interview, that’s for sure,” she said.
“Damn right,” he mumbled, at last freeing the gum and popping it into his mouth.
“Joe,” Priscilla said gently, “I never smoked a day in my life, but even I know you got to either chew the gum or smoke the weed. You can’t do both. That nicotine is poison, brother. They spray it on crops to kill insects.”
Rizzo chewed slowly. “Well,” he said with a small smile. “Fuck it. Something’s gotta kill ya. Might as well be chewin’ gum.”
CHAPTER TWO
THAT EVENING, PRISCILLA JACKSON GAZED across the table into the happy, animated face of Karen Krauss. Karen raised her glass of Chardonnay.
“To your promotion,” she said. “We never really celebrated. Let’s do it now.”
Priscilla reached out, clinking her vodka gently to Karen’s glass of wine.
“As my new partner would say,” Priscilla said, “
The restaurant, on Third Avenue in Manhattan, stood just two blocks from their newly rented brownstone apartment on East Thirty-ninth Street. Its main room was softly illuminated beneath a deco style ceiling, a massive oval wooden bar dominating the center of the dining area. Discreet servers hurried to and fro as the restaurant began to fill. It was the start of the long Columbus Day weekend.
Priscilla looked around. “Nice place,” she said. “How are the prices?”
“Not bad, considering the location and style. Not to mention the food, which is terrific.”
Priscilla sipped at her drink. “Sounds good,” she said. “We should make it an early night, though. I’m off till Monday. Tomorrow we can pick up paint and rollers and stuff and get started painting the apartment. Hell, it’s only four small rooms; by Sunday night we can have it mostly done.”
Karen’s smile broadened. “Well, we’ll have to talk about that. But first, tell me about your day. How’d it go? Anything exciting?”
“Yeah,” Priscilla said. “Lots. I took a tour of the precinct, met the squad boss. They call the guy ‘The Swede,’ and believe me, he’s even whiter than you are. Then I got hit on by some asshole lover-boy first grade named Rossi. Had to straighten him out. Word should get around the house pretty fast that I’m one of
Karen chuckled. “You know, Cil, there is something to be said for subtlety.”
“Yeah, right. Maybe at your law firm, with all the good little boys from Hah-vaard. But not at the Six-Two. I got the message across the way I had to. Like a brick through a plate-glass window.”
Karen beckoned for a server. “Let’s order,” she said. “I’m starved.”
When the waiter had left them, Priscilla continued. “The rest of the tour, Joe and I went over his caseload. He brought me up to speed. On Monday, in Bensonhurst, most people will be off from work. They take Columbus Day very seriously there. He says it’ll be a good day to work the cases.”
As they ate their first course of soup, Priscilla asked, “So what’s up? You said we have to talk about the painting.”
Karen’s face brightened. “Well, I had lunch with my mom today. She’s arranged for her decorator to come by our place tomorrow. He’ll bounce some ideas off us and then he’ll arrange everything: painting, papering, carpets, tile-whatever. And it’s all on Mom and Dad. A gift to celebrate our moving in together.”
Priscilla paused mid-motion, lowering her spoon into the cup before her. “Are you kidding?” she said, her voice flat. “We’ve talked about this. I may not be in the Krauss family income bracket, but I’m not a freakin’ beggar.”
Karen frowned. “It isn’t charity, it’s a gift, a gesture, from two very supportive and caring people. They think of you like a daughter, Cil, they love you. You know how it is for people in the life, not to mention interracial. Name someone you know with folks as cool as mine.”
Priscilla sat back in her chair, sipping her vodka. She thought of her own mother, a troubled, alcoholic wreck of a woman who, upon learning her youngest daughter was gay, had nearly assaulted and then banished Priscilla from her life. They had not seen or spoken to one another since.
She smiled sadly and raised her hands, palms outward. “Okay,” she said. “They are righteous. Who knows? Since they’re cool with the gay thing, and cool with the black thing, maybe your mother can even get cool with the cop thing.”
Karen reached for her wineglass. “And the decorator?” she asked.
Priscilla sighed. “Okay. We’ll listen to what the little fag has to say.”
Karen smiled and sipped her wine. “Good. That’s settled.” She leaned back over the table and added, “And don’t say ‘fag.’ ”
ON MONDAY afternoon, Columbus Day, traffic heading into Brooklyn was light. Priscilla arrived at the Six-Two twenty minutes early to start the night tour with Rizzo. She signed in, nodded greetings to the half dozen faces she recognized from Friday’s introductions, then sat at her gunmetal gray desk in the corner of the squad room and began to fill out the Precinct Personnel Profile form required of all new transfers. While she carefully listed Karen’s cell and work numbers under the emergency notification section, a shadow fell across the desk’s surface. She raised her eyes to see Rizzo standing there smiling at her, a paper coffee cup in each hand.
“One sugar, splash of milk, right?” he asked.
Priscilla returned the smile and took the offered container. “Yeah, Joe, exactly. Mike never told me you were a mind reader.”
“No mind reader. I saw you mix it at breakfast Friday, that’s all.”
“Well, thanks.”
Rizzo sat on the corner of her desk, sipping his coffee. “Speaking of Mike, this here is his old desk. Probably still smells like that fancy cologne he used.”
“Two years I smelled that,” she said. “Gave me a goddamned headache.”
“Well, you put up with shit for a good partner. Working with him was one of the best years I had on the job. Mike’s a good guy.”
“The best,” Priscilla replied with a nod. “And we should get along okay, having Mike in common and all.”
Rizzo shrugged and drank coffee. “Let’s hope,” he said. “He’s a good-looking son of a bitch, too, so at least you still got that. With me, I mean.”
“Not quite, Joe, not exactly,” she said.
Rizzo feigned shock. “What?” he said. “My wife says I’m fuckin’ gorgeous.”
Priscilla turned back to her paperwork. “Yeah, well, straight women are like that. They’ve got to be a little delusional. Keeps ’em sane.”
Rizzo stood. “Don’t feel you gotta hold back… you just speak freely, you hear?”
“No problem, Partner. That’s my style.”
He turned to move away. “Give me a holler when you’re ready. I’d like to get out on the street. We need to get to work on our cases. Especially that asshole over near New Utrecht High who’s been wavin’ his dick at schoolgirls down by the train entrance. I got a lead on ’im and we need to talk to some of the victims. I’ll be at my desk.”
“Okay, I only need a few minutes more.”
“Take your time,” he said, crossing the cramped squad room to his own cluttered desk near the window.
THREE MEN sat in a rear booth of Vinny’s, a small corner pizzeria in Bensonhurst. All in their mid-twenties, they had spent the last few hours of Columbus Day drinking beer and shooting pool at the Park Ridge Bar and Grill, three blocks south of the pizzeria. Now, slightly intoxicated and hungry, they talked and laughed loudly as they devoured a thick-crusted Sicilian pie.
The street beyond the plate-glass window in front was dark. A cold October wind was blowing, the streets of the working-class neighborhood dark and deserted.
At ten minutes to nine, one of the group, Gary Tucci, slid out from the booth and rose to his feet.
“I gotta get going,” he said. “I got to be in at six tomorrow. Take it easy, guys, I’ll see you.”
Tucci’s two companions waved him good night, and he turned to leave. Walking along the narrow pathway between the ser vice counter and a row of booths to his right, Tucci stumbled. Looking down, he realized he had tripped over the extended right leg of the pizzeria’s only other patron, a brooding, dark-haired man of about
