“Yeah.”
“My name is Arthur,” Gianelli said. “My mother calls me Arthur, my father calls me Arthur, the whole fuckin’ world calls me Arthur. Only in this shithouse does anybody call me Gabriel.”
“Sorry, Gabe,” Hoffman said, and winked at Reardon.
“He just opened that a few weeks ago,” Ruiz said. “Around Thanksgiving sometime.”
“You know him?” Reardon asked.
“I ate there once,” Ruiz said, and went back to his book. He was reading Cary and Eisenberg on corporations.
“Sixteen years playing trumpet for the NYPD band,” Gianelli said, “nobody called me Gabriel. Only in this shithouse...”
“You shouldn’t have been such a hero, Gabe,” Hoffman said.
“I was stopping for gas!” Gianelli said.
“You shouldn’t have stopped for gas, Gabe,” Hoffman said.
“Who knew there was an armed robbery going down in there? Rotten thief smashed my lip and ruined my career.”
“Ah, but you made the arrest,” Hoffman said. “That’s what counts.”
“Who needed the arrest? Who needed Detective/Third? I was happy playing trumpet. Now I’m here in this shithouse listening to a bunch of wise guys calling me Gabriel.”
“Better here than the South Bronx,” Ruiz said, looking up. “Who shot him?” he asked Reardon.
“Couple of guys wearing ski masks,” Reardon said. “Is the lieutenant in?”
“On the phone with Headquarters,” Ruiz said. “The Great White Feather does not like homicides in his precinct, Bry. You shouldn’ta caught a homicide tonight.”
“Was that Santa Claus I saw downstairs?” Gianelli asked.
“That was Andy Bertuzzi,” Hoffman said, “one of your paisans. Best shoplifter in the precinct.”
“If he’s the best, how come he got caught?” Gianelli said.
“If you want to read, go to the library,” Hoffman said to Ruiz. “I need that typewriter.”
“I need a law degree,” Ruiz said, getting up.
“Next governor of the state here,” Hoffman said.
“Four semesters to go,” Ruiz said, and took a chair across the room as Hoffman sat behind the typewriter.
“What’s your game plan, Alex? Lawyer, then assistant D.A...”
“You said it yourself,” Ruiz said. “First Puerto Rican governor of the state.”
“Are you sure I didn’t get a call?” Reardon asked.
“Positive,” Ruiz said.
Hoffman began typing. “I’ll do the paperwork,” he said. “Why don’t you go see her, Bry?”
“First I want to fill in the lieutenant,” Reardon said.
“Ah, finalmente,” Gianelli said, opening his arms wide to the doorway. A ten-year-old Chinese kid stood in the doorframe, grinning into the room, his arms laden with brown paper bags. He was wearing blue jeans, sneakers, and what appeared to be at least three sweaters, one over the other, all in different colors.
“What took you so long, Tommy?” Gianelli asked.
“Busy night, Captain,” Tommy said.
“Good, I’m starved,” Hoffman said, and got up from behind the typewriter.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Gianelli said. “I didn’t order for you guys.”
“Did you bring chopsticks?” Hoffman asked.
“I forgot chopsticks,” Tommy said.
“I didn’t order chopsticks,” Gianelli said. “You guys are supposed to be out on a fuckin’ murder.”
“We’re back, Gabriel,” Hoffman said. “Share and share alike.”
“Listen, you guys...”
Ruiz was already digging into one of the bags. “Where’s the fried rice?” he asked.
“Give the man his arroz con pollo,” Hoffman said.
“Give the man his chopsticks,” Ruiz said, “before he steals a pair.”
“You know who this man is?” Gianelli said.
“Sure,” Tommy said. “He’s Detective Hoffman.”
“Good kid, Tommy.” Hoffman said, tousling his hair. “But next time, don’t forget the chopsticks.”
“He’s Detective/First Grade...”
“First Grade, Tommy,” Ruiz said.
“... Charles Hoffman,” Gianelli said, “who nine years ago broke the biggest armed robbery case this city ever had.”
“Yeah. Mr. Hoffman?” Tommy said, wide-eyed.
“Detective Hoffman, please,” Gianelli said.
“Detective First/Grade Hoffman,” Ruiz said.
“Don’t give the kid a bunch of bullshit,” Hoffman said.
“Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in that robbery,” Gianelli said.
“Wow,” Tommy said.
“Three hundred and fifty grand, kid,” Ruiz said.
“In used bills,” Gianelli said.
“Used bills,” Ruiz said.
“And guess what, Tommy?” Gianelli said. “The money disappeared.”
“Vanished,” Ruiz said.
“Gone with the wind,” Gianelli said. “The day Detective Hoffman quits the force, every cop in this city’s gonna start following him.”
“So they can find the stash, Tommy,” Ruiz said.
Grinning, Reardon said. “Where’d you hide all those bills, Chick?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Hoffman said. But he was not smiling.
“Richest man in New York here,” Reardon said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Hoffman said again.
“Pass the ribs,” Gianelli said.
The door to the lieutenant’s office opened.
Detective-Lieutenant Michael Thomas Farmer, fifty-five years old, iron-gray hair receding at the forehead, shirtsleeves rolled up to his biceps, blue eyes flashing, a deep scowl on his leathery face, stood in the doorframe.
“Come on in, Reardon,” he said, and saw the men eating. “What the hell is this, a restaurant?” he asked. “You want to eat, go upstairs to the rec room. You get out of here,” he said to Tommy. “Go play mah-jongg.” He turned abruptly and limped back into his office, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Great White Feather on warpath,” Ruiz whispered.
“Put the wagons in a circle, Bry,” Gianelli said, and took out his wallet. “What do we owe you?” he asked Tommy. Reardon already had his hand on the knob to the lieutenant’s office. “I’ll let you know what yours comes to,” he said as Reardon opened the door.
A large map of the precinct dominated one wall of the lieutenant’s office:
The room itself was a virtual cubicle, a grilled window to the left of the single cluttered desk, clipboards hanging on the wall behind the desk, a yellowing refrigerator against the wall opposite the door. Farmer was at the refrigerator when Reardon came in. He took a container of milk from it, poured a glass full to the brim, put the container back into the refrigerator, and carried the glass of milk back to his desk. He did not ask Reardon to sit. He shoved some papers aside, making room for the glass, and then said, without preamble, “I just got a call from Captain Healy at the lab. Seems a Detective Bryan Reardon of this precinct stopped one of his techs from fingerprinting a homicide victim.” He sipped at the milk, pulled a face. “I hate milk,” he said. “That true, Reardon?”
“Yes, sir,” Reardon said.
“Rules and regs call for the fingerprinting of any homicide or suicide victim,” Farmer said.
“Yes, sir. But the man’s wife and son were there. They were upset to begin with, so I thought...”
“I don’t like getting calls from captains,” Farmer said.
“The man was shot down in their presence, sir. The mother and the son.”