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The Wind in my Heart 7
7I hit abar near Columbus Park on my way home from the Dancing Crane. Not my usual, not my favorite. I’m one of three white guys in the place and the other two are already sloppy drunk. One of these clowns—short and sinewy with a tattoo of a four leaf clover poking out the sleeve of his white tee and a drooping eyelid that looks more like a birth defect than a sign of drunkenness—weaves into me on his way to the bathroom and nearly knocks me off my stool, sloshing whiskey and ice out of my glass before it can touch my lips for the first sip.I have time to register the clover and reflect that it’s not his lucky day before a familiar dark glee overtakes me. It’s like my mind just slipped from daylight into the Lincoln Tunnel, the echo of spinning tires off the tiles pulling me down through the pulsing lights into the dark place where nothing exists but this asshole’s face bouncing off the floor. I’m on top of him, pummeling him, shattering his cheekbone, ripping my knuckles raw
The Wind in my Heart 8
8I grab the coffeeI’ve been craving and head to my office on foot. Chinatown is quiet today, still hung over from its New Year revels. I climb the ill-lit stairs with my ears pricked but find no ninja whores lurking in ambush today. Which doesn’t mean I’m lacking in female visitors; Gemma Ellison, the cute grad student from the teahouse, is waiting outside my door. My first thought is that she looks spooked, sweaty around the edges.“Ms. Ellison.”“Gemma, please.”“I’d say I’m pleased to see you, Gemma, but I get the feeling you’re not here to ask me out for another cup of tea.”“May I come in?”“Of course.” I unlock the office door and wave her through. She takes in the seedy but tidy environs, her eyes lingering on the card table serving as a desk.“You’ve caught me in the middle of some renovations,” I say.“No computer?” she asks.“Not in the budget. Maybe someday. Are you here for my services? If you need some kind of cyber spy, I’m afraid I’m not your man.”“Oh,
The Wind in my Heart 9
9The goon takesthe subway uptown. On the train I get a better look at his face and clothes. He’s young but restrained, not playing up the gangster thing with jewelry, or the Chinese thing with the kind of tacky Kung Fu graphics I see the wannabes flaunting. This one looks like he’s on his way to lieutenant, so he’s probably on an assignment Tien won’t risk on some low rank gopher. His posture shifts as we roll into Union Square, spine straightening and shoulders rolling back. I’m not surprised this is our stop. He’s headed to the Diamond Path Dharma Center.On the street, he buys a couple of hot dogs with sauerkraut and a can of Coke from a cart, then settles on a concrete planter where he can eat his lunch with a view of the dharma center from an angle that also takes in most of the path to a side entrance. I hang back and pace the street, blending in with foot traffic, watching him watch the doors and hoping Norbu won’t pop out of one of them, spot me, and bring me to the go
The Wind in my Heart 10
10Detectives Navarro and Chen march me down the block to the park. My stomach is growling and I’d prefer it if we could do this over lunch, but I’m too broke and it sure doesn’t look like they’re buying. There’s some ham, mustard, and bread I can pick the mold off back in the mini fridge in my office, but for now I’m gonna have to go hungry just like all the methadone heads wandering the park. Well, at least I don’t have to worry about hurling my lunch over the side of a building this time. Remembering that stunt Chen pulled on me, my palms get sweaty, and for a few heady seconds I’m overcome by the impulse to lay my hands on his shoulders and push him into traffic. The urge is bright and hot, but it passes, and now we’re moving away from traffic, cutting left onto Union Square West.It doesn’t take long for the bumpy brick road to make my feet ache in these shoes, but glancing up at the rooftops, I revel in the sensation of connection to the ground. Navarro at my elbow, I fol
The Wind in my Heart 11
11In the basement of my apartment building, I remove the buttons and zippers from my coat and pants before burning the clothes with my gloves in the furnace. It takes longer than I expected to reduce it all to ash, and all the while I worry I’m making a grave mistake. You can go to the cops about a body you found right up until you start destroying evidence. But having started down this path, I drop the buttons and zippers down a storm grate on my way to the bodega down the street for a bottle of ginger ale, a bag of ice, and a microwave dinner. The temperature plunged with the sun, and I’m shivering in my old Army jacket when I get back to the lobby with the grocery bag swinging from the raw bare hand that isn’t stuffed in a pocket. I’m gonna need new gloves.The phone rings while I’m eating and working on my second drink. I’m expecting it to be Joe Navarro calling from the lobby, but it’s not. It’s Gemma.“Miles? I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home. I got your number fro
The Wind in my Heart 12
12I wake up alone, morning light slanting through blinds, whispered words in Tibetan tumbling through my addled brain, and for a good half a minute I have no idea where I am. I’ve only seen this room by candlelight and it’s alien at first until my eyes find the deformed candle stumps, the ash trail of incense on a silver burner supporting the charred end of an exhausted stick, and the hilt of the phurbajutting out of its triangular base like a demonic birthday candle in a wedge of cake.The smell of coffee finds me, and I get out of bed, feeling grungy and sore, find my boxers on the floor and put them on before following the scent. I almost forego my tank undershirt, thinking I’ll hop in the shower soon, anyway, but it’s chilly now that I’m out from under the sheets, so I tug it on as I step into the living room.Gemma is in the kitchenette, washing a pan by the window. Another cold, gray day looms beyond her, backlighting her frizzy hair as she turns and smiles at me.I cl
The Wind in my Heart 13
13When I arrive at the dharma center on West 14th, there’s a plainclothes cop watching the entrance. Caucasian, buzz cut, I can just tell. And I don’t think he’s there waiting for a monk. It’s me they want to talk to and I haven’t been home or to the office. In my old jacket and lacking the trademark hat, I’m almost in disguise but there’s also nothing to hide my face so I duck into a corner store and buy a Yankees cap. There goes my lunch money. But with the bill pulled down, I’m able to blend in with the crowd on the street and slip up the garden path on the side of the building without getting collared.The side entrance puts me in the lobby with its high ceiling and art gallery atmosphere. I can see the cop on the street through the glass of the main entrance, the etched eternal knot superimposed over his restless form. At the front desk, where I expect to find Norbu manning the phone, I find a skinny young monk in glasses—one I haven’t seen before. I give him my name and tell h
The Wind in my Heart 14
14I’m still reeling when a young monk hands me an envelope stuffed with cash to cover my expenses and ushers me out the side door. I check for the undercover cop at the corner. When I don’t see him, I stuff the envelope into my jacket pocket and join the flow of pedestrians. Everything still looks a little brighter, more vibrant than usual, and one of the first things I see on the street is Jigme Rinpoche’s face again, smiling at me from a poster taped to an electrical box. Apparently he’s giving a public talk on mindfulness and compassion at the Union Square Theater on February 23rd. My step falters as I read the flyer, and for a moment I consider turning tail and marching back into the dharma center to ask him why he’s appearing in public when there might be assassins prowling around. But that’s Norbu’s alleged concern, not his.It’s only been a couple of days but enough has happened that I bet there might be something worth hearing on the cassette recorder I tucked behind the cei
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