“The same for him,” said Smithback, and then added, “you know, the twelve-year-old.”
“Of course,” said the waiter.
“What is it?” O’Shaughnessy asked.
“Glen Grant. Single malt scotch. The best in the world. On me.”
O’Shaughnessy grinned. “What, you forcing a bluidy Presbyterian drink down me throat? That’s like listening to Verdi in translation. I’d prefer Powers.”
Smithback shuddered. “That stuff? Trust me, Irish whisky is better suited to de-greasing engines than to drinking. The Irish produce better writers, the Scots better whisky.”
The waiter went off, returning with a second snifter. Smithback waited as O’Shaughnessy sniffed, winced, took a swig.
“Drinkable,” he said after a moment.
As they sipped in silence, Smithback shot a covert glance at the policeman across the table. So far he’d gotten precious little out of their arrangement, although he’d given him a pile on Fairhaven. And yet he found he had come to like the guy: O’Shaughnessy had a laconic, cynical, even fatalistic outlook on life that Smithback understood completely.
Smithback sighed and sat back. “So what’s new?”
O’Shaughnessy’s face instantly clouded. “They fired me.”
Smithback sat up again abruptly. “What? When?”
“Yesterday. Not fired, exactly. Not yet. Put on administrative leave. They’re opening an investigation.” He glanced up suddenly. “This is just between you and me.”
Smithback sat back. “Of course.”
“I’ve got a hearing next week before the union board, but it looks like I’m done for.”
“Why? Because you did a little moonlighting?”
“Custer’s pissed. He’ll bring up some old history. A bribe I took, five years ago. That, along with insubordination and disobeying orders, will be enough to drag me down.”
“That fat-assed bastard.”
There was another silence.
“I’m working for Pendergast now,” O’Shaughnessy added in a very low voice, cradling his drink.
This was even more of a shock. “Pendergast? How so?” Perhaps all was not lost.
“He needed a Man Friday. Someone to pound the pavement for him, help track things down. At least, that’s what he said. Tomorrow, I’m supposed to head down to the East Village, snoop around a shop where Pendergast thinks Leng might have bought his chemicals.”
“Jesus.” Now, this was an interesting development indeed: O’Shaughnessy working for Pendergast, no longer shackled by the NYPD rules about talking to journalists. Maybe this was even better than before.
“If you find something, you’ll let me know?” Smithback asked.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you can do for us with that something.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You’re a reporter, right? You do research?”
“It’s my middle name. Why, you guys need my help with something?” Smithback suddenly glanced away. “I don’t think Nora would like that.”
“She doesn’t know. Neither does Pendergast.”
Smithback looked back, surprised. But O’Shaughnessy didn’t look like he planned to say anything else about it.
He took a different tack. “So, how’d you like my file on Fairhaven?”
“Fat. Very fat. Thanks.”
“Just a lot of bullshit, I’m afraid.”
“Pendergast seemed pleased. He told me to congratulate you.”
“Pendergast’s a good man,” Smithback said cautiously.
O’Shaughnessy nodded, sipped. “But you always get the sense he knows more than he lets on. All this talk about how we have to be careful, how our lives are in danger. But he refuses to spell it all out. And then, out of nowhere, he drops a bomb on you.” His eyes narrowed. “And that’s where you may come in.”
“I want you to do a little digging. Find something out for me.” There was a slight hesitation. “See, I worry the injury may have hit Pendergast harder than we realized. He’s got this crazy theory. So crazy, when I heard it, I almost walked out right then.”
