Blocklong stretches of unlit ex-storefronts and offices and there's the Coney Island, like all oases an attraction in the dark for the parade of emotionally discomfited self-flagellants spotted around the clock on the cratered streets. Grease-coated fluorescent lights cast a bluish-green tint over the bar and checkered floor tiles; the effect from the sidewalk is simultaneously comforting and coffinlike.
The other Coney Isle, the one two blocks down no one ever goes to, closes earlier, at 12:30, leavmeaning Paletello's in the early hours the only refuge within walking distance of the newspaper building. Paper rollers and ad staff wander, endemic. There's no television stationed at this Coney Island; Paletello provides a police scanner in a discreet position beside the register, more heard than seen. Everyone knows the enigmatic, crackly codes. Obscure locations are referred to Mac-the-human-map; he then has his moment.
Martin drops his cigarette into an unoccupied shoe propping open the door. Behind, two printroomers follow, not "with" the reporter. They settle in jammed to the register. Martin slides beside Mac, who is immediately conspiratorial.
"Ret left already. He knows some stuff he isn't telling you, us."
"He know about the fight in Forsythe Park last night? Hey Paletello, what did you hear on the scanner?"
"They called out the dog."
"I know that much. S.O.B. Broun won't say shit about it."
"Hey Martin, does Broun let the dog stay at his house?" Mac keeps up with most of the city police officers.
"As far as I know, in his bed."
A printroomer chortles. Mac, a little slow. "That must be why they let him keep the patrol car at home—it has to be a reason."
Martin turns toward all: "I'm asking—what is there to keep quiet about a gang fight for?" They look earnestly toward each other, approximate a shrug. "What you don't know doesn't kill you?"
Paletello delivers Martin's coffee. The radio crackles. Two DWIs are called in from the same locale out by the Y-split on 80, a known checkpoint.
"I was trying to get something out of Ret about them bicycle guys for you. He ain't saying, though." Mac's tone is wistfully helpful. Martin nods, staring ahead.
"We could drive out there tonight even—I know where there's some of them hang out."
Martin declines with quasi-diplomatic facial expressions. The others pursue bottled drafts.
Mac continues after a beat; "I'll just ride around—let you know if I see anything."
Martin's face livens of a sudden. He beckons Paletello over and alerts the others. Watch out for the Parish Fair in two weeks at the Civic Center. A certain Junior High gang under task squad observation requires of its initiates the targeted savage beating of a random white. The scene is to be near the livestock barns behind the auditorium.
"Whoa—you might could get to see it, Martin."
"Or prevent it," Paletello joins in.
"Nah," he tells Mac. "I've got a well-documented weak stomach. You can do it for me."
Paletello is minimally disturbed. "Martin. You're not scum enough to keep this information from the cops—"
The printroomers grunt: "That's where he got it from."
"Okay," Mac says, seriously making plans. "I'll check it out for you. I'll go back there, like at the stock yards, huh?"
Clicks become audible on the sidewalk outside. One of the printroomers abruptly whinges—a sound like a beaten, happy dog.
A skirted woman stands halted at the door, tentative and ludicrous in this place. It proves necessary for sunglasses to come off before Martin, crouching, can be spotted.
Everybody knows this one, an easily recognizable local TV reporter. Mac greets her effusively; the printroomers recite the name in leering audacity. With a thinlipped stretch of smile she dismisses all and walks to the stool beside Martin; there she remains standing. Paletello's lifted coffee pot forms a kind of salute; she waves at him, not impolite but brisk.
Martin's younger sister Kelly paying a visit to the underworld.
"Gayle's been looking for you." She cocks her head: "I told her I couldn't imagine where you'd be."
"I just got here. Besides there is an easily traceable phone number to this establishment. What I mean is, it's in the book." They look at Paletello; he lifts his shoulders and turns to the grille. The phone, a sixties vintage rotary dialer sits primly by the register; only the sharp-eyed will note no distal cord connection.
"I thought you were supposed to be at a movie," Martin says. "Have a seat." Kelly peers below as if it were possible to acquire immune deficiencies from the seat.
"I didn't want to go by myself. Lanny's over at Tech interviewing some seven foot tall South American spook they're sucking up to for a basketball recruit."
"Excuse me? Maybe you should refresh your word choice? We often have black friends join us in here."
"I don't see any," she says, apprehensive, glancing around.
"At any rate, even withstanding our lack of moral sophistication, the coarsest of us last heard that denominative used in the what—1960s?"
Finally she sits. "Must have been mistaken—thought this was some sort of skinhead hangout."
"If bald means skinhead, well . . . but I guess from your perspective. That's all right—Mac here might have some brother-blood in him," Martin says.
Kelly leans upon the counter to peer around Martin. "That true, Mac?"
Mac reddens. "Not that I know of."
"It's okay," she says, "You don't look it if you do."
"Black Irish, maybe."
"Irish Setter, rather?"
"Is anybody talking to you?" The printroomers wither from Kelly's hurtled glance. For effect, she reaches past her brother and squeezes Mac's shoulder in a condescendingly sensuous way.
Which flatters, shames, horrifies and arouses him simultaneously.
"Gayle told you if you're going to do the Indian Village story or missing kids?"
"Worse, shit. She's letting me decide."
"Missing kids," interjects one of the printroomers. "Pulls in an audience of half the world."
"See?" Kelly says to Martin.
"Sure. Who's ever gotten sick of the weeping mother in their own living room? Personal identification, but someone else's pain. Which is actually a definition of pornography, look it up."
"I hate when they do that. I mean, I'll watch it, but I hate to be the one interviewing. I always have to cry too."
"Didn't they find one off Love Road last month?" Martin says.
"Yeah, but it was dead. Not missing anymore."
"That's the whole point—use it. A ritual sacrifice. Kids spotted walking home from school, they're snatched into a waiting car. Off to the wildlife refuge to honor the devil's much vaunted ice-cold member. Some serious bloodletting for a sideshow." He signals Paletello for a coffee refill.
"Martin—it was a runaway. They think it died of snakebite."
Martin turns to Mac. "You ever heard about that? Accounts of women who say they've had intercourse with the devil?" Mac shakes his head, listening dutifully if reluctantly.
"They all agree. Beyond freezing. The perfect irony. Trouble is getting your phrasing past the station manager."
Kelly groans and stands up, heading out for her car. Mac cranes for a glimpse of the red Z.
"Hey, listen—don't tell Gayle you found me."
She gives him a look containing a detailed history of exasperation, slips the shades back on. "Disappointed a few people. Well. Isn't that what friends are for?" Quote marks off the edge of her lips. The copyroomers call for Kelly to come see them sometime, just any old time, and are answered by the high whine of the Z.
Martin finds Mac sipping his coffee, subdued.
"Hey man, don't tell her things like that, that aint the kind of subject you mention around your sister," Mac says.
"What—the devil's genitals? You want me to let drop a few of the things I've heard her say?"
Mac shakes his shoulders no. His voice lowers."Besides, those kids, dying—that stuff happens."
"I know," Martin says. "That's what news is."
