Plugged

exact words?’

‘Yes, sir. . miss. . Detective. . He said it all right. More than once.’

‘Will you testify to this?’

‘I’m testifying right now, ain’t I?’

‘Yeah, but I need you to. .’

That’s when I hang up, smiling as I imagine Deacon shouting abuse into her mouthpiece.

Poor Randy, I think. He’s going to need a jockstrap.

Step two of my dodgy plan: stake out Faber’s office.

I take the 14 bus across town to the financial district, where Faber’s card tells me he operates from. Maybe district is too grand a term. What we have in Cloisters is a financial block, couple of office buildings with a Bennigans and a Cheesecake Factory thrown in for the lunchtime crowd.

The Bennigans is across from Faber’s lobby, so I order myself a Turkey O’Toole I don’t want, and spy across the plaza through a window tinted streaky green by painted shamrocks.

Turkey O’ Toole. Jesus.

I don’t have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later a police sedan pulls up in front of the hydrant, idles for a few seconds, then drives off to a space further along the pavement.

I smile behind my sandwich. Deacon wanted to park at the hydrant, but Goran made her move along. Interesting. What would Dr Moriarty make of that?

Maybe Deacon was beaten up by someone dressed as a hydrant, or maybe Goran lost her puppy in a fire.

Psychology. Anyone can do it.

Another ten minutes and Faber comes out, shooting threats with his six-shooter fingers. Goran and Deacon trail behind him with glazed eyes. I know that look. That’s the face you put on when some sergeant major is screaming the skin off your forehead. I’ll bet that Faber is crying persecution and calling the chief of police by his golfing nickname. Goran taps Deacon’s forearm with two fingers.

Calm down, the touch says. We do this right.

Faber is practically dancing now; from across the square I can see his ginger fuzz vibrate.

It’s funny, except that maybe he killed Connie.

Detective Goran’s lips are moving now and I fill in the blanks.

Take a walk, Mister Faber, but not too far. I’ll be dialling your number.

So now the cat is among the pigeons.

Which one is the cat? asks Ghost Zeb.

I’m not sure. That particular saying has always confused me.

Faber beeps a new Mercedes down the block with his key fob and the cops traipse back to their beat-up sedan, probably thinking that they’re in the wrong line of work.

Now what, genius? Everyone has a car except you.

Ghost Zeb is getting to be something of a fixture in my head.

You’re like my spooky sidekick.

Screw you.

Charming. I need to get myself an actual live friend that I can leave in another room.

Anyway, the transport thing is covered. There are city-bike rails all over town, part of the mayor’s A Better, Cleaner Cloisters platform, along with dogshit-bag dispensers and zero tolerance for wino shacks.

I hurry outside leaving the turkey unexplored and swipe my Visa in the bike rack. Evening traffic the way it is in every town from here to Atlantic City, I shouldn’t have to break a sweat keeping up with Faber. He might have a problem keeping up with me, if he ever decided to do that. A big part of me is hoping he will. That would make things nice and simple, law of the jungle.

I’m still tucking my pants into my socks when I notice that Deacon has pulled a lazy U-turn. The blues are on Faber’s tail too.

We got a great big convoy, sings Ghost Zeb.

I nod, swinging my leg over the bar. Always liked that song. Appropriate, too.

Riding a bike didn’t used to be this dangerous. I almost get flattened three times crossing town to the strip. Three times! I’ve led patrols through hot zones with less aggravation than this. Eventually some redneck pick-up Jim Bob forces me to actually dismount and pound his hood to make him keep his distance.

Lucky the blues are focused on Faber’s car or they might have spotted my antics. As it is, they pull around the corner on to Cypress with barely a blink of the brake light.

I give Jim Bob my best stone-cold stare and pedal after them.

Not easy looking tough on a pushbike, sympathises Ghost Zeb.

He’s got that right.

When Faber pulls over, I brake and ditch the city-bike behind a debris mountain heaped against a derelict two-storey that once housed a Chinese restaurant, judging by the smell of the trash.

The Lotus Blossom. Remember those spring rolls?

Yeah. I got it now. They closed that place?

What do you think?

Ghost Zeb is getting a little strident. It’s like I’m giving myself a pass to be a lunatic.

I climb on to the knoll, which stinks of prawn crackers, and check the street with an old Vietnam-era Starlight scope I bought in a Hell’s Kitchen pawn shop.

Still works okay in spite of a few years in the bag. It’s pretty dark already, but the scope amplifies the streetlight a couple of thousand times and gives me a good view of the bar Faber is striding towards. It’s an upscale joint called The Brass Ring. A place I probably would never make it past the door, unless I decided that I really wanted to go in. Faber flings his keys at some poor schmuck doorman and bulls straight past. I know how the schmuck feels.

Goran and Deacon back into an alley and quickly settle into stakeout positions. Slouching down, cracking open the windows. Two minutes later, smoke curls from both sides. Give it another fifteen and Deacon will make a coffee run.

Their plan is as dumb as yours, Ghost Zeb points out. What happens now? We sit here wasting time?

You’re not here. I’m not arguing with you.

Real mature.

I whistle a few bars to distract him.

What is that song?

Come on. What are we doing right now?

Ghost Zeb’s chuckle whines through his nose, my mind displaying its attention to detail.

Elvis Costello. ‘Watching the Detectives’. Very good.

And that keeps him quiet for a while.

The blues call it stakeout and the army call it reconnaissance but it amounts to the same thing. Waiting and watching.

Two hours later and Faber is still in the club, and I can’t seem to find a position on the spicy mound that doesn’t involve a rock or root poking my groin.

Maybe you like having a root stuck in your groin.

I don’t dignify this with a reply.

Goran and Deacon are feeling the strain. The junior detective is out of the car stomping her feet against the cold and mouthing off. Goran wears a put-upon-mommy expression, riding out the tantrum.

With the Starlight I can almost read lips, and what I can’t make out, I make up.

Come on, Josie. Let me go in there, see who Faber is talking to.

No. We do this right. Hang back, make a case.

Fuck that. This is our man. You see how he freaked out? Started threatening us and shit.

We hang back, Detective.