End of Watch

'Why fuh ya axe what else? I fuh gotta fin' 'im and han'cuff 'im and bring 'im in fuh ya? Chuh!'

Bobby gave Frank a sheepish look. 'Do you have a twenty?'

Frowning, Frank pulled a Jackson from the wallet in her back pocket. She slipped the bill to Irie, asking, 'Irie, mon, how old you is?'

Tapping the fat scar under his eye, he calculated, ''Bout fif-tree, fif-fo'. Why fuh you axe?'

She shrugged. 'You been 'round a long time. Known you since I was a rookie.'

'Fuh true.' He grinned. 'A long time.'

'All dat time and I'm still not for sure why you do this.'

Irie flashed pink palms. 'Fuh be good ci'zen. Fuh do right ting.'

'Right,' she responded. 'Of course.'

Grinning, Irie stepped back. 'Ya have good day, office's. Irie be tankin' you.'

'Dat bwoy.' Frank shook her head as they drove off. ' 'Im I fuh shuh n'unerstan'.'

Bobby asked, 'You want to try and find Ramirez?'

Frank flipped her wrist over. 'Naw, you better take me back. Been joy-ridin' long enough.'

'Roger that.'

CHAPTER 4

Saturday, 8 Jan 05—LAX

Alrighty then. Waiting to board my flight. Didn't write yesterday— didn't have time—so will write for twenty minutes today. Mary says if I found the time to drink I can find the time to go to meetings. Or write. Or whatever damn thing Fm supposed to be doing.

At any rate, here I am in the thumping, thriving heart of LAX. Haven't flown since the extradition to Miami. Not looking forward to sitting with my knees on my chin for five hours but Fm glad Fm getting this over with.

Gotta love this place. It's like a separate universe, got every race, religion, nationality, sexual orientation, etc. Can find every manner of relationship here—there's a creep that looks like a pedophile by the women's restroom, next to a girlfriend crying against her boyfriend. In front of them a toddler's banging into his grandmother's legs, the guy walking past could be a hit man, an adulterer, an extortionist or a guy who loves his wife and sells copy machines. Or a terrorist. You never know. And this is just one terminal. Incredible place.

There's the boarding announcement. I’ll finish this on the plane.

Here we go. Fat guy on his laptop to my left, old lady reading on my right. Me stuck in the middle. Only five hours. And then what? Tonight won't be so bad. I