Swan Dive

cheap. And all dirty and cracked and mildewed, too, ‘cause the tunnel do that to everything. And you hold this fucken photo in you hand, and you sit there like a fucken dummy with you light on it, like you was in a museum staring at the Mona Lisa or something. And you know that fucken dink weigh less than most dogs we got over here and eat a fuck of a lot worse and the only thing that dink fight for is the tunnel you in and the memory he got someplace of the family in that photo that probably got all shot to shit before you even in-country. And you know that dink just like you, man, only he ain’t going home after no three hundred sixty-five days. And you hold that fucken photo, and you start to cry. You cry like you was a little baby and mama’s tits all dried up, because you hate the little fuckers so much but you see why you ain’t gonna beat ‘em, not up on top where we trying to fight ‘em.”
    Niño looked hard at me, a look I hadn’t seen since I climbed gratefully on the plane that took me back to The World. ”Well, this here was Teri’s tunnel, man. This was where she hide from the rest of us. And now you gone through her shit and know all about her. And now you gonna find the motherfucken turd who did her, and you gonna tell me, and then I square things all ‘round.”
    He passed his hand over his eyes once, like a jogger wiping off sweat. ”I gotta take a piss,” he said, hurrying by me into the bathroom and closing the door.
    He was in there maybe a minute, water running, when I heard the voice from the alcove. I jumped up, then went on in.
    The answering machine, which I’d left running on Play when Niño had called me from the telescope. The tape had almost reached its end. I hit Stop, turned down the volume, and pressed Review. I listened to the tape rewind for only five seconds, when what was recorded had passed. Then I replayed it.
    The beginning of the message was gone, probably erased automatically by the recording of messages after it. The only part left was ”noon, because I really should like to, uh, see you. Please call, but at the office here. Uh, thanks so much.” The incoming tape reached its end, and I turned off the machine.
    I walked into the living area near the telescope. If the architect had put in bay windows, I would have been able to look northward, maybe all the way to Swampscott.

    * * *

    ”Guess I went a little loco, man.”
    We were in the elevator riding down, and Niño hadn’t spoken since he’d come out of the bathroom. ”Don’t worry about it.”
    He took a deep breath, let it out.
    We got off at the lobby level and moved past the guard, who stood with his hands behind his back. He smiled officiously at us.
    Outside, Niño said, ”You need anything else from me?”
    ”I don’t think so.”
    He made no effort to walk away. ”Man, you been straight with me, I be straight with you.”
    I thought about the tape, but said, ”Go on.”
    ”Staking out you place, I see J.J. and Terdell messing around the cans. Then I spot their tail.”
    ”Tail?”
    ”Sur-veil-lance. I think about telling you last night, but I want to sleep on it, turn it around a little first. The tail was you classic unmarked sedan. I see it pull in and park while J.J. and Terdell getting ready for you. I was already there, so the tail didn’t make me.”
    ”Who was it?”
    ”Two guys, I didn’t try to see closer than that. But one thing sure, they good. Terdell and J.J. grab you, the tail wait till they away to turn on and come out. They follow you, I follow them out to the construction yard.”
    I considered it. Niño said, ”You got to know what I’m thinking.”
    ”Cops.”
    ”That’s right. And that mean they see you get snatched and don’t feel like doing nothing about it.”
    ”That mean they see me getting beat up, too?”
    ”Don’t think so. I do a little recon before I go into the pipes. The tail just wait outside the construction yard, lights off, like they only care about where J.J.’s car go next and not so much about you.”
    ”Thanks, Niño.”
    ”Yeah, well, I gotta go. Got a major chest-cutting at the Beth Israel, don’t you fucken know.”
    Dr. Rodriguez turned and walked away, pulling out his stethoscope and twirling it like a foot patrolman with a whistle.

Returning home, I checked my own answering machine. No messages, not even from Chris. I tried his number three times before turning in at midnight. Busy. Or off the hook.
    The sun streamed into