I drop a couple of dollars on the table, about to get up.
Coming toward me, the man from the other night, the cop I couldn’t quite place. The horn-like projection of black hair crowning his forehead, a more youthful style than his lined face will support. We make eye contact and he nods without smiling, pulling out a chair right across from me. He glances at my untouched drink.
“You don’t remember me,” he says.
“Should I?” I don’t like the way he’s drilling me with those eyes. I don’t like that I can’t see his hands under the table.
“We have some friends in common,” he says, putting enough spin on the word that I know not to take it at face value.
Instead of facing me head-on, he cocks his chair, sitting sideways with his back to the wall so nobody can come up behind him. Keeping track of the other patrons from the corner of his eye. I was right the other night. This guy’s one of us. A cop.
“You got a name?” I ask.
He nods. “Maybe it’ll come to you.”
My right hand leaves the table, resting on my thigh. Between the staring contest and his tight-lipped way of speaking, this is starting to feel like a high-noon standoff. Maybe that’s what it is. He’s got an advantage, thanks to the angle, since my gun side is facing him. In a draw I’d need to be quick.
The thing is, I am.
“If you’re not going to introduce yourself, then I was just getting ready to go.”
“You’re not gonna say thanks?” he asks, nodding toward the drink. “Looks like you hardly touched it. Knowing your story, I think I can guess why.”
“Knock yourself out. I’m going.”
I rise quickly, giving the table a tap with my hip, the same way you’d finesse a pinball machine. The drink shakes, ice clinking on the glass, and the man grabs the table with both hands to steady it. He looks at me, then at his hands.
“Oh, I get it.” He flattens them out. “You can sit back down. I don’t have a problem with you, March. I’m here to do you a favor if you’d only let me.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Have a seat,” he says, tilting his chin. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
I turn my chair, sitting with my right hip away from him, my hand still resting on my thigh. “You can start with your name.”
“Fine, fine.” He reaches across the table. “Joe Thomson.” I ignore the outstretched hand, so he pulls it back. “If you’re not gonna drink this, mind if I do? You kind of stopped my heart for a minute there.”
“Help yourself.”
He sips the drink and makes a face. Down in the basement of my mental archive, I’m looking for a folder with Joe Thomson’s name on it, coming up empty. The face is so familiar. He’s one of those guys who was handsome once, but didn’t age so well. Jet-black hair, blue eyes, and a kind of pucker to his mouth, like he’s sucking an invisible cigar. The parchment lines on his skin look premature, due more to hard living than age.
When he puts the drink down, Thomson hunches forward and clasps his hands together like he has something to confide. He glances over his shoulder before speaking.
“I’m in a position to help you,” he says. “Only you’re gonna have to help me first.”
“Don’t take this wrong, Joe, but can I see some ID?”
“If that’s what it takes.” He smirks. “I’ll reach slow so you don’t jump to any conclusions.”
True to his word, he edges a wallet out of his back pocket, sliding it across the table. I flip it open, a sergeant’s badge catching the light, and match the photo to the face in front of me.
“You’re looking a little beat down these days,” I observe.
“Yeah, well.” He takes the wallet back. “You would be, too.”
“What are you offering me?”
“It’s a two-way street. I need something from you first.”
“What’s that?”
His mouth opens, but he can’t seem to form the words. He tries again, fails, then rubs his lips with the back of his hand, glancing away. A cough rumbles in his lungs. His cheeks color. The signs are pretty unmistakable. Thomson’s embarrassed.
“Spit it out,” I say.
He clears his throat, takes another sip. “What I’m looking for – and it’s not negotiable – is a blanket immunity. The information I share, I want it in writing that nothing will come back to bite me. You understand? No prosecution, but on top of that, no trouble at work, either. I come out looking like a hero, or I don’t take another step.”
A tremor runs up my spine, but I try to look indifferent. “You’ve lost me, Joe. Are you saying you want to confess to a crime?”
His mouth twitches. “This isn’t a confession, no.”
“Why don’t you give me an idea what we’re talking about then.”
“When I have something in writing, something I can take to an attorney and double-check, then we’ll talk. Not before.”
“You’re a cop, Joe. You know it doesn’t work that way.”
“What I know is that sometimes, for the right people, that’s exactly how it works.”
“Let me put it another way. You’re asking me to pull strings I don’t have the juice to pull. If there’s somebody in this department who can deliver what you’re demanding, it isn’t me.”
“Wrong,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re the only one. You’ll fight for it in a way nobody else will, because of who’s involved.”
My tremor turns into a vertebral earthquake. “Who is involved?”
He smiles. “Not yet, March. Here’s what you need to do. Your ex-partner Wilcox, the one who’s in Internal Affairs? He can deliver what I need. You go to him and explain, and he’ll smooth the path. Those guys have a magic wand they wave to get the prosecutors to see things their way. Why are you laughing?”
I cover my mouth with my hand, shaking my head slowly. “You don’t know Wilcox, do you? If it’s a favor from him you want, then you’ve really come knocking on the wrong door.”
“It’s not me who wants it,” he says. “It’s you.”
“That’s my point. Wilcox is my ex-partner, the operative word being ex. That’s Latin for ‘no longer on speaking terms,’ in case you didn’t know.”
“Whatever. Don’t sell yourself short, March. You’ll make it happen. Besides, this will work to his benefit, too. Tell him that. If he gives me what I want, he won’t be working in Internal Affairs anymore. He’ll be running it.”
“That’s a big promise,” I say, wiping my damp palm on my thigh.
“And I can deliver.”
He sounds confident, but as soon as the words are out, he turns to scan the room again, like he’s expecting a knife in the ribs. When he looks back at me, there’s a hunted look in his eyes, maybe a haunted one, too. I start wondering how much of this premature age he put on over the last few days.
“You make it hard for me to say no,” I tell him. “But unless you’re prepared to give me something, I can promise you I won’t lift a finger. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not real big on career advancement.”
“All right,” he says, leaning forward, sliding the drink aside. “I’m not giving you any names. This isn’t even a preview. But that case you’re working on, the Morales hit…?”
“What about it?”
“What I have for you is gonna blow it wide open. I mean wide.”
He pushes away from the table, takes another look around.
“As in what?” I ask.
He taps the table with his index finger. “As in shooters, March. Signed, sealed, and delivered.”
And then he turns to go.
“How do I get in touch?” I call after him, trying to be heard over the music.
He pivots, putting a hand to his ear. I stick out my thumb and pinkie, jamming them phone-like to my head.
“You don’t,” he says. “I’ll call you.”
Nothing sinks in for the first minute or so. Then I feel a stupid grin on my lips. I wipe it with the back of my hand, but can’t get rid of the smile. A blur of faces swirl around me. I want to kiss them all. I’m happy as a drunk, in love with the world, all the sappy clichés rolled up into one.