TWENTY-EIGHT: Seventh Street – East Village, 1947
How peculiar it was that as Kaspar Delancey lay face-up on East Seventh Street he could recall only the good that had ever touched his life: his first piece of Coney Island saltwater taffy melting on his tongue; his father opening the front door the day he returned home from the war; the apple tree in his backyard; tickertape parades; sitting on 23rd Street with his best friends, watching the girls’ skirts blow with the wind; riding the cable cars to Battery Place. The falling snow cleansed his soul, even as his mind was preparing to set his one last sin free. The heavy flakes danced upon his one good eye, but he did not blink them loose. The snow graced his cracked lips with a moment of wet respite; it tickled, but he could not bring himself to lick it away. That one last memory was slipping from his grasp, like trying to keep an ocean liner from leaving port, almost out of his grip entirely.
It was the other cop, Sergeant Oster, whom Kaspar had just wrung the life out of, as though the bullet wound would not have been sufficient. Kaspar left the bloodied man on the station platform before hustling back up to the street. Buster Broome, tenacious as ever, was still on his trail, and Kaspar knew as soon as he spotted it that the parked car with its engine running would be the fastest way back to the South Street Seaport. It was a United Nations limousine of all things, but there was no driver inside. Maybe he had run across 33rd for a pack of Lucky Strikes? Or maybe he’d stopped for an impromptu photo of the Empire State Building? Whatever the reason for such fortuitous charity, Kaspar did not consider it for long. He settled into the driver’s seat and closed the door without anyone suspecting anything. But before laying his weathered sole on the pedal, Kaspar stopped himself. It wasn’t out of fear because he knew for certain he would never be caught, especially if Broome was the only one who insisted on doing the chasing. That detective was the only person to come close, but Broome would surely have to admit defeat sooner or later, wouldn’t he?
Kaspar turned and released the key, and the engine slowly sputtered into silence. Maybe South Street was exactly where Broome would look for him? Maybe Kaspar should head uptown instead? Or leave the city entirely? No. He’d rather die than give in first. Opening the door, he stepped back out onto 33rd Street. There was a buzz in the air, but there was also an eerie silence; it was the kind of feeling one gets the moment before something horrible hits, before there’s a chance to do anything about it. And that’s when Kaspar Delancey saw him: Buster Broome was standing on Fifth Avenue, his pistol drawn, no more than two hundred feet away. The two men stared at one another, both knowing what they wanted to say but neither willing to utter the first word. Kaspar stepped back an inch, just as Broome inched forward a step.
But no one around them paid any attention to either man. One woman turned her head up, noticing something in the sky. Another man pointed. The buzz in the air grew louder, the unnerving silence ever quieter. There was a scarf floating gently on a breeze, like a bird with no particular destination. Something else followed behind it, something much heavier than a bird. One man muttered something to Jesus. Another said something incomprehensible to God. Kaspar knew neither would be able to help. A woman shrieked. Another fainted, hitting the sidewalk hard. But not nearly as hard as Evelyn McHale hit when she fell from the sky. Falling eighty-six floors from the Empire State Building’s observation deck, Evelyn McHale crashed into the roof of the parked limousine with a heavy thud. If Kaspar Delancey had not second-guessed himself he would have been just as dead as she. As Manhattan crowds often do, they gathered quickly. People shouted, and Kaspar only had a moment to see her body, smashed into the husk of the automobile, posed elegantly like she had meant to land just so. Her lips still wet with life; her eyebrows smiled as if having a pleasant dream; her suicide already a work of art. Kaspar reached out for her just as Broome finally reached for him.
So many times he had cheated death, and for what? Just to lie helplessly on East Seventh staring up at the snow and waiting for everything to simply stop? That didn’t seem fair at all. The flickering light outside McSorley’s Old Ale House seemed to be the one indication that life still persisted. Drunken men hollered wildly inside.
With his mind now a clean, blank slate, Kaspar brushed the snow from his face and sat up. He couldn’t recall when or why he ever decided to lie down in the middle that street. Kaspar had no idea if the detective had ever managed to catch him; in fact, the name Buster Broome no longer had any meaning to him. Nor could he recollect the reasons for why he had forgotten all of the atrocities he’d ever committed. But for some reason, as his thoughts and his world slowly faded away, Kaspar Delancey was finally thinking of himself as a better man.