Ronnie and me got tossed together last year by one of her cases, which was also one of my problems, and I saved her life a couple of times and she saved my bacon. It all turned out pretty good: she got to be loot and I got to keep breathing free air. Oh, and she tumbled me into the hay one night for a tension screw as she called it. Sometimes that can be awkward between friends, but it ain’t awkward between us because Ronnie doesn’t really do friends the way normal people do, just people that aren’t suspects at the moment.
Lieutenant Deacon keeps me waiting in the diner but that’s okay because I burn out a washroom drier getting the river outta my shirt. I am not even gonna attempt the pants. It’s gonna take more than a wall-mounted Dyson to blast the Hudson from a pair of black jeans. So I’m in a booth working on some eggs and bacon, with a puddle of slime congealing around my nethers, when Ronnie finally breezes in the door like she’s fashionably late for an award gig and slides into the booth opposite me.
“McEvoy,” she says working a toothpick between her strong, white teeth.
“It looks like you’re trying to be a cop,” I say. “The toothpick is too much.”
Ronelle spits the pick onto the tabletop. “Yeah? A pity I couldn’t say the same about your toothpick.”
“Straight to that level, huh? No five-minute truce or nothing?”
Ronelle leans back, shucking the lapels of her long leather coat aside, giving me a good look at the gun and the badge.
“I only got one level, McEvoy. The Deacon level. That’s where shit gets done.”
“You have your movie and tagline right there: The Deacon Level. Where Shit Gets Done.”
“Is that why I’m here, Dan? So you can take a pop?”
These conversations are always tense because Ronnie lives on a hair trigger. She puts out more or less the same vibe whether she wants to kiss me or kill me. And that one night we did have a little tryst you can bet your favorite organ that I kept her pistola out of reach.
“No, I got a few good tips for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Remember that Arabian horse that was stolen?”
“Scimitar? Apparently that nag was worth twenty million bucks. Mares lining up to get inseminated.”
“Yeah, well you can call off those dogs. Old Scimitar is in a trash bag down by Pier Forty nine.”
Ronelle takes a note on her phone. “That is indeed a juicy tip. Outta my zone but I can trade it in for something. What else?”
“A mob button man. Twenty feet out, in a taxi. Bodies in the trunk, and I’m betting you get enough DNA from the inside of that trunk to close a dozen unsolveds.”
Ronelle goes girly for a second and giggles. “Ooh. I love it when you say button man. Makes a lady go all quivery inside.”
This conversation is getting a little flippant for my liking.
“I’m in deep trouble, Deacon,” I tell her. “The deepest.”
Ronnie places her iPhone on the table and makes a show of watching a video. “I see that Dan. Is that a thong you got going there?”
“So you saw the clip. I was severely provoked.”
Ronnie taps her screen. “Looks to me like you were doing a spot of provoking, yourself. That’s two brother officers you’re beating on there. Fortz has been decorated twice.”
“Decorated? Like a Christmas tree.”
Ronnie smiles, reminds me of a wolf I saw once. “Christmas tree. You crack me up, Dan,” she says, displaying none of the traditional signs associated with cracking up.
“I need help, Ronnie.”
“Yeah, with your wardrobe for a start.”
“This is serious, Ronelle. A woman’s life is in danger. It may already be too late.”
“Speaking of taglines, there’s yours. Daniel McEvoy is the Pink Thong. Pray he’s not too late.”
I pound the table. “Pink? That’s red. Any idiot can see it’s red. The sequins make it look a little pink in the light. That’s all.”
Ronnie is delighted. “Whoa there, Thongmaster. I’m here, aren’t I? Alone as requested, against orders and protocol, I might add. So whose life is in danger and how do you account for this video?”
I lay it out in brief strokes. The abduction, the porn studio, my Aunt Evelyn. It’s a good story, so Ronnie listens attentively. She may be a little out there but Ronnie is 100 percent police. She said to me once:
I’m a straight cop, Dan. If you cut me, guess what happens?
Don’t tell me, you bleed blue.
No. I bleed red, you moron, but I will read you your Mirandas before I beat the crap outta you for assaulting an officer.
When I’m finished talking, Ronnie lets it percolate for a minute, getting her questions straight.
“You ain’t bullshitting me?”
“Nope. Straight up.”
“’Cause if you’re bullshitting me. . .”
“I am not bullshitting you. Do I look like a bullshitter?”
“You smell like one.”
“It’s that fecking Hudson. I probably got hepatitis.”
Ronelle lines up the condiments.
“Okay. This woman Costello hires Fortz and Krieger to take you out of the picture?”
“Yeah. I reckon the torture porn was their own little wrinkle in the plan.”
Ronnie knocks over the salt and pepper. “Those guys have been making skin crawl ever since they left the City precinct under a cloud. They’re in the wind now, last seen hobbling away from the scene of an accident out by the Silvercup.”
I am disappointed by this as I had been wishing on a star that Krieger and Fortz had been found dead in their cruiser, having crapped themselves, with their dicks out, wearing mankinis.
Ronnie stands the ketchup and the hot sauce up on the napkin holder. “So your aunt is stuck in the penthouse with the evil stepmom?”
“Is my aunt the ketchup?”
Ronelle scowls. “No. Your aunt is the fucking sauce. What, are you retarded?”
“Sorry. Mayo, right. Yep, that’s about it. My aunt and Edit are up in the napkin holder’s penthouse.”
“You making fun of my diorama?”
“What? God no. It’s very effective.”
“Because this is legitimate policing technique-ing. And if it ain’t swish enough for Mr. Pink Thong, maybe you should find yourself another blue buddy.”
I know Ronelle is playing me but she’s holding all the condiments.
“No. I like the diorama. It crystallizes everything.”
Ronnie is placated by the effort I have put into my verb. “Crystallizes, huh? You really are desperate.”
“Come on, Ronnie, all I need for you to do is badge me into that penthouse. Then Ev can walk out of there of her own free will.”
Ronelle peels the paper from a sugar lump.
“Is that me?” I ask her. “The lump?”
“It’s not all about you, Dan,” she says, and pops the lump into her mouth. On most days, when Ronnie does some tiny unexpected thing like this, it reminds me how singular she is, how striking. This morning I just feel helpless and outplayed.
“The problem is that you’re wanted for questioning,” she says. “I should be escorting you downtown right now.”
I like how this statement is going. Plenty of scope for a but, so I prompt.
“But?”
“But I know how you are about protecting women, in your big-dog, alpha-bullshit, dick-swinging way.”