“Were you dating when the blackout happened the following July? That’s a subject Joe and I discussed before his arrest.”
“We were dating, yes. That was a very strange night. It was how I met the boys, Joe and his older brother. I think he went by Robbie.”
“Robbie is how Joe refers to him,” Zochi said. “I know it was a long time ago. I’m not sure how much detail I need, but what can you tell me about that night?”
“Well, the phones were working. I was in the city with a mutual friend of ours who owned a coffee shop near Port Authority. Mike reached me there. He said he had two nephews in the city who had gotten separated from their mother. The police were telling people to stay off the phone except for emergencies, so I didn’t ask a lot of questions. He said the boys would come to where I was. He asked if I could guide them to Staten Island. About an hour later, they showed up. I remember that Joe had torn his shorts really badly. Poor kid was basically in his underwear.”
Porter smiled for a moment, as if seeing it all again. Zochi could almost picture it herself: jumpy candlelight, two sweaty kids, some guy’s coffee shop with the door propped open. Other than the propped-open door, her vision was spot on.
“Anyway, we went around the corner to see if we could find some shorts for Joe. Things went sideways there. We got into a tight spot with the owner of the store, and . . . well, Robbie got angry and left. I got Joe home, but I didn’t see Robbie again that night.” He looked genuinely troubled at this, as if the event had happened recently and not forty summers ago. “After that, Robbie wasn’t around much, but I saw Joe. Mike brought him into the city a few times. We ice skated in Central Park around Christmas. Mike and I broke up, though, about a year later.”
“And there was no contact after that?”
“No, we needed a clean break.” He shook his head and smiled wistfully. “Mike wouldn’t come out of the closet. I wasn’t a radical, but I was way out compared to a guy like Mike. I lived in Chelsea. I was active in politics. That kind of thing. Mike couldn’t be that way.”
“He was from Staten Island,” Zochi said with a shrug.
“That was a part of it, sure. We all had our reasons in those days. I didn’t judge Mike. I just couldn’t go on that way. He liked the island too. He was provincial that way. He had his delis, his diners. He didn’t want to live in Manhattan. My life was here, and his was there, raising two boys.”
“Did you hear that he had died?”
“I did, but . . . honestly, I couldn’t tell you what year.”
“It was 1985. Joe was a senior in high school.”
“That makes sense,” he said, nodding. “It’s just all a blur.”
“You’ve been through a lot tonight.”
“It’s not that,” he said, appearing defensive for the first time. He seemed to catch himself. “Mike and I broke up about two years before AIDS hit New York. I don’t know how to describe what I—what we—went through next. By 1985, I had lost dozens of friends. Maybe hundreds. I became numb to the news after a while.”
They spoke for a few minutes longer, but Zochi wasn’t grasping much in terms of puzzle pieces fitting together. Evan Bolds was a guy Joe was connected to. Bolds had attacked Nate, whom Joe was also connected to. But why? She needed to think on it, but for the time being she needed to let this poor old guy get some sleep.
CHAPTER 64
Thursday, July 14, 1977
Forty-Third Street and Eighth Avenue
Manhattan
1:15 a.m.
“Cabrito needs some new pants,” the fat man said, looking sideways at Nate. Joe blushed and pulled his shirt down lower. The man’s name was Ricky, and it was his shop. He had given Joe and Robbie each a grape soda.
“I don’t know where we’d find any clothes right now,” Nate said to Ricky. “Do you have anything extra here?”
“To fit him? Fuck no.” The “him” came out heem. There was no one else in the store, but a couple of guys had poked their heads in to give greetings and share gossip. Nate explained to the boys that he was a friend of Uncle Mike’s who lived a few blocks down, in a neighborhood called Chelsea. The plan now was to call Uncle Mike and figure out the next move. Buses were a possibility, but they were harder to plan for in the middle of the night, let alone in a blackout. The Staten Island Ferry wouldn’t run until 5:30 a.m. The clock on the wall said it was a quarter after one.
“I think we’ll just have to get you to your uncle’s with what you have on,” Nate said, frowning. “I’m sorry, Joe.”