When he got out he heard the faint thud of rock music issuing from one of the unlicensed late-night basement clubs in Tribeca. Walking to Timmy's car, he felt like a traffic cop approaching a speeder he'd signaled to the curb.
He opened Timmy's car door. The interior smelled of gin. There were crumpled potato-chip bags and empty beer cans on the floor. He would have a ratty old car like that. Janek sat down in the passenger seat, shut the door.
"Why're you following me, partner?"
"Who set me up, Frank?"
Janek met his eyes. "Time's come to spill, Timmy. Why does Dakin think you're slime?"
Timmy stared at him, grinned secretively, feigned a yawn, then suddenly tried to hit him. The blow was awkward. Janek grasped hold of his fist, pushed him back behind the wheel.
"Want to punch out your old partner? What's the matter with you?"
"Fuck you, Frank!"
Timmy swung at him again, this time with more serious intent. Janek pulled back, but not far enough. Timmy's fist clipped his shoulder.
"Okay, that's enough… But Timmy didn't stop. He began to flail, his blows wild and ineffective. Janek caught them open-handed, but then his shoulder began to hurt and he grew annoyed.
He wants me to smack him. That's really what he wants.
Finally, Janek hit him back. The moment his fist flattened Timmy's lips, Timmy stopped swinging to wipe away the blood. Panting the aroma of cheap gin, he peered down at the stain on his handkerchief. Then he looked at Janek, hurt, surprised.
"You're bleeding now. That's what you wanted, isn't it? what'd you do, Timmy?" Janek spoke gently. "Better tell me. You'll feel better."
Timmy wiped his mouth again. "Maybe I took a few bucks. Who the hell cares?"
"How much? How many times?"
"One time. Maybe ten, fifteen K."
"Cut the '' crap. You know exactly how much you took."
"Around fifty," Timmy said. "More or less."
"Who from?"
"Drug dealer."
"When'd you do this?"
"Seven, eight years ago."
"The same dealer Dakin lined up. The one who swore you tried to hire him to kill Komfeld. What was his name?"
"Keniston."
"Right. So Keniston had it in for you. All Dakin had to do was skew his hatred a few degrees. And you spent all the money on booze, too, didn't you? You don't have a pot to piss in now except your pension."
Timmy nodded. Janek stared at him. "God, you're pathetic!"
Timmy shrugged. "Everyone can't be the Great Fucking Detective like you, Frank. Some of us are just slime, you know."
"That how you see yourself?"
"Maybe. What're you going to do now, partner? Turn me in?"
Timmy's eyes were glowing. A thin line of blood, running down his chin and the side of his neck, had stained the collar of his shirt.
He wants me to turn him in. He'll revel in it.
"I wouldn't bother," Janek said. "You're punishing yourself more than any prison could. Do yourself a favor, Timmy@go to AA, get your head straight before you get too hungry for your gun. Because that's where you're headed, my friend. Maybe you'll eat it in a service-station washroom or early one holiday morning when even the dogs are asleep. But you'll eat it. Sooner or later you will. You know it, too."
Janek opened the car door, was halfway out before Timmy answered.
"Would you care if I ate it, Frank?" He showed his secretive grin again.
"Would you mourn me?"
"Sure, I'd mourn you, Timmy. You were my partner. I haven't forgotten that."
He fled the car, and, when he was back in his own, took off fast.
Following the river uptown, he thought about police work and some of the strange people who did it: Kit, Dakin, Clury, Timmy. He thought about cops, how they lived and the awful ways their lives often turned.
Our music is so maudlin, he thought, like an oldfashioned amusement park on a crappy off night in autumn. The hurdy-gurdy grinding, the fun-house robots cackling. Cheap, tawdry, rinky-dink. God help us all.
Sue called in early from Crystal River. Mr. Dan Dell had not been at his bait shop when she stopped by. Mr. Dell, it seemed, had left town for parts unknown. But there was a picture of him on the shop wall, posing, like Hemingway, with a huge blue marlin hanging from a block and tackle. :'Does he look like Clury?" Janek asked.
"Maybe," Sue said. "Hard to tell."
"Describe him."
"Stocky, smaller than the fish, thick neck, thick brush mustache."
"What about his cheeks? Scarred?"
"I couldn't tell. The sun was full in his face."
"Eyes?"
"He was squinting."
Most likely Dell is Clury, but her description doesn't nail it.
"I think I got his prints," Sue said casually.
Janek smiled. Good girl! "How'd you manage that?"
"I spotted a pack of Marlboros beside the register. I asked the nice lady, who turned out to be the new Mrs. Dell-small, blond, a younger version of Janet-if it would be all right if I helped myself. '," she says, real nice, ''re Dan's. Might as well take the pack.
They'll just dry up." So I took it, dropped it dainty-like into my purse. Now I got it properly bagged and IDed. Want me to bring it home, Frank?"
"No, I want you to throw it in the sewer. Take it to the nearest locals, have them lift the prints, fax them to me, then stand by."
"Yes, sir, Lieutenant Janek, sir!"
The prints on the cigarette pack matched Clury's perfectly. After that it was classic follow-up. He made all the textbook moves:
He kept Sue in Florida to check on Dell. When the local DEA agent told her that, although there was no hard evidence, Dell was suspected of using his charter boat to pick up drugs dropped by runners into the Gulf, Janek suggested that the DEA begin proceedings to seize his property.
He sent Aaron back to work with Sue and the Crystal River cops. They set up a twenty-four-hour watch on Clury's boat, house and bait shop, got a court order to tap his phone and followed young Mrs. Clury whenever she went out.
He sent Ray over to the NYPD pension department to explain that Clury wasn't dead. The department immediately cut off Janet's checks, put liens on her accounts and property and filed charges against her for criminal fraud.
Janek personally went over to the bomb squad butter vault to inform Stoney that Clury was still alive..He made sure Stoney understood that it was his excellent work tracking the bomb signature that had made Janek think to call up Clury's file.
Stoney appreciated the compliment, but worried about the outcome. "Put a bomber in a corner," he said, "he's likely to throw a bomb."
"Killing isn't going to help him," Janek said. "He's got two choices: deal or run."
Stoney didn't agree. "Bombers are psychos. Once a bomber, always a bomber. And when one comes after you, he's not going to come with a gun."
It was Sunday afternoon when Clury called. Janek was at home, watching a Yankees game on TV. The caller didn't identify himself, but Janek knew who it was. Clury's voice was deep and harsh:
"There's a phone booth on your corner, Amsterdam and Eighty-seventh.
I'll be calling there in four minutes. Don't miss me." Click.
Janek pulled on a sweatshirt, slapped a cassette into his micro tape recorder, rang impatiently for his elevator, then took the stairs. Out on the street, he jogged to the corner. A teenager, possibly a drug messenger, was snarling into the phone.
Janek tapped him on the shoulder. "Pardon me, I'm expecting a call."
The boy turned, mouth curled with contempt. "Yeah? Hot shit! "
Janek flashed his shield. "Get lost, kid."
The boy dropped the receiver, took off down the avenue. Just as Janek replaced it, the phone rang.
"It's me," Clury said. "Put that tape recorder away. Otherwise I don't talk."