks like it just starting in Newark, so it's coming."
"Thank." Jim continued to methodically pack his bag.
He turned, and placing one hand on the back of his chair, reached over to pick up his coat from the small file cabinet, but only encountered the cool metal surface. Stiffening, he straightened and faced his desk, moving his head as if scanning the room.
Tom stuck our coats in the observation room when we brought that guy in, Marty remembered. Suddenly it dawned on him – Dunbar didn't know. Thinking, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand under his chin. Did Tom say anything? Marty tried to recall.
"Dunbar, want me to grab your coat? I'm going to get mine," Marty threw over his shoulder as he spun his chair away from his desk and stood up.
"Ah, yeah," Jim got out.
Marty quickly made his way to the observation room and, while turning the door knob to enter, glanced back at Jim. He was leaning over the file cabinet, facing the window. He watched Jim slowly reach across the cabinet and slide his hand over the window sill to touch the glass. Suddenly Marty felt chilled – guilty? – unsettled? – as if he was watching something he shouldn't be. Snap out of it, Russo.
Stepping over the threshold, Marty saw the coats where Tom had tossed them – on the table in the far left corner. He scooped up the coats, slung them over his arm and walked slowly back into the squad room. Jim was now perched on the edge of his desk, still facing the window.
"Here you go," Marty nudged Jim with his coat, "it took me a minute to remember Tom had left them in the observation room when we got back."
Jim nodded his thanks and reached out to take his coat from Marty, who knew he was running out of time. He had to ask now. At least get some dialog going.
Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth, "Hey, Dunbar, let's go grab a couple beers before heading home."
He watched Jim's reaction – surprise? – flash across his face only to be replaced with that ever-present neutral expression. OK, now I gotta run with it so I don't lose him.
"C'mon, Jim," Marty got out, "I know it's usually Selway and Bettancourt with us, but, what the hell, we'll drink one for them."
Jim opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He tried again, "Ah, Marty, I….."
The persistent chirp, chirp of his cell phone stopped whatever else he was going to say. Jim raised one hand palm up and answered the call with a "Hi, Christie."
He curled his fingertips around the edge of his desk and Marty noticed how they tightened as the phone call progressed. Jim closed his eyes and bent his head.
"No, why don't we…," he began.
"How about another night?" he tried.
"Yeah, I know it's the first snow of the season, but…," he persisted.
"Ok, I'll see you home about 7," he said, sounding resigned.
"Yeah, you pick it up," he finished and closed the phone.
Jim rubbed his right eye with the back of his hand and then lifted his head with a start. Marty noticed the tension in Jim's face and decided to keep quiet.
"Hey, Marty, let's go grab that beer," Jim got out, "if you still want to."
"Sure," Marty answered, happy to delay any further discussion. It'll be easier to ask him over a few beers.
Marty put his coat on and decided against bringing home his laptop. He had too many things on his mind – one of which was standing about six feet in front of him. After Jim put on his coat, he slid his glasses back on and swung the bag over his right shoulder.
"C'ome on, Hank," Jim slapped his left thigh, "let's go."
The two detectives walked to the elevator where Marty punched the down button. The doors swished open, the chime announcing its arrival. Hank led the way in and Jim turned, then stretched out his hand toward the button panel and ran his fingers down to the fourth button on the right – street level. He pushed it and the doors closed after a moment's hesitation.
"Dunbar," Marty began, "you got a thing with snow?"
"No, Marty." Jim's jaw clenched. "Why do you ask?"
"Just seems like you've been preoccupied with it all afternoon long. I was just wondering."
Jim didn't respond so Marty decided not to push it. The elevator bumped to a stop and the doors parted. The detectives walked into the lobby of the 8th Precinct Headquarters and pushed their way through the heavy glass doors. An icy blast of cold air greeted them as they stepped outside. The wind lifted their hair and Hank's fur as they walked down the steps to the sidewalk, turned left and headed toward the squad's usual happy-hour haunt on Franklin.
"Hank pretty much knows the way," Jim joked. "Don't go teaching him any short cuts now."
Marty nodded and, realizing Jim couldn't see it, blew out a "right."
After taking a deep breath of the cold air and filling his lungs, Marty tried desperately to come up with something else to say while they traversed the city streets.
"Can't wait 'til we get there. It's getting so cold, even the damn snow's gonna freeze," Marty tried to joke.
Jim nodded in agreement. "Yeah."
