“Nobody beat the Truth Rabbit,” Frank said.
Both Vic and Frank’s father locked eyes without speaking or moving. Finally, Mr. O’Ryan said, “That was just a goofy thing I used to say.”
Frank was busy watching the television mounted to the wall above them. “You sure that’s all?” Vic said to the old man.
A pause. “Yeah, just me being stupid.”
The food arrived. A steaming pizza on a large silver tray that forced the men to lean back from the table as the waiter set it down. “This looks good,” Frank said.
Mr. O’Ryan took a slice and folded it in two on his plate, watching it so carefully that he never once lifted his eyes to meet Vic’s stare. “So tell me what you boys are working on.”
Frank was busily gobbling up his first slice and trying to catch the grease leaking onto his chin with a napkin. He spoke, but it was with a mouthful of food. Vic said nothing.
“Your old man has some great stories, Frank.”
Frank shrugged, trying to dig a piece of pepperoni out of his back molars with his finger. He peeled his lips back in the visor’s mirror and said, “When you hear them a hundred times, they get kind of old.”
Vic checked to see that the highway was clear, eyes shifting repeatedly from the road to Frank’s face as he steered. “Hey, what was he saying about that one thing? The rabbit?”
“I dunno. You mean that rabid possum he shot?”
“No,” Vic said. Frank was now using his car keys to scrape between his molars. Completely oblivious. “The Honesty Rabbit or something?”
“The Truth Rabbit. That didn’t have anything to do with being a cop. It was what he called himself whenever he thought I was lying to him. He always said ‘Nobody lies to the Truth Rabbit and gets away with it. Son of a bitch, I got it,” Frank said, inspecting the string of meat between his fingers. “He was good at it too. That or I can’t lie for shit.”
Vic stayed quiet as he navigated the interstate, the large, towering skyscrapers of Center City looming closer. They drove past a State Trooper conducting a car stop. He was talking to the driver of a vehicle with his head down, the brim of his circular Smokey the Bear campaign hat nearly as wide as his shoulders. “PSP, the finest law enforcement agency in the Commonwealth. Just ask them, they’ll tell you,” Vic muttered.
“Big heads, little hats,” Frank said. The trooper looked up at them as they passed and Frank held up his middle finger through the window.
“Do you know why God invented the NYPD?”
“No, why?”
“So that New Jersey State Troopers could have heroes,” Vic said.
Both men laughed, and then Frank said, “Do you know why God invented our police department, Vic?”
“No,” Vic said.
“You really don’t know?”
“No, I really don’t know. Tell me.”
Frank turned to look back out of the window at the skyscrapers and bridges passing by. “Me either.”
They parked on the street outside of a shipyard as tractor trailers pulled up to the front gate only to be glared at by stern-faced port authority police officers. The stink of Diesel fuel filled the air. Vic pointed at a dilapidated brick building near the gate and said, “Come on. You got your badge?” Frank showed him his silver Patrolman badge and Vic frowned. “Where’s your gold shield?”
“I don’t have a gold shield. I’m not even a not-even-promoted detective yet.”
“Maybe someday, rookie. Maybe someday.”
Frank followed him toward a steel door with no handle. A tractor trailer rumbled past them, laying on the air brakes as it approached the gate. Vic banged the door with his fist and had his badge ready when the door opened. A large city cop wearing a t-shirt and blue jeans answered the door. He squinted at both badges and said, “How y’all feeling?”
“All right,” Vic said. He looked into the dark warehouse behind the officer and frowned, “Dez around?”
“He in the back with the rest of those clowns. Come on in.”
The warehouse was filled with hundreds of folding tables stacked on top of one another. “I thought this was an FBI operation,” Frank said. “What’s with the Philly cops?”
“It’s a taskforce. They take guys from all over. There’s only a handful of Feebs, but they fund it, so they run it.”
“Feebs?”
“It’s a term of affection,” Vic said. He came to a room in the back and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. “Is this where the 4-H club is meeting?”
Several voices greeted him, and Vic waved for Frank to come inside. There were a half-dozen cops inside the room, dressed in baseball caps and t-shirts. There was one man in a suit. He immediately looked Frank over and said, “Who’s the new guy?”
“This is Frank O’Ryan,” Vic said. “He’s the hero who shot the mope that killed one of our guys. Frank took a round in the leg and he’s working with me while he recovers. Hopefully longer.”
The rest of the men nodded and murmured their approval. One of the cops in the back said, “Where the white girl at?”
The man in the suit’s head snapped at him. His eyes flared, but he caught himself before he spoke. “Yeah,” he said, turning to Vic. “How is Aprille?”
“Haven’t seen her, Dez. How’s your wife and kids doing?”
For a moment, no one in the room moved or spoke. Dez cracked a thin smile and said, “They’re good, thanks. So now that we’ve made do with the pleasantries, why don’t you tell us how you two wound up with a real life drug dealer out there in the boonies?”
One of the officers passed around flyers and said, “Here’s your boy. Paris Deimos, black male, twenty-two years old. He’s got two priors for delivery of controlled substances.”
Vic looked down at the color photograph in his hands of a handsome dark-skinned male with braided hair. “Any weapons offenses?”
“He shot two people when he was sixteen. Did six months for Agg Assault.”
“We suspect him in several other homicides,” Dez said.
“Our boy says he’s seen Paris shoot people down here,” Vic said.
“That just confirms he’s a high-priority target. What’s the status of your CI?”
“What’s a CI?” Frank said.
There were a few chuckles and Vic shot a glance back at Frank with his eyes narrowed. Dez held up his hand, “Easy. He’s new to all this. A CI is a Confidential Informant. Is the local asset signed up yet?”
“No,” Vic said. “Not exactly.”
“Why?”
“I’m letting him sweat a little. We’ll get better cooperation out of him that way.”
Dez nodded, “Okay. Just make sure you get him on board soon. We don’t want to miss this chance. Keep me posted.”
The officers got up from their seats and Frank leaned close to Vic to whisper, “I thought Billy wanted to call the FBI.”
“Shut up,” Vic whispered. He looked at Dez and said, “Hey, I need a minute.”
The two men went into the corner, talking in low tones with their backs turned to everyone else. Frank shook hands with the other cops who introduced themselves and offered their hands as they walked past him. Frank saw Vic mouth the words Truth Rabbit and Dez’s eyes fixed on Frank, suddenly interested.
Everyone filtered out of the building toward their assorted vehicles. Blacked out Chryslers with chrome rims and beat up pickup trucks that wheezed smoke. Dez locked the door behind them and held up his keys to autostart a brand new Audi parked near the building. As he walked up to Frank, he pulled out his phone and said, “Give me your number. I want us all to be able to stay in touch.”