trying to shake out the welter of thoughts that clamored for attention. Dressing automatically, he fought for clarity. Those two crazies were right then? That scabrous old shitkicker Wilson wasn’t senile after all. It seemed impossible, a trivial detail suddenly expanded to fill his whole consciousness with its importance. If she was in danger! If she was in danger and he didn’t help her he would kill himself. That was the size of it, he would take out his Goddamn .38 and put the barrel in his mouth and pull the Goddamn trigger. Let the department face that one.
He put on a conservative suit and brushed down his hair until he looked reasonably presentable. He had to get that Starlight camera out of Yablonski in the Photo Unit. He had to look the part. Would the good news about Dick Neff have traveled as far as Yablonski? Probably not. Just routine, gimme the camera. Orders? Shit, c’mon man, I got to use this thing tonight. Easy. Peaches.
He left the apartment, then returned. As soon as he had gotten into the hall he had felt the absence of his pistol. Like he wasn’t wearing underpants or something. The gun. He dropped off his overcoat and his jacket and pulled the holster containing the .32 out of his bureau drawer. The larger .38 he left behind. This pistol fitted neatly into a holster nestled in the small of his back, easy to get to, hard to spot. You weren’t too comfortable when you sat down in a hard chair but other than that the small of the back was a beautiful hiding place for a weapon.
Now he glanced at the pawprints again. They were ugly, frightening. He tested the door and then pulled the curtains closed. This time he left and did not return. Outside the wind hit him with the force of a powerful shove. It bit right through his coat and made his muscles grow taut with cold. He wanted another drink, better make a pit stop on the way down. What the hell, make it now. Across the street was O’Faolian’s where he usually made a stop on his way to the apartment. He went there now.
“Hiya, Frenchie,” he said as he slipped up to the bar, “gimme a Bloody.” The bartender made it and set it in front of him. Instead of going about his business, though, he hovered there fooling with glasses.
“You want something?” Dick asked. Frenchie was not a friendly guy, not the type to make small talk.
“Nah. A guy’s been in is all. A guy wantin’ to know about you.”
“So?”
“So I don’t say nothin’.”
“Good. What else is new?”
“You don’t wanna know what he’s askin’ about?” Frenchie looked surprised, a little disappointed.
“I can pretty well guess,” Dick said expansively. “He wanted to know if I had ever been seen in here with a little kike five-two, greasy black hair, wire-rimmed glasses, name of Mort Harper. And you said no.”
“Hell I didn’t say nothin’. Not yes or no.” He looked pleadingly at Neff. “The guy, he flashed on me, see. What could I do? You don’t get ’em flashin’ unless it’s serious business.”
Dick chuckled. “Thanks, Frenchie,” he said. He put a five on the bar and left. Damn decent of the little jerk to tell him that Captain Lesser had been in here confirming that this was where Dick met Mort Harper to take the pass. How long had it been going on? Dick couldn’t remember exactly. God, though, it must be years. All that money right up to the Stranger Nursing Home. Right up there to keep the old man in cigars.
The old man. A pang of sentiment went through him, thinking of the old senile man who had once been so powerful, so determined. Drove a bus for the Red and Tan Line. Retirement pay plus Social Security: $177.90 a lousy month. Senile decay, Parkinson’s disease, helplessness had turned to violence, periodic seizures, a thousand- dollar-a-month problem. You don’t give your old man over to the tender care of the State, not when you’ve seen the inside of those places firsthand. “Gonna make you go naked for a day, you old fart, you don’t stop that shakin’. Stop it, you gettin’ on my
All of a sudden he was shaking uncontrollably, standing there in the doorway of the bar. He grabbed at the door handle to steady himself, then reeled back into the bar. He dropped to a table. “Shit, Frenchie,” he said, “get some food in me. I feel like shit.”
Frenchie produced a hamburger and some stale fries and as soon as he bit into the food Dick found that he was ravenously hungry. He wolfed down the burger, ordered another. Now he leaned back, relaxed into the mild fog that the drinks had produced, that and the ease of the food.
What the fuck had he been doing? Oh yeah, going to get that damn camera for Becky, his kid bride. Kid, hell, she was only a year younger than him and he was no kid. She was still a damn good lay, though, especially the way she came. Like a Goddamn female freight train. She made you feel like you were worth something. None of the others ever really did that. They were all pretending, wanting to fuck a cop for reasons that had nothing to do with love. Pros that needed a friend, most of them. What the hell, they threw it at you. Becky didn’t know and never would if Dick had anything to say about it. What they had together was something special, something no pro was going to take away from them.
Well, what the hell, what she didn’t know wasn’t going to hurt her.
“Frenchie! Bring me another Bloody.”
Frenchie came over. “Nosir,” he said, “can’t do that.”
“Why the fuck not! What is this, a Salvation Army Shelter?”
“You’re on duty. I’m not gettin’ you drunk in here. Shit, you came in here half looped. Now you go on about your business. I don’t want no cops gettin’ drunk in here. It’s a bad rap with the department and you know it. Go somewhere else.”
“I’m not on duty. I’m graveyard this week.”
“You’re carryin’ a piece, Lieutenant Neff. I can’t serve you any more booze.”
“Jesus Christ, Mr. Hot Shit—OK, I’ll take my trade elsewhere. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, Frenchie. You look out for your ass, hear. Just look out real careful, you never know what’s gonna come up your back.”
Frenchie walked away shaking his head. Dick left, wanting at once to say something to appease Frenchie, wishing he hadn’t been so nasty, yet still feeling in himself the urge to be even nastier, to strike out at somebody. He hailed a cab to go to headquarters.