The two men and Hank slowly made their way through the throngs of rush-hour pedestrians – all in a hurry – trying to get to where they wanted to go before the storm started. At the intersection they waited with everyone else, huddled together like a pack of dogs, waiting for the light to change so they could cross. Safety in numbers, right? Marty glanced over at Jim and noticed he looked tense….alert. Trying to keep track of everything? He closed his eyes and the world disappeared – he just wanted to get a feel for it. Sounds suddenly assaulted him, bombarding him from all directions and he felt disorientated. He quickly opened his eyes and saw the traffic light change color – time to cross.
When they reached the bar, Marty opened the door and walked through, holding it open for Jim and Hank. He looked around and wondered if this was a good idea. Lots of people and not enough seats. At least up front. Conversations flowed but all eyes were to the street – waiting for the snow to begin? What was it with people and the snow today? Tomorrow's Friday, are they looking for a day off? Fat chance that'll happen.
Peering into the back, Marty noticed the crowd was thinner and was relieved to see some free booths.
"Okay if we sit in the back? Everyone's clustered here, up front."
"Marty, it doesn't matter to me where we sit," Jim said with a slightly amused expression. "The view's the same."
Glancing up at Jim's face, he realized that Jim was okay with it. Okay, cool down, Marty. He wasn't trying to goad you.
Leading the way with a bunch of "excuse me" and "pardon us," they finally reached the back and Marty slid into a booth, facing the front, so he could see if something went down. Always protecting my back, he thought ruefully. I wonder if Jim used to do the same thing? He watched Jim put out a hand to locate the back of the booth and then slide in himself. The waitress practically followed on their heels to take their order.
"Ah, two beers," Marty told her. "Is Bud okay with you, Jim?"
"Sure."
They barely had time to shrug out of their coats and push them into the corners before the waitress came back with their beers and some chips. Marty handed her a ten and said, "keep the change."
Jim took off his glasses, placed them on the table, then made sure Hank was settled before discreetly searching for his beer. After wrapping his hands around the bottle, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, taking a long swallow. Jim set the bottle down and ran both hands over the wooden, scarred table top. With his right index finger he traced some of the indentations nameless patrons had made in its surface.
"Have some chips." Marty brushed the basket against the back of Jim's hand and got a grateful nod in return. They talked about the Yankees, spring training and the upcoming season. Jim mentioned that he always had a season pass to the Yankees – it just came out in the conversation – but Marty saw the brief flicker of pain cross Jim's face before he composed his features and took another swig of beer. Somehow they had mutually agreed not to talk about the child porn case or the forecasted snow.
Marty took a long swallow and set the bottle down on the table. He grabbed a few chips and slowly ate them, looking over at Jim, just watching, wondering.
He cleared this throat and tried, "Jim, I just can't say the right thing to you, can I? I mean, I really piss you off sometimes."
"Hey," Jim held up his hand. "Marty…..just be yourself."
"Yeah, right," Marty muttered.
"Marty," Jim said, bending his head over his beer bottle, "Yeah. Right. You don't need to try so hard."
Jim lifted his head and managed to stare straight into Marty's eyes. Marty swore he had to be able to see – those blue eyes looked so intense.
"You know I don't usually talk about this stuff – the blind thing, as Karen calls it," Jim added, trying to lighten the mood. "Right now it's me and you, nobody else, so I'm gonna say it. Marty, listen, it's not the blindness that trips me up. It's sighted people's reactions – they dance around me with words, like some kinda fancy footwork. That's what trips me up," Jim finished, sitting back into the booth with an expectant look on his face.
Marty sat totally still listening to Jim speak, absorbing each syllable he uttered. Baring his soul? He knew Jim was waiting for him to speak, to say something, anything. What do I say?
"Whoa…," Marty whooshed out. "Geez, Jim…, I don't know what to say…"
"You don't have to say anything. Just wanted you to know where I'm coming from."
"You know something? I kinda had a reason for asking if you wanted to go for a beer tonight. I coulda asked back at the squad, but didn't. And, now? What you said? I don't know if it makes it easier or harder for me to ask," Marty managed, marveling that he was able to get any sound out.
"Okay," Jim responded slowly.
"Well, it's kinda like a favor, I guess you could say…." Marty wasn't sure how to continue.
"Marty, I told you a long time ago that if you needed something and it was in my power to make it happen, I would," Jim reminded him. "I meant it then and I mean it now."
