'You got it, Captain.'
'Sorry about your dog,' Quirk said to me.
'Thank you.'
'You and Susan going to get another one?'
'Yes.'
'You want to stop talking about this?'
'I do.'
'Okay, whaddya need?'
Quirk's drink came promptly. He took a sip, swallowed, and smiled to himself.
'I found myself missing you, Captain.'
'Sure,' Quirk said. 'Happens all the time.'
He took another sip of his vodka. Quirk had hands like a stone mason, but all his movements were quite delicate.
'In 1974,' I said. 'A woman named Emily Gordon was shot by a group called the Dread Scott Brigade who were holding up a bank in Audubon Circle.'
'Nobody ever saw who shot her. Everyone was lying facedown on the floor.'
'You remember every case?' I said.
'I remember that. It was before I started working Homicide full-time. I was working detectives out of old Station Sixteen, you remember, before we reorganized?'
I nodded.
'I was one of the guys who responded when the call came in.'
'Were you on it all the way?'
'No. Homicide Division took it over. But I always kind of followed the thing.'
The television was on behind the bar, and the early newscasters were in a frenzy over the possibility of showers on the weekend.
'Homicide get anywhere?' I said.
'Couldn't find them,' Quirk said. 'Had pictures from the bank security cameras. Had eyewitnesses. Had a letter from the Dread Scott Brigade saying they did it. Dread, by the way is spelled e-a-d.'
'Why, those clever punsters,' I said. 'Did it mention Emily Gordon?'
'I think it said something about how no member of the oppressor class is safe.'
'How 1974 is that?' I said.
'They spelled oppression wrong,' Quirk said.
'So Homicide think they've got a no-brainer,' I said.
'Bunch of fucking amateurs,' Quirk said. 'Up against a crew of street-smart big-city homicide dicks.' He drank another sip of his vodka.
'And?' I said.
'Amateurs one,' Quirk said. 'Dicks nothing.'
'So far,' I said.
'So far,' Quirk said. 'Being amateurs actually helped them.'
'No MO,' I said. 'No arrest record. No mug shots to compare with the bank photos.'
'Nobody recognized them,' Quirk said. 'The FBI never heard of them.'
'They claim credit for any other jobs?' I said.
'Not that I know.'
'Money ever show up?'
'Nope. But you know how that works. How many people get cash and check the serial numbers.'
'Banks do,' I said.
'Banks say they do,' Quirk said.
My beer was gone. I gestured to the bartender for another one. The bartender picked up my glass and looked at Quirk. Quirk shook his head and the bartender went to draw me another Bud. I still preferred Blue Moon Belgian White Ale. But that was not one of the options at Arno's. In fact, Budweiser was the option.
'Murder weapon?' I said.
'Yep, and the car they used.'
'Prints on the gun?'
'Gun was clean,' Quirk said.
