get me?”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain sat back in his chair, looking at him skeptically. “Think you can do this, Patrick?”
O’Shaughnessy stood up. “Sure.”
“Because I’ve been noticing your
“No attitude, sir. I’m just here to protect and serve.” He pronounced
As O’Shaughnessy turned and left the office, he heard Custer mutter “wise ass” to Noyes.
THREE
“A PERFECT AFTERNOON to take in a museum,” said Pendergast, looking up at a lowering sky.
Patrick Murphy O’Shaughnessy wondered if it was some kind of joke. He stood on the steps of the Elizabeth Street precinct house, staring off into nowhere. The whole thing was a joke. The FBI agent looked more like an undertaker than a cop, with his black suit, blond-white hair, and movie-cliche accent. He wondered how such a piece of work ever got his ass through Quantico.
“The Metropolitan Museum of Art is a cultural paradigm, Sergeant. One of the great art museums of the world. But of course you knew that. Shall we go?”
O’Shaughnessy shrugged. Museums, whatever, he was supposed to stay with this guy. What a crappy assignment.
As they descended the steps, a long gray car came gliding up from where it had been idling at the corner. For a second O’Shaughnessy could hardly believe it. A Rolls. Pendergast opened the door.
“Drug seizure?” O’Shaughnessy asked.
“No. Personal vehicle.”
Figures. New Orleans. They were all on the take down there. Now he had the guy pegged. Probably up here on some kind of drug business. Maybe Custer wanted in. That’s why he put him, of all the cops in the precinct, on this guy’s ass. This was looking worse by the minute.
Pendergast continued holding the door. “After you.”
O’Shaughnessy slid in the back, sinking immediately into creamy white leather.
Pendergast ducked in beside him. “To the Metropolitan Museum,” he told the driver. As the Rolls pulled away from the curb, O’Shaughnessy caught a glimpse of Captain Custer standing on the steps, staring after them. He resisted the impulse to flip him the bird.
O’Shaughnessy turned to Pendergast and gave him a good look. “Here’s to success, Mister FBI Agent.”
He turned away to look out the window. There was a silence on the other side.
“The name is Pendergast,” came the soft voice, finally.
“Whatever.”
O’Shaughnessy continued to look out the window. He allowed a minute to pass, and then he said: “So what’s at the museum? Some dead mummies?”
“I have yet to meet a live mummy, Sergeant. However, it is not the Egyptian Department we are going to.”
A wise guy. He wondered how many more assignments he’d have like this. Just because he made a mistake five years ago, they all thought he was Mister Expendable. Any time there was something funny coming down the pike, it was always:
“So what’s the game?” O’Shaughnessy asked. No more sucker work: he was going to keep his eyes open and his head up on this one. He didn’t want any stray shit to fall when he wasn’t looking up.
“Sergeant?”
“What.”
“There is no game.”
“Of course not.” O’Shaughnessy let out a little snort. “There never is.” He realized the FBI agent was looking at him intently. He continued looking away.
“I can see that you’re under a misapprehension here, Sergeant,” came the drawl. “We should rectify that at once. You see, I can understand why you’d jump to that conclusion. Five years ago, you were caught on a surveillance tape taking two hundred dollars from a prostitute in exchange for releasing her. I believe they call it a ‘shakedown.’ Have I got that right?”
O’Shaughnessy felt a sudden numbness, followed by a slow anger. Here it was again. He said nothing. What was there to say? It would have been better if they’d cashiered him.
“The tape got sent to Internal Affairs. Internal Affairs paid you a visit. But there were differing accounts of what happened, nothing was proven. Unfortunately, the damage was done, and since that time you’ve seen your career—how should I put it?—remain in stasis.”
O’Shaughnessy continued looking out the window, at the rush of buildings.