Jim sat back in the booth, relaxed, his hands gently toying with his beer bottle. Hank rattled his dog tags, and Jim reached down to give him a scratch under the chin.
Marty searched Jim's face looking for….what? He remembered when Jim had told him that, all those months ago, back in the locker room. And, yeah, now he could admit to himself, he knew Jim had been sincere. But, then? He'd thought it was just sugar-coating – hey look at me – I'm good. He knew better now, but that didn't make it any easier.
Marty took a deep breath and began. "You know I got a kid, right?"
Jim nodded, not saying anything.
"Well, he's nine, almost ten, actually. His birthday is next month – February 20th."
"Really?" Jim asked interestedly.
"Well, he's got this school project – he's in fourth grade – and Marty, Jr. – that's his name, that's what we call him. His friends call him Mart – he thinks that's pretty cool – makes him feel tough. Anyway, like I said, he's got this project and he wants me to ask you if he could… interview…you," Marty finished lamely.
"Okay." Jim nodded, pressing his lips together.
Marty went to take a drink and realized his bottle was empty. He glanced over at Jim's and saw it was empty, too. He signaled the waitress and asked, "I'm getting another beer. You want one?"
"Yeah, sure," Jim replied, running his hand over the table until he encountered the basket of chips and shook it. "Maybe we should get some more of these, too."
The waitress, who had just walked up to their table, looked questioningly at Marty, who said sharply, "Hey, the man says we need chips, we need chips. And if you got anything else, some of that, too."
"Marty…," Jim chided with a smile, shaking his head as the waitress walked away, "you really gotta stop doing that. You're gonna piss people off. Anyway," he continued casually, playing with the beer coaster, "what's this project about?"
OK, here it comes, here's where I piss Dunbar off, Marty thought. God, get me through this.
"Well, from what I understand, what Marty, Jr. told me, I mean," Marty mumbled, stumbling over his words, "the project's about blind people and…." Oh, God, just let me die right now, "how they're, you know.…" Marty closed his eyes before continuing, "contributing members of society. They're not my words, Jim," he said, hurrying to get it all out at once. "Marty, Jr. was reading it to me from his assignment book." Please God, just let the floor open up and swallow me whole….or at least let a big gigantic ball of snow crash through the ceiling and land on top of me.
He slowly opened his eyes to see Jim's reaction.
Nothing – it's that damn blank, whatever look. He…is…pissed. Marty inwardly cringed, waiting for the onslaught he was expecting.
Whoa, didn't expect that. Jim managed to focus on that thought as the initial shock wore off and he realized he had crushed the coaster. He took a deep breath and leaned away from the table until he made contact with the back of the booth. After carefully reaching forward and placing his fingertips against the edge of the table, he slowly ran them back and forth, spanning its width and biting his lower lip while trying to slow his runaway thoughts. Has Marty been talking to his kid about me? Probably. Why me? C'mon, why not? Yeah, right – like there's a lotta blind cops around to talk about. But, geez, contributing member of society – ouch, that one kicks – big time. Need to straighten that teacher out. Hey, time out, Dunbar – where'd that come from? All I want to do is do my job, the way I know how. I told Fisk that the first day and that's what I'm doing. Well…, I guess that puts me here... He sighed, cupped the back of his neck with one hand, and stretched his head backwards. He knew Marty was waiting over there in the silence, on the other side of the table. He probably thinks I'm pissed at him, Jim guessed, and grinned at that thought. Great, now that musta really got him wondering... Stop it, Dunbar. This isn't the time to play with Marty's mind. This is important stuff – a request from his kid, who has no clue what he asked his dad to do. You know what? Marty had the balls to do it. OK…no problem, I'm good.
Jim leaned forward and placed his hands flat against the table. If only he could see what Marty was thinking – he shook his head. Get rid of that thought, Dunbar. He made an effort to look to where he thought Marty was sitting.
"Marty…." Jim began, trying to work his mouth around the words and figure out what words he needed at the same time. "That's a…
"Hey, Jim," Marty broke in quickly. "Really, he just needs to…"
"Let me finish here, Okay?" He's closer to the wall then I thought. Jim angled his body until he felt pretty sure he was facing Marty squarely.
"Marty, that's a major undertaking for a bunch of fourth graders."
"Ah, yeah," Marty gulped out, sounding surprised at what he was hearing.
"And, you know...thinking about it..." Jim cautiously ventured. "It might be a good thing. Are other kids interviewing people, too? Or, is your son asking for the whole class? You know, I'm just trying to get a feel for…."
