“You mama wants you,” he said.
“What for?”
“Needs you t’pick up suppin f’her.”
Stepping closer to her. Forcing her to move a few steps back again, closer to the parapet at the roof’s edge.
“Pick up what?”
Her heart pounding.
“Suppin she needs.”
A step closer to her.
She could smell alcohol on his breath.
“What you got under that dress, girl?” he said.
“Get out of my way,” she said.
“Sweet li’l tiddies under that dress?” he said, and reached for her.
She shoved out at him instinctively, wanting only to push him out of her way, wanting only to get past him to the stairs. In her dream world, in her twinkling magic kingdom up here on the roof, he reacted by sidestepping at once — which he did — doing a sort of twisted little dance step that took him out of her way, but sent him spiraling toward the edge of the roof instead. In her dream world, here in her glittering magic realm where men in tuxedos sipped martinis with women in long shimmering gowns, he lost his balance, flailed at the air, looked startled, and then went over. One moment he was there, silhouetted against the lights of the bridge and the Jersey shore, and the next he was gone.
In her dream world, he didn’t make a sound as he fell.
No long trailing scream like in the movies.
Nothing.
It was as if he’d magically disappeared.
But that was in her dream world.
In real life, he recovered his balance at once and came at her snarling, ripping the front of her dress before she could break away, clawing at her breasts like a wild animal. She hit him with her clenched fists, and screamed, and tore free of his grasp at last, and went running down to the street, without stopping at the apartment to see what her mother needed, because she suspected that what she needed was crack.
In the street, walking on this balmy springtime night humming with voices, covering her torn dress with her spread hands, she began sobbing gently.
Detective/First Grade Randolph J. Rollins liked dealing with these people. He didn’t consider it working for these people, he considered it dealing with them. He knew cops in his precinct who were looking the other way when it came to serious crimes like dope. Rollins had never in his life taken a nickel for squaring a dope rap. These people he dealt with knew better than ever to ask him to square any kind of criminal offense, even a parking ticket. But when they came to him with something like this, find out if any of these broads are police informants, Rollins was happy to flash the tin in pursuit of the gold, which in this instance was exactly six thousand dollars.
Rollins knew it was next to impossible to flip anyone who wasn’t in deep shit to begin with. No one was going to become an informer unless you had something on him that could send him to jail for a long, long time. Better to sleep with the enemy than to sleep behind bars, no? So he ran a computer check to see if any of the women on the list had ever run into the law in any serious way. The only person with a felony arrest, and a subsequent suspended sentence, was a person named Oona Halligan, who turned out to be an absolutely gorgeous twentysomething redhead. He fell into step beside her as she came out of the Time-Life Building at ten minutes past five p.m. on the eighteenth of May, and showed his shield and said, “Good evening, I’m Detective Rollins, I wonder if I can ask you a few questions.”
The girl looked at him in surprise and then said, “How do you know who I am?”
Rollins explained that the super at her building in Brooklyn had pointed her out to him this morning, but he hadn’t wanted to approach her just then because he knew she was on her way to work, and he thought this might be a more convenient time. She still looked a bit puzzled, probably wondering how he’d learned where she worked, the super didn’t know that, but he jumped in before she could question him further, and told her they were investigating a burglary in the building next door to hers, and he wanted to know if she’d seen anything or heard anything suspicious on the night of May fourteenth, this past Friday night, which she hadn’t, but which was all part of the bullshit. He then got down to brass tacks.
“Miss Halligan,” he said, “please forgive me for asking all these questions, but I have to fill out a report — in triplicate, no less,” he said, and rolled his eyes, “and I do need the answers.”
Oona had a cocktail date all the way downtown with a multimillionaire stockbroker, to hear him tell it, and she didn’t want to waste any more time here with a fat-assed detective investigating a dumb burglary in the building next door, of which there were probably hundreds in her neighborhood.
She said, “Well, if you make it fast, because I have a date.”
Which didn’t surprise him, her looks.
“Miss Halligan,” he said, “can you tell me what sort of work you do?”
“I’m a receptionist with a firm called Blue Banana Cosmetics.”
“Really?” he said.
The name of the company amused him. Blue Banana Cosmetics.
“Yes,” she said, and looked at her watch.
“How long have you been working there?” he asked.
“Since March,” she said.
“And before that?”
“I worked for an accounting firm.”
“Named?”
“Haskins, Heller, and Fein.”
“Where?”
“Here in the city.”
“How long did you work for them?”
“Six months. I got fired because I told the boss his way of doing something was stupid. Or dumb, I guess I actually said,” she said, and looked at her watch again.
“Ever been arrested?” he asked.
“Never.”
“Sure? I can check.”
“Hey, what is this?” she said.
“Routine investigation,” he said. “Not even a minor violation? Speeding? Parking in a no-parking...”
“I’ve had traffic tickets, yes.”
“Any DUI violations?”
“No. What?”
“Driving under the...”
“Oh. No. Never.”
“Nothing serious, then?”
“Nothing.”
“I can check,” he said again.
“Okay,” she said, and sighed heavily. “I was arrested when I was sixteen for possession of an ounce of a controlled substance. Marijuana. I got off with an ACD because it was a first offense and I was only sixteen and it was only an ounce. Okay?”
“Ever work for the police?” he asked.
“No. What?”
“Any strings attached to that ACD?”
An ACD was an Adjournment in Contemplation of Dismissal. Rollins knew there’d have been no strings attached to it. This was a bullshit violation they were discussing.
“I don’t know what you’re suggesting,” Oona said. “I told you. This was just a lousy ounce of...”
“Were any deals offered?”
He knew no deals would have been offered.
“Of course not! For an ounce of marijuana?”
“Ever go in anywhere wearing a wire?”
“What?”
“Miss Halligan, I’m a police officer. If you were ever an informant for the department, the information is safe with me.”
“What?” she said.
“Were you? An informant? Ever?”
“I thought this was about a burglary next...”
“It is,” he said. “But we have reason to believe a member of the force may be involved,” he said, lying. “I’m telling you this in strictest confidence.”