Nightswimming
The instruments of darkness tell us truths
~ William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Preface
Paterson, NJ
Paterson is often described as physically static; a time warp rooted by a skyline of once vital mills. Some are brick and some are sandstone and all of them are vacant. Urban revitalization and other missions to lift this once great manufacturing hub, this mighty producer of silk, have been fitful. What has always anchored the city—its beating, iconic heart—are the Great Falls of the Passaic River. The falls are wonderous. They were both muse and motivation sparking Alexander Hamilton’s dream to create a national industrial center. The 77-foot plunge of raging water inspired the poetry of William Carlos Williams and the prose of Junot Diaz and served as backdrop for a memorable scene in Season One of The Sopranos.
In 2009, the falls were authorized as a national historic park by then President Barack Obama. Yet there is more to the city than the power and natural beauty of the waterfall, and there are other entry points for anyone wanting an introduction to Paterson. Buildings as diverse as the Argus Mill, Public School No. 2, and the Cathedral of St. John are on the National and State Historic Registries.
One building, though not a designated landmark, has exceptionally good bones and a distinctive lineage.
111 Washington Street was initially the site of Peter Colt’s residence. The name Colt is all over the city of Paterson; the four-story gun mill directly below the Great Falls; a section of downtown called Colt’s Hill. At the dawn of the city’s golden age, with the Civil War ended and silk production on the rise, the family was known for textile money and became the subject of gossipy news reporting. Into the 21st century, the name remains memorable for Samuel Colt and the many guns he invented. Colt revolvers were the legendary sidearms of the Texas Rangers. The gun that won the west.
In 1869, Paterson’s aldermen purchased Peter Colt’s home for its first City Hall. When the Great Fire of 1902 devastated the brownstone, a three-story structure replaced it. Designed in the Beaux-Arts style with arched doorways and signature green lanterns on both sides of the entrance, the stately new building at 111 Washington Street then became headquarters for the Paterson Police Department.
Chapter One
Sunday, January 14, 1979
1:47 am
The tavern’s rear window was a perfect black square. With a near empty parking lot as its backing, the mirrored glass gave an angled view inside RJ’s Taproom, mostly reflecting a paneled wall lined with photos of the owner-sponsored softball team and the gold-plated plaques from their better seasons. The bottom corner caught a profile of Randall Low sitting on a round-top stool.
Using the freshly wiped bar as a desk, he was tallying the evening receipts, the only task he hadn’t hurried since closing. He’d been brisk passing towels over beer spills and crushed pretzels, mindful that Cindy was waiting on him for her ride. She’d helped with the cleanup and the two had settled into a comfortable silence as Foreigner and a few other bands echoed from the jukebox, seemingly on repeat.
Once at the register, he’d wanted it quiet, but Cindy kept pushing quarters into the metal slot. Randall told himself not to get sharp with her and tried to shut out “Hot Blooded.” Or maybe it was “Double Vision.” He checked his watch, then reviewed the columns of precise numbers he’d penciled into the ledger. The music was more and more jarring to him. He was about to tell her no more when a set of high beams flashed through the window, startling Randall with a brief trail of light. The moment passed in the milliseconds of a camera shutter. Randall knew he was tired and maybe a little too edgy. The glare would’ve come from a car making an illegal U-turn off the side street. It wasn’t unusual.
Still, with the sudden light, there’d been an instinctive reach beneath the cash register, Randall not even thinking he’d already taken his gun from its hiding spot. Keeping his focus on the again darkened window, he patted his coat pocket, feeling the heft of the snub-nose .38. Then he re-directed his energy into wrapping up for the night. His hand went back to the secret drawer, his fingers running along the chafing wood where the right side had begun catching on the hardware.
The drawer was homemade. If someone had the time and desire and not the key, they could take it apart in less than a minute. Randall was thinking of adding a floor safe, a bit more up-to-date. He’d heard about those in newer bars around Paterson. A place to squirrel away the bigger bills and stacks of fives and tens that often piled up on weekend nights. The decades-old drawer, recessed behind a few specialty shot glasses and souvenir mugs, was solely for his gun. It was good insurance, useful to have in the late hours, especially with the stragglers at last call. Randall hadn’t ever used it. He’d never even had to take it out for show. There’d never been any real trouble and so far, it’d stayed hidden until it was time for the parking lot.
Randall told Frank, the day bartender, to stay away from that general area. He said he didn’t like his things touched. The random glassware screening the niche was decor he’d put on shelves once he found the right spots. Randall was still new to RJ’s and figuring the place out. He and his brother had taken over nine months earlier, planning some minor renovations though keeping the tavern’s name, along with Frank, who Randall trusted with the afternoon shift but not the gun.