At that moment the waitress plunked down two beer bottles and plates, causing Jim to start. The smell of fried food filled the air as the baskets plopped onto the table. Jim told Marty, "I've got this one," and reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet. After locating a twenty folded lengthwise, he pushed it to the end of the table with a "keep the change."
"Hey, this looks great," Marty exclaimed, happy for a short reprieve in the conversation.
"Smells great, too," Jim followed up with a slight grin. "What's in the baskets?"
"The usual chips in this one." Jim listened to the basket rattle. "The other has fried – let's see – looks like mushroom, zucchini, cauliflower and, I think," there was a slight crunching sound, "yeah, fried pickles. Not bad. Here's your plate," Marty mumbled while chewing, as he gently pushed it against Jim's hand.
"Thanks." Jim pulled it toward him and slid his hand over the table to where the other basket were sitting. After grabbing some chips and putting some of the veggies on his plate, he popped one in his mouth – mushroom, not bad. Slowly chewing on the mushroom and then selecting another veggie, which he twirled in his fingers, Jim picked up where he had left off.
"So, Marty, how many people are being interviewed?" Settling himself into the corner of the booth, Jim popped a fried pickle in his mouth and chewed slowly, enjoying the flavor and feeling the sound of the crunchy pickle in his mouth. While searching for his elusive beer, he looked expectantly in Marty's direction.
"I think each kid has to interview a different person…." Marty began.
Geez, that's a lot of blind people. Wonder where they're gonna find them all? Jim mused. Lighthouse is right here; maybe they're used to interviews and stuff by school kids.
"Marty, Jr. told me some of his friends were interviewing Louis Braille, Helen Keller, Mary Ingalls…," Marty told him carefully, looking closely at Jim to gauge his reaction.
"Marty," Jim, speaking sharper than he intended, interrupted. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but they're dead," Jim managed to get out, trying hard not to laugh but failing miserably. He held up his hand and took a few seconds to compose himself. "How the hell can they interview dead people? We can't even do that."
Jim's phone chirped before Marty could respond.
"What time is it?" he asked, looking in Marty's direction and reaching for the phone on his belt.
"6:30."
Jim nodded his thanks while flipping open the phone.
"Hi, Christie. Yeah, I'll be there in about half an hour or so… It's snowing?"
Jim closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wishing this storm would just disappear.
"That's great," he responded into the phone.
He concentrated on his wife's cheery voice, knowing how much she – and he too, at one time, couldn't wait for that first big snowfall of the season. They'd go down to the park and throw snowballs or just sit on the bench and watch the snow come down. Once they were good and cold, they'd walk over to one of the little eateries and find seats by a crackling fireplace, warming up on some homemade soup, bread and wine. That seemed like a lifetime ago. Jim ended his call and carefully laid the phone down next to his glasses. He reached up and rubbed his right eye with the back of his hand and then turned his face toward Marty.
"So, back to this business of interviewing dead people," Jim continued. "Marty…"
"Jim," Marty broke in, "you shoulda heard him last night. The kid was so excited that I know a real….you know, blind person. I guess the kids just don't know many….blind….people…. So the teacher said they could interview dead ones instead."
"Relax….I'm good." Jim smiled. "I've interviewed a lot of kids over the years, but….I've never been interviewed by one," Jim finished and gave a small chuckle.
"He interviews me nearly every day," Marty quipped. "Truth? It ain't easy – the kid's sharp."
"Okay then, best to get it over with," Jim retorted. "When….where….your place?"
"Ah, Jim? There's a…there's something you need to know,' Marty stammered. "Me and Janet? We're ah, we're kinda going through a trial separation. They're living out in Connecticut – at her folks."
So much for the Lighthouse theory, Jim thought ruefully. Geez, that's gotta be tough on Marty. He had thought many times over the past year or so that it was going to happen to him – Christie would leave….for good. He'd made so many mistakes and couldn't – wouldn't – share his thoughts with her. He'd been trying to, and things had gotten better. Talking to that shrink Galloway told them about had helped, too. He knew it.…it just wasn't easy opening up.
And, tonight? He was going to deal with another of those "this isn't easy" things – snow. Just let me figure it out so Christie doesn't get….upset. But, that's for later. Now I gotta set up an interview.
