She’s comin’ over here, thought Colter. I know she’s comin’ over here. I gotta get off the phone.
‘Uh, what did ya say, buddy? It’s loud as hell in this place.’
‘I said, bow ya doin?’
‘Oh, yeah, man. It’s a drag, y’know, a real drag.’
She was getting up, looking his way. A bead of sweat popped out between Colter’s eyes.
‘Ben, I need some help.’
‘Okay, name it.’
Here she comes.
‘When’s the last time you saw any red devils on the Street?’
‘Red devils,’ Colter repeated and then looked frantically around for fear someone had heard him. ‘Red devils,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Shit, nobody buys red devils anymore. Who’s gonna lay out five bucks a pop, when you can get good uppers for two bits?’
She had caught the wind and was in full sail, coming straight at him, her course irreversible. He had to get off the phone. The sweat was now dribbling down the side of his nose.
‘What I need, Ben, is a line on a pusher, somebody out in your territory who maybe scored very big in red devils in the last two, three weeks.’
‘Two or three weeks,’ Colter repeated, watching the jumpsuit slink closer.
A customer reached out and took her by the arm. But she looked down, said something terminal, and he dropped his hand.
‘Red devils, hunh?’ Ben said. ‘Lemme see, that could be, you know, three or four shovers I know of. Gimme an hour, I’ll see if I can pin it down without blowing my cover.’
‘Thanks. Should I call you?’
‘Use the squad room drop. Give ‘em a number at. eleven o’clock. I’ll call in and get it.’
‘That’s cool, Ben. And thanks.’
‘Any time, buddy. Later.’
He hung up. She was three feet away, staring up at him with eyes that looked like they had dust in them.
‘Lining up your dance card for the rest of the night?’ she said. The voice was perfect.
‘I just broke all my plans until after the holidays,’ Colter said.
‘Aren’t I the lucky one?’
War Eagle came out of the men’s room with tears in his eyes, wiping his tie with a paper towel. A blast of heat and noise hit him like a tidal wave. His cheeks bulged and he turned and fled back through the door.
‘I bet you’re gonna need a ride home tonight,’ Colter said.
‘Nope,’ she said, ‘he is.’
‘I’ll call a cab.’
The Nosh leaned intently over the controls of his electronic magic set, a carefully organized series of tape recorders, filters, re-recorders, and other electronic hardware that looked like a small radio station. He was in his glory, punching buttons, twisting dials, hunched under padded earphones as he worked to lift the voices from one of Sharky’s tapes.
He looked up suddenly, startled by the appearance in the doorway of Sergeant Anderson. The Nosh felt sorry for Anderson, a man beaten down by life, his hair an ugly tangle of grey, his shoulders sagging under the weight of an unhappy marriage. Anderson seemed always to be around, offering help where it wasn’t needed and advice where it wasn’t wanted. The squad room was his home. He remained there, night after night, until he was too tired to stay awake or until he ran out of excuses to avoid going home.
The Nosh pulled off the earphones.
‘Give you a hand?’ Anderson said.
‘Nah. Thanks anyway.’
‘Coffee or something?’
‘Thanks anyway, Sarge.’
‘What you up to, anyway?’
‘Just giving Vice a hand. A little wiretap operation.’
The tape was still running and a cacophony of sound emerged from the loudspeaker. A combination of soft music and cries of passion.
‘What in God’s name is that?’ Andersen asked.
The Nosh giggled. ‘Sounds like a Chinese orgy,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll be around a while longer if you need anything.’ ‘Tell you what, Herb. I got a fingerprint report coming in on the telex from the Bureau. If you hear the bell ring, gimme a call, will ya?’
‘Glad to,’ Anderson said and smiled, grateful for something to do. ‘But they won’t come in with anything before morning, will they?’