The three years Randall had been in the service, he’d seen guys drunk or scared or stupid or angry, waving pistols around like they were toys. At bars around Pensacola during his flight training. Later on, at Cubi Point in the Philippines and in Da Nang. Where didn’t matter. Worse thing, Randall thought, was having someone like Frank grab a gun when he had no idea how to use it, though he wondered how long he could keep the .38 and its hiding place off limits.
It was one thing keeping the drawer hidden during the day, but he couldn’t avoid prying it open after closing time in front of the dancers. He often walked them to their cars with the revolver in his coat pocket, so the secret drawer wasn’t much of a secret to them. Late night girls like Cindy, who’d begun to look anxious to get home, pacing and hitting her thighs in time to music Randall thought was more Foreigner. He noticed her purse, not on a chair, but pressed awkwardly into her waist.
“I still have to check a few boxes in the basement,” he said.
“You won’t be too long?”
“I won’t be long.”
Randall crossed the room and paused.
“Why don’t you take a seat?”
“It’s hard to sit after I’ve been in these shoes all night,” she said.
“Okay, I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
As he made his way downstairs, Randall considered potential designs for a floor safe. It’d be a professional upgrade. Jackhammer proof. Distracted and not really thinking of the partially opened cartons and loose bottles packed into the storeroom’s ancient shelving, he reached the bottom step and realized he’d left his pad and pencil with the register receipts. Above him, Cindy worked her way back and forth across the pine floors, creating an annoying tapping as she moved to the medley of songs she’d danced to all night. Another reason to keep his review short. He took note of the obvious restocks. For some reason, they’d gone through a lot of Four Roses in the past two weeks. He’d have to remember that.
Randall was feeling the night in his own legs, going back upstairs, then walking past the finally silent jukebox as he tried to close out his mind. Cindy was seated. She’d dragged a stool to the inside of the bar where she was perched and presiding over the cash register. Not pressing any of the buttons, just letting her fingers brush each of the bluish gray circles.
“I’m gonna go to AC soon,” Cindy said.
“Yeah? Atlantic City’s cold in January.”
“I know.”
“Whaddya like there? Blackjack? Slots?”
Cindy shrugged, the tiniest movement of her small, rounded shoulders.
“Never been. I think I’ll start with the slots. Not too much to really figure out.”
Cindy had her jeans on with her mesh blouse resting in her lap, leaving bare her bikini top and its achingly loose knot, flirty and pink. Randall began thinking about Cindy and going into the back with her for a few minutes or so in his office with the leather couch. They’d only been once before. Cindy had a boyfriend and Randall had a wife. He tried not to do that with any of the girls. Once was an okay thing, but he didn’t want to have an affair. He didn’t want an affair with an eighteen-year-old. He didn’t want an affair with an eighteen-year-old with a bad-tempered boyfriend. But then she’d been the one to initiate. Randall knew why. Cindy wanted a nice guy. And Randall usually was a nice guy. The Randall who treated Cindy and the other girls well, walked them to their cars after work, and threw out loud and drunk college boys from the nearby state schools, even the groups who’d been ordering top shelf, that Randall was a nice guy. The Randall who was married but went into his office with a barely eighteen-year-old Cindy, he didn’t know how to tell her. That Randall wasn’t a nice guy. Not the nice guy she was looking for.
The time he’d been with Cindy, it’d been the same. She’d needed a ride and stayed while he finished for the night, then she’d taken his hand and led him to the couch, positioned him carefully. He’d driven her home after, and she’d talked about how much she liked Star Wars for the length of the ride. How much she was looking forward to the next one coming out later in the year.
“They’re gonna call it The Empire Strikes Back,” Cindy had said. “I read that last week.”
The new Star Wars movie she was looking forward to. The kitten she wanted to adopt and name Chewbacca. They’d had an easy conversation. She acted like he was simply her boss giving her a needed ride home, as if they hadn’t spent time together in his office. She remained that way in the weeks since, not seeming to consider that anything might be different.
He could really go for another night like that. Another no strings-attached night. But leading her into his office, or letting her lead him, that could lead into an affair.
“Almost ready,” he said to her.
“Uh huh. You take your time. I’m practicing my gambling here.”
“That’s not what a slot machine looks like.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I know. I’m pretending.”
Just like with the high beams, it was that sudden. A harsh, rustling sound burst into the tavern, followed by a rush of cold air. Randall was sure he’d locked both doors, sure he’d told Cindy not to touch anything. Surprised as the one leading from the bar’s tiny parking lot swung wide.
“Hey,” Randall yelled.
***
Excerpted from Nightswimming. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher, High Frequency Press.
Melanie Anagnos is a crime novelist and editor who was born in Paterson, NJ, the backdrop of her police procedurals. She has been a waitress, an attorney, and a stay-at-home mom. She received her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College and currently publishes a Substack, Cherchez La Femme, drawing on media and pop culture from the 1970s.
