I stood two feet behind Marzoli. I suddenly became aware I was breathing in his scent. It smelled of cedar wood and nutmeg mixed with the slight pungency of sweat. From his deodorant? From his cologne? From his shampoo? I had no idea, but the soft fragrance filled my nostrils and smoked my brain, my throat, and my groin.
I knew the fragrance. I didn't know how I knew it, but I recognized its presence in my life like a dusty childhood book found in an attic. I knew that men who smelled of it emanated power and sternness and fearlessness. Loneliness and heartbreak. And violence. The cedar wood and nutmeg grabbed hold of my gut completely by surprise and, with quick escalation, made me feel … made me feel overwhelmed … emotional … something too much … I didn't know...I didn't understand … I couldn't feel my legs … my hands began to feel cold … then my forearms … then my biceps … then my shoulders …
I had to close my eyes.
Grandfather grabbed hold of my hand and squeezed until my fingers turned white.
My breathing quickened.
Mozart. A cold black gun under a folded white linen handkerchief.
My shoulders tensed, my stomach cinched.
Paul! Jesus Christ, Paul!
I opened my eyes quickly.
My mouth was dry, parted as if about to scream. Had I said anything? Had I screamed anything?
Refocus...refocus. Steady. Breathe. Steady.
I pressed my left thumb into my right wrist and massaged that pressure point. Breathe.
Suddenly I began to perceive I was being eyed. I'd been completely unaware Marzoli had turned his head my direction. Not staring. Not looking critically. Not concerned. Just gently observing.
The scent still wafted toward me, but I blew it back with a deep slow exhale.
He said nothing. His thick eyebrows relaxed, forming the gentlest of looks I'd received in a great long while. I could feel the setting sun soothing the sharpness of my memories. Marzoli reached his hand out without any hesitation or awkwardness and rested it on my shoulder at the base of my neck. He squeezed lightly.
Why does that feel so good?
I hardly knew this Puerto Rican Sicilian, but he managed to comfort me in a way nobody had in decades. The success of this connection had nothing to do with his hand on my shoulder, but everything to do with his lack of inquiry. He asked no question. His soft expression said that he had no need to understand anything beyond what I would or would not volunteer. He remained generously silent until I was able to take a swallow of air and breathe steadily again.
I hadn't realized how utterly isolated I'd been until a complete stranger succeeded in reaching out, even though he was really doing nothing.
My eyes welled up.
Shit.
Marzoli sensed I was becoming self-conscious and removed his hand, turning back to the view of the courtyard. I was as grateful not to be observed as I was to be observed. The son-of-a-bitch paid me the politeness of focusing on something completely divorced from my own shit.
Thank you, goddamn bastard.
"The case of Nathan Ridges is, for all intents and purposes, dead. Not closed. Dead."
I waited for him to continue if he chose to. He chose to.
"Nathan Ridges DJed in clubs-Splash, G-Lounge, Therapy, circuit parties, the whole gay shebang. He had no friends who knew anything about his private life. His father died in prison when he was six. His mother lives in Buffalo and hasn't seen him since he was seventeen. I interviewed her. When Nathan came out, she dropped him off in Chelsea with two hundred bucks and told him never to contact her again. He dealt Ecstasy to supplement his income but wasn't a major. He had no outstanding debts that anyone knows about and forty dollars in the bank. No boyfriend. No traceable love interest. In other words, he was murdered, but no one cares. Except maybe the landlord at first, till he found a new tenant. The file is not closed, but it's one of those files that'll get pushed to the back of a long, long line of unsolved."
He paused. In the shadows, I could see by his eyes he was deeply concerned.
His voice dropped low in disapproval. "The city can't throw out the case, but nor will they allocate any time or budget toward cases like these. They're called inconsequentials."
The way he said inconsequentials dripped with so much disdain it translated as injury rather than anger. Pain. A stab wound.
"I'm not supposed to be working on Nathan's case anymore because there are no consequences to not solving it."
