When the brew came he tipped the glass to Ricky. “You caught us a good one. He agreed to a hundred fifty.”
“No shit,” T.G. said, cocking a red eyebrow. The split was Schaeffer got half and then Ricky and T.G. divided the rest equally. “Where’s he getting it from?”
“I dunno. His problem.”
Ricky squinted. “Wait. I want the watch too.”
“Watch?”
“The old guy. He had a Rolex. I want it.”
At home Schaeffer had a dozen Rolexes he’d taken off marks and suspects over the years. He didn’t need another one. “You want the watch, he’ll give up the watch. All he cares about is making sure his wife and his corn-pone customers don’t find out what he was up to.”
“What’s corn-pone?” Ricky asked.
“Hold on,” T.G. snarled. “Anybody gets the watch, it’s me.”
“No way. I saw it first. It was me who picked him-”
“My watch,” the fat Irishman interrupted. “Maybe he’s got a money clip or something you can have. But I get the fucking Rolex.”
“Nobody has money clips,” Ricky argued. “I don’t even want a fucking money clip.”
“Listen, little Lime Rickey,” T.G. muttered. “It’s mine. Read my lips.”
“Jesus, you two are like kids,” Schaeffer said, swilling the beer. “He’ll meet us across the street from Pier 46 at 8 tonight.” The three men had done this same scam, or variations on it, for a couple of years now but still didn’t trust each other. The deal was they all went together to collect the payoff.
Schaeffer drained the beer. “See you boys then.”
After the detective was gone they watched the game for a few minutes, with T.G. bullying some guys to place bets, even though it was in the fourth quarter and there was no way Chicago could come back. Finally, Ricky said, “I’m going out for a while.”
“What, now I’m your fucking babysitter? You want to go, go.” Though he still made it sound like Ricky was a complete idiot for missing the end of game that only had eight minutes to run.
Just as Ricky got to the door, T.G. called in a loud voice, “Hey, Lime Rickey, my Rolex? Is it gold?”
Just to be a prick.
Bob Schaeffer had walked a beat in his youth. He’d investigated a hundred felonies, he’d run a thousand scams in Manhattan and Brooklyn. All of which meant that he’d learned how to stay alive on the streets.
Now, he sensed a threat.
He was on his way to score some coke from a kid who operated out of a newsstand at Ninth and 55th, and he realized he’d been hearing the same footsteps for the past five or six minutes. A weird scraping. Somebody was tailing him. He paused to light a cigarette in a doorway and checked out the reflection in a storefront window. Sure enough, he saw a man in a cheap gray suit, wearing gloves, about thirty feet behind him. The guy paused for a moment and pretended to look into a store window.
Schaeffer didn’t recognize the guy. He’d made a lot of enemies over the years. The fact he was a cop gave him some protection-it’s risky to gun down even a crooked one-but there were plenty of nuts jobs out there.
Walking on. The owner of the scraping shoes continued his tail. A glance in the rearview mirror of a car parked nearby told him the man was getting closer, but his hands were at his side, not going for a weapon. Schaeffer pulled out his cell phone and pretended to make a call, to give himself an excuse to slow up and not make the guy suspicious. His other hand slipped inside his jacket and touched the grip of his chrome-plated Sig Sauer 9mm automatic pistol.
This time the guy didn’t slow up.
Schaeffer started to draw.
Then: “Detective, could you hang up the phone, please?”
Schaeffer turned, blinked. The pursuer was holding up a gold NYPD shield.
The fuck is this? Schaeffer thought. He relaxed, but not much. Snapped the phone closed and dropped it into his pocket. Let go of his weapon.
“Who’re you?”
The man, eyeing Schaeffer coldly, let him get a look at the ID card next to the shield.
Schaeffer thought: Fuck me. The guy was from the department’s Internal Affairs Division-the boys that tracked down corrupt cops.
Still Schaeffer kept on the offensive. “What’re you doing following me?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“What’s this all about?”
“An investigation we’re conducting.”
“Hello,” Schaeffer said sarcastically. “I sort of figured that out. Give me some fucking details.”
“We’re looking into your connection with certain individuals.”
“‘Certain individuals.’ You know, not all cops have to talk like cops.”
No response.
Schaeffer shrugged. “I have ‘connections’ with a lotta people. Maybe you’re thinking of my snitches. I hang with ’em. They feed me good information.”
“Yeah, well, we’re thinking there might be other things they feed you. Some
“Fuck that.”
“I’m trying to keep it low key. But you don’t cooperate, I’ll call it in and we’ll take you downtown. Then everything’ll all be public.”
Finally Schaeffer understood. It was a shakedown-only this time he was on the receiving end. And he was getting scammed by Internal Affairs, no less. This was almost fucking funny, IAD on the take too.
Schaeffer gave up his gun.
“Let’s go talk in private.”
How much was this going to cost him? he wondered.
The IAD cop nodded toward the Hudson River. “That way.”
“Talk to me,” Schaeffer said. “I got a right to know what this’s all about. If somebody told you I’m on the take, that’s bullshit. Whoever said it’s working some angle.” He wasn’t as hot as he sounded; this was all part of the negotiating.
The IAD cop said only, “Keep walking. Up there.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Offered one to Schaeffer. He took it and the guy lit it for him.
Then Schaeffer froze. He blinked in shock, staring at the matches. The name on them was
“Fuck,” the phony cop muttered. He yanked a revolver out of his pocket, then shoved Schaeffer into a nearby alley.
“Listen, buddy,” Schaeffer whispered, “I’ve got some good bucks. Whatever you’re being paid, I’ll-”
“Shut up.” In his gloved hands, the guy exchanged his gun for Schaeffer’s own pistol and pushed the big chrome piece into the detective’s neck. Then the fake cop pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and stuffed it into the detective’s jacket. He leaned forward and whispered, “Here’s the message, asshole: For two years T.G.’s been setting up everything, doing all the work, and you take half the money. You’ve fucked with the wrong man.”
“That’s bullshit,” Schaeffer cried desperately. “He needs me! He couldn’t do it without a cop! Please-”
“So long-” He lifted the gun to Schaeffer’s temple.
“Don’t do it! Please, man, no!”
A scream sounded from the mouth of the alley. “Oh my god!” A middle-aged woman stood twenty feet away, staring at the man with the pistol. Her hands were to her mouth. “Somebody call the police!”
The hit man’s attention was on the woman. Schaeffer shoved him into a brick wall. Before he could recover