"Marty? I should get moving. Why don't we talk about it on the way out?" Jim said, reaching for his beer and taking a last swallow. After shrugging into his coat, he grabbed the strap on the bag and slid out of the booth. Standing, he swung the bag over his right shoulder and gave Hank his signal. He listened for the other man's response.
"Sure."
Marty led the way with Jim and Hank following. They threaded their way past the patrons and pushed through the door to the outside, where the snow was falling. Within seconds they were covered with white powdery snow. It was light and fluffy, not the heavy kind, and it was whisper quiet as it gently landed. Even though he strained to hear, Jim could not pick up any familiar sounds. Everything was muffled as if a blanket was covering the city. And it was….a blanket of snow. He felt disorientated….unsettled. So this is what snow does – what everyone at Lighthouse was trying to explain. Blind man's fog. Yeah, I can appreciate that. That dusting last month? That was nothing. He tightened his grip on Hank's harness and took a deep breath to steady himself. OK, Jim, just step easy – hit the ground flat – you don't want to go sliding. They walked down Franklin and Marty commented there must be two or three inches on the ground already. Jim was trying to focus on where he was, without the benefit of familiar sounds. The traffic passing to his right almost sounded as if it was driving The street was just too quiet. He quickly shook his head, hoping it would help clear things up. But, it didn't.
"So, how do you want to do this, Marty?" Jim inquired, thinking that they would be approaching Broadway soon and he'll be turning right to catch the subway on Canal. Since Marty had left his car back at the squad, he'll need to continue on Franklin. They did not have much time to make plans – unless they wanted to stand and get snowed upon.
"Ah, Janet and Marty, Jr. were planning on coming up this weekend. Hopefully, the snow won't be too bad and MetroNorth will be running. You never know with those overhead wires though. They're so damn brittle in the cold. If they make it in, maybe we can get together on Saturday – at your place? Would that be good? If that's okay, I mean – I don't want to be interfering with anything," Marty finished and stopped walking
Did they reach the intersection? Jim tried to listen for the traffic he should be hearing but all he heard was Marty stamping his feet. Probably to warm up. Not a bad idea.
"No problem, Marty, Saturday's good. Anytime."
"Hey, Jim," Marty said, "let me drop you off at home. Forget the subway tonight. They'll be cattle cars anyway. Besides, you're not too far off the bridge, right? First exit?"
Jim thought about it. Really? He wasn't looking forward to the walk in all this snow and Hank probably felt the same, so what the hell. "I appreciate that, Marty," Jim answered as they continued to walk toward the 8th Precinct. When they reached Marty's car, Jim brushed some of the snow off before opening the rear passenger door to let Hank in. He was looking forward to thawing out once the car warmed up. When Marty pulled out into the road, the car fishtailed a little, making Jim think he was happy not to be driving. The traffic must have packed the snow down good, making it slick.
Marty was probably concentrating on driving so Jim let his thoughts wander. Dunbar, are you really going to let his kid ask you all kinds of questions? You're really leaving yourself wide open. Who knows what he'll ask? Yeah, but it's a kid. But Marty will probably be there. Are you comfortable with that? Hey, I don't have anything to hide. True. But suppose he asks something you don't want to answer?
Traffic was moving, no major tie ups, just a little slower than usual. Soon Jim heard the hum of the bridge beneath him and Marty took the first exit. After making a couple of turns, he headed down Washington Street, and was stopping in front of Jim's building.
Before opening the car door, Jim took a moment to check his watch – 7:10. Not bad. We made good time, considering the snow. After opening the door, he looked to where Marty was sitting and said, "thanks." Jim cautiously stepped out, making sure his feet were flat on the ground and tested the traction. Moving to the rear, he slid his hand along the side of the car until he found the door handle. Hank jumped out and while bending down to pick up the harness, Jim reminded Marty, "Let me know tomorrow. See you then."
"See you tomorrow, Jim," Marty responded.
Jim closed the door and stepped away from the curb. Before turning to go inside, he tilted his head to listen as Marty drove away. He stood there a few minutes, letting the snow settle on himself, marveling at the quiet. There's always something to hear – usually – the traffic on the bridge alone provided a comforting background noise for him. But, tonight, there was nothing. He reached up to brush the snow off his head and then went inside, heading for the elevator. After pushing the "up" button, he wondered if there was any possibility in convincing Christie not to go out after dinner. Foolish question. Jim knew the answer to that. The more snow the better. It could be a blizzard out there and Christie's going to want to go out.