"But you are."
He nodded.
His eyebrows furrowed again, but tensely, as if he was trying as hard as he could to keep himself expressionless. And failing.
All at once I knew something about Nathan's story was similar to Marzoli's own narrative.
I glanced at Marzoli's shoes.
Banana Republic.
Being around Johanna taught me to recognize a person's income level, disposition, age, where they lived, mood, sexual proclivity, chosen industry, fucking blood type and smell of their semen by the kind of shoes they chose to wear. According to Johanna, Banana Republic was the choice of recent college grads who couldn't afford better quality footwear but had to look the part, or lower middle income straight guys who had to please their ladies and had no clue Banana was a Gap subsidiary and therefore suffering from major dips in sales and compensating by substituting less than quality materials.
Marzoli was smart enough to know better and his sense of style deserved better, yet he was wearing Banana. He obviously made a fiscally responsible choice, which meant, that he was working hard for not a whole heck of a lot of dough. Any volunteer work was a time-suck he could hardly afford. The classification of an abandoned gay twink as "inconsequential" obviously gouged this sergeant in the gut. His whole demeanor, facial expression, and vocal tone reinforced that. I could feel a level of conscientiousness under his skin I'd never encountered in another so palpably. Certainly not in myself.
In the deepening shadows, a new person stood before me. A person whose perfection and drive was not a display of bravura like a captain who wears his medals on his chest just for the golden gleam and the blustery significance of vaguely-earned accomplishments. He was the end result of an abandoned, penniless, homeless kid who had to work exponentially harder than anyone else. His golden gleam was his intelligence, his thoroughness, and his determination. The perfection of his muscular body, beauty of his face, and the ruggedly tough demeanor … comparatively irrelevant fallout.
He was more of a man than I would ever hope to be. And I knew instantly at that moment how true that was. Had I been a different person in a healthier state of mind, I'd have been inspired. I'd have started setting goals instead of launching a self-loathing monologue deriding myself for my innumerable failures to exploit any single one of my advantages-my musical talent, my health, my looks, my brain, my …
Muffled piano music began to drop through the ceiling from the apartment above me. When the fuck did a piano plop itself above me?
"That'd be your new neighbor. He moved in today. "
Marzoli looked at me with amusement, sensing how easily I would snap into irritation.
"Let me help you."
He grabbed the broom from the corner and whacked the ceiling five times. The piano playing stopped.
"Have fun with that," he said with a dimpled smile, winking at me.
Marzoli grabbed the sandwich and threw it across the room into my hands.
"Eat that. Fresca and Thai food ain't gonna cut it."
"Sergeant, what did you come here for?"
"I got it. Just make sure you call me if you see anything."
What did he get? What was I supposed to see?
He opened the door to leave. But before closing it again, he paused and directed toward me a sustained look of enjoyment … or amusement … .or … was that warmth? Had we connected like that? He froze time with those deep dark eyes. Jesus Christ. If he was a straight, he made me feel like a blushing teenage girl. If he was a homosexual, a blushing teenage boy. And, Lord, for those brief seconds I found myself not giving a flying fuck either way.
Stop looking at me. You ain't got my number. You don't even know me.
Marzoli finally lifted the lockdown of his gaze and exited.
I closed the door and exhaled.
The room's gloom resumed, but not before battling the diminishing glow of the newness of all that just happened. Did the interactions with Marzoli have any more significance than fleeting novelty? Did I want more?
I felt a stirring on the other side of my zipper for the first time in a long while. I stuck my hand down my pants and touched my dick. There was precum on the head.
The hell? How in fuck could a male cause that?
Even my organ was stretching toward some new true north and lubing itself to ease the way. I'd had only two gay experiences in my life. Both were violent. Both were forced on me. Both scarring. This time, I was stimulated by tenderness from another man … and not … not forced to …
Running for the door … falling to the floor … Paul … gunshot …