Bleeding Out

'No, ma'am.'

Frank concealed her sharp irritation. She hated being called ma'am under normal conditions, and from Kennedy it was almost too much. She tersely asked Kennedy for his phone number.

Frank looked at Noah, who'd been watching silently, and said, 'Alright.' He grinned and gave Kennedy a low- five.

'I want to try and wrap up those interviews today, so don't disappear on me after you return Detective Kennedy to her—' Frank almost said tiki-hut, but realized that would not be politic— 'office.'

'You got it.'

Frank watched the two detectives leave like they were going to play football together and she hadn't been invited into the game. She pulled the phone toward her and pounded Luchowski's number into it. He was pretty dedicated to playing by the rules, and Frank didn't think he'd be happy about loaning out one of his detectives. But that was alright, because Frank suddenly found herself eager for a good fight.

'I worked my whole goddamned life for you people and what do I get back from you? Nothing! Nothing, goddamn you!'

His father had called in sick again and spent the day drinking. The boy could hear him in the living room, could hear his mother trying to murmur her way out of the deadly salvo. It wouldn't work, though. Why couldn't she see that? He was only a kid, and even he knew better than to talk back to the old man. She was just making things worse.

The boy sat huddled on his bed. Every muscle was rigid, every nerve stretched taut. He sat waiting. Waiting for the old man to yell his name.

16

'Beer-thirty?'

Johnnie leaned eagerly in Frank's doorway, like Greg Louganis entering a swan dive. She glanced at the clock. 'Yeah, I'll be there.'

Johnnie exited, clapping his hands. Frank knew his enthusiasm wasn't for her company but for the rounds she'd buy. Though she should be last in line to point the finger, Frank briefly worried about Johnnie's drinking. He drank a lot, every day, but if she excluded his frequent hangovers, or sullen distress when he had to work beyond quitting time, it didn't obviously affect his work. She realized that buying him beer only contributed to whatever problem he might have, but it wasn't her place, yet, to advise him on his drinking habits, nor did she want to disrupt tradition.

When Joe Girardi had been lieutenant of the ninety-three, he'd always popped for rounds on Friday afternoon at the Alibi. It was an informal way to end the work week, swap stories, blow off steam. More importantly for Frank, it was an opportunity to engage in the squad's good-old-boy camaraderie. Amid the continual whirl of razzes and quips that passed for conversation, through undeclared drinking contests and suddenly declared fistfights, Frank had held her own. She'd earned her spot on the nine-three as much at the Alibi as on the streets.

Concentrating on the paper under her nose, she heard Gough and Nookey talking. Most of the squad was still out, though, and Frank was determined to get more work cleared off her desk. Poking his head in, Nookey asked, 'See you at the Alibi?'

'In a bit,' she nodded. Nook left with Gough, but a few minutes later the silence of the squad room was interrupted by the rest of her detectives. Frank gave up the notion of any more work and followed them out.

Because the Alibi was the cop-friendliest bar closest to the station, it wasn't uncommon for it to be jammed on a Friday night.

Gough and Nookey possessively defended a large table while Johnnie arm-wrestled at the bar with a uniform in his street clothes.

''Bout time you got here,' Gough grumbled. 'I thought we were going to have to call the Guard to help us save the table.'

Johnnie was bigger than his opponent, but as she took a chair Frank saw his arm go down. He motioned for Mel to buy the victor a beer and joined the nine-three table.

'Where's the Fire Truck? And the Taco Loco?'

'Girl-red's tired and Diego's at a niece's birthday party.'

'Those Mexicans are always going off to some damn party,' Johnnie pointed out amiably. Bobby deftly changed the subject, asking what had happened to the guy on the 405 who was threatening to shoot himself.

'He did it, man. Blew his brains out all over the right-hand westbound. Helicopter news crew was broadcasting it live. They got the whole thing.'

'Son of a bitch still has the highway closed,' Ike complained, appraising the crowded room. Like Johnnie, he was divorced and always looking for an available woman, though they were as rare at the Alibi as a clear day in July.

'What was his problem?'

'Them. Us. Little green men. Who knows. He wasn't playing with anything near a whole deck.'

'Where's No?'

'Said he'd catch up to us,' Johnnie answered, as Nancy came up. He tried to pat her ass, but she blocked his hand with a hard forearm and resumed writing in her pad, standing safely between Gough and Nookey.

'That's right, darling, we won't hurt you. Johnnie there just doesn't have any manners,' Nookey crooned.

'Don't I know it. Hey, guys,' she greeted the late arrivals. 'Pitcher?'

Knowing the tab was Frank's, she smiled, directing the question at her.

'Hey, Nance. Start with two and keep 'em coming.'

'You got it.'

Frank absently watched her whirl away while the conversation turned to jabs at Fubar. As their supervisor, Frank had made it clear a long time ago that she wouldn't tolerate ethnic or minority slurs while they were on the badge. Except for Johnnie and Gough, this prohibition was still respected after-hours, so Foubarelle and the rest of the brass became their favored focus of derision. Although Frank didn't usually contribute to the conversation, she rarely defended her higher-ups and was restrainedly amused, knowing her own back got covered with shit when she wasn't around.

Nookey was moaning about a 60D Fubar had sent back because of spelling errors. 'Man, I feel like I'm in sixth grade with Mrs. Beaman again.' He shuddered. 'I still have nightmares about that bitch.'

The word nightmare made Frank wince at the involuntary images that her own had conjured up for her: Mag's bewilderment, Frank's helplessness, and blood everywhere. Frank jerked her head up to find Nancy approaching and distracted herself by focusing on the waitress.

She'd been at the Alibi almost as long as Frank had been a cop. Watching Nancy twist agilely through the crowd, Frank noted the sprouts of gray at her temple and the lines that weren't there twelve years ago. Then she chided herself, Look who's talking.

Nancy set the pitcher down next to Frank and whispered, 'I saw that look. Is this finally gonna be my lucky night?'

Frank grinned slightly into the fist against her mouth, the clouds blowing out of her eyes for a moment. Nance had been offering for years, and many times Frank had been tempted.

'Huh?' Nancy laughed, though they both knew the answer.

By the time Bobby and Johnnie got to trading gridiron stories, only Frank was left with them at the nine-three table. She was relaxed and easy, her long legs up on a chair. She'd heard all their stories before but was mildly entertained by their one-upping. It crossed her mind to lift her pant leg and show them the fat scar under her patella where Junior Kensington had tackled her.

She'd been playing football in the street with her cousins and their friends. Junior had hit her hard and laughingly clambered off her, then got white when he saw the blood staining her jeans. Afraid she was going to throw up from the pain, Frank had peeked at the tear in her pants and seen a gash exposing her bone. She'd told her cousin to help her up, but she couldn't step on the leg. The world had started getting gray and narrow, and Frank had bit down on her lip to keep from passing out. Her younger cousin had run to get his mother, who had rushed Frank to the hospital, cursing all the way. They'd stitched the tendons back together, but it was months before Frank could walk on that leg again.

A hint of a smile played across Frank's mouth as the boys moaned about being tackled on Astroturf, but her