BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS
My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.
If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”
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Hold on!
No funny memory to post today.
It was an awful day.
A worst-ever awful day. Most every Monday, Randy and I have drinks near my home in Chelsea, at the Drunken Horse. The Drunken Horse is everything we both love about New York City.
Interior of the Drunken Horse. Randy and I sometimes sit at the fireplace, sometimes at the bar.
The place is owned by Azman, a Turkish gentleman. It’s managed by Ruffino, a Mexican. Patty, from Poland, waits on tables. And Moon, from Pakistan, mixes the perfect gin martini.
For my birthday, Randy commissioned a painting of the place for me. It hangs next to my desk. Tonight, it hurts like hell to look at it.
Randy and I usually check in with each other during the day on Monday, confirming we’re both still free for evening drinks.
Today, Randy didn’t reply to my texts. Weird.
The Drunken Horse painting
My phone rang. There, at last, a call from Randy’s office number. He must have lost his mobile. That explained things.
But it wasn’t Randy. It was his intern, Holly, sobbing, gasping for breath. Something about “Randy. Gone. A window. Police.” I grabbed a cab to SoHo. Two police cars were outside of Randy’s. Police tape was strung around the parking meters in front of Randy’s building. And Holly, stood in the street, by herself, sobbing and shivering despite the late afternoon sun.
I held her tightly. I still had no idea what was going on. When Holly tried to speak, she mostly failed, “Randy. Gone.” She pointed to the passageway between Randy’s building and the one next door. I looked around, none of the police paid me attention. I slipped through the passageway to the back of Randy’s building, and into the small courtyard shared by the building’s tenants. And there to the far-right laid Randy’s body, his arms and legs twisted in ways they shouldn’t, a dried red stream led to a nearby pool of blood.
I slipped to the rear of the courtyard. Two uniformed police ignored me. They were deep into a Jets vs. Giants discussion.
I looked toward Randy. Couldn’t see his face. I fought not to vomit. I looked up to the eighth floor at, I counted them for some reason, Randy’s six large windows. The last two windows were wide open. I slid a few steps to the left. Randy’s body was directly under the sixth window. Had he gone out the other open window, he would have had to fly —like the pigeons the two police kept waving away from Randy’s body — to land where he did.
I went back to the building’s front. Holly was now tightly held by a young man. He introduced himself. Her boyfriend. He gave me Holly’s cell number. I thought I should have it. His arms around her, they slowly walked over to the subway entrance on Spring Street.
I introduced myself to a police officer. She explained that my best friend, “took a dive.” I gave her my name and contact information. “We’ll be in touch tomorrow,” she said.
On the way home I stopped for a pack of smokes. It’s been months. I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to eat. I barely want to think.
Now I’m dizzy from two cigarettes.
I’m calling it a night.
Tomorrow: I have no idea