He watched her face, how she looked not so much surprised as disappointed. Cops were a club whose members had to believe in each other. Not to believe hurt. And it was dangerous, when you couldn’t trust the guy watching your back. The titty cop would be surprised if she knew that when he was a ten-year-old kid he’d considered trying to join that club. Before he got mixed up in the gang that saved his life.
“It’s a dirty world,” he said.
“We agree. How was Galin dirty? Was he your supplier?”
Jorge almost smiled. She didn’t know much. “Naw, Galin never moved no stuff himself. He just watched over things, made sure nothin’ went wrong.”
“For the dealer?”
“Sure. Who else?”
She moved closer. For some reason she became scary. The eyes, maybe. Even the tits looked dangerous. “What I want now, Jorge, is the name.”
“The dealer’s name?”
“The name of whoever was paying Galin for protection.”
“That could get me in real trouble,” Jorge said, trying to find some leverage, an angle.
But the lady cop had all the leverage.
“You’re five minutes away from being taken away from here in handcuffs,” she said. “You’ll give us the name or you’ll see time behind walls.”
He kept his voice level, no quaver. He was no pussy. “You scare the shit outta me, lady.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s probably because you’re smarter than most of your asshole friends.”
He stared at her. She had him, and they both knew it.
“Name you want’s Legend Lawrence,” Jorge said. It had slipped from between his lips almost on its own, but not surprising him. His mind had made the calculation without him realizing it. She wasn’t bluffing. He had no choice but to give her something. Prison time—a real stretch in an adult lockup—scared the crap out of him.
“Don’t screw around with me, Jorge.”
“Well, that’s his street name, anyways.”
“What’s his real name?”
“That I don’t know. Honest.”
The titty little cop sighed. He didn’t like the way she sighed, as if she was giving up on him.
She turned, about to walk away. The big cop, Quinn, would be the next one he’d see, and there’d be no sense running and hiding from him. He was the kind who’d find you no matter where you went or how good you hid. Like a goddamned Doberman pinscher with a bloodhound nose. Fear washed over Jorge like cold water.
“Lawrence was shot by another dealer,” he said.
That stopped her. “When was this?”
“Four days ago.”
She took a few steps back toward him. “What dealer?”
“I dunno who shot him. That’s what I heard, is all.”
“This Legend Lawrence dead?”
“In a hospital’s what I heard.”
“Which hospital?”
“I dunno. But he’s there under another name. Vernon Lake.”
“That his real name?”
“I got no way of knowin’ that.”
She studied him, making him feel like a bug or something under a magnifying glass. This was a hard bitch.
“Okay, Jorge. We’ll see about what you said.”
“You won’t tell where you got the information, will you?”
“I’ll try not to.”
“You seem like a nice lady.”
“Don’t shit me, Jorge. You gotta learn not to keep trying that.” She walked away a few steps and then turned back to face him. “And quit lying to yourself, too.”
“Everybody does that,” he said.
She grinned with big beautiful white teeth, like a celebrity.
“Now you’re learning,” she said.
Jorge watched her walk back across the street to the dusty black Ford. Even scared as he was, he couldn’t help admiring her ass.
When the car had turned the corner and she was indeed gone, Jorge swallowed hard and thought over his predicament. Cincinnati, he decided. He had cousins in Cincinnati who’d put him up for a while. Anyplace other than New York.
The bell mounted high on the brick wall gave two brief rings, signaling that a pizza was ready for delivery.
Jorge thought the hell with that, and climbed on the remaining bike.
Then he reconsidered, dismounted the bike, and went inside for the pizza and the delivery address.
Outside again, he crumpled the address slip and tossed it on the sidewalk before throwing his leg back over the bike. He took the pizza.
He didn’t know when he’d get a chance to eat again.
Probably not soon.
19
Jerry Dunn took a cab from the city to his suburban home in Teaneck, New Jersey. He and his wife Sami had lived in the house for twenty-two years and raised a couple of kids there. It had memories. He liked living there. The neighborhood was tree-shaded and quiet, and only a short commute to and from his job in the city.
Land near New York City being relatively expensive at the time the houses were built, in the fifties, they were close together, but each had a single-car attached garage. Jerry and Sami’s car was a white ten-year-old Toyota Camry, but neither liked to drive in the city, so it was used mainly for errands and trips to restaurants or to a nearby shopping mall.
After paying off the cab, Jerry entered the front door and picked up the scent of onions being fried. Sami was expecting him. They’d made a deaclass="underline" he’d take a cab to and from LaGuardia so she didn’t have to fight the airport traffic, and she’d have a hot meal waiting for him when he returned.
Of course, this time the cab hadn’t come from the airport, but a deal was a deal.
He set his suitcase in the front entry hall, then followed the scent of onions to the kitchen.
There was Sami at the stove, barefoot and wearing jeans and a loose-fitting blue tunic. Her upswept dark hair was mussed in back in a way that made her neck look skinny. She was frying what looked like thinly cut steaks with some onions in sizzling oil. The table was already set for two.
Jerry knew she’d heard him come in, so he approached her from behind and kissed the nape of her neck, then pulled her to him so her back and generous rump were against him.
He realized he was getting an erection and felt like carrying her into the bedroom. Was it because of what had happened in the city? What he’d done?
My God, is it a turn-on?
“—was the convention?” she was asking, still concentrating on her cooking.
“Just what you’d expect. Information booths, panels, speeches, speeches, speeches…”
“Drinking,” she added, flipping a steak with the wood-handled spatula in her right hand.
He moved back so their bodies weren’t touching. “I went easy on that,” he said.
He was sure she believed him. Whatever his other vices, he was a light drinker. As for women…well, Sami never questioned him about that, thank the Lord. From time to time he thought it might be because she was afraid of the answers, but lately he’d assumed she simply didn’t know what a stud he was. Besides, his hotel quickie sex with almost-strangers meant nothing, really. Not that Sami wouldn’t strongly disapprove. But surely she understood that Jerry had needs she didn’t fill.
“Want iced tea with your steak?” she asked.
“Sounds perfect.”
She propped the spatula against a trivet on the stove and turned and kissed him on the lips, then smiled up at him. “I’d rather have you home than away,” she said.
He kissed her back, hard, and said, “That’s where I’d rather be.”
She turned back to the stove and sizzling canola oil.
“We gonna eat soon?” he asked.
“ ’Bout fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll do some unpacking.”
“You got time,” she said. She opened a drawer and got out a can opener to use on a tin of green beans sitting on the sink counter.
Jerry patted her rump and went back to the entry hall for his luggage, congratulating himself on how calm he was. On how smoothly everything had gone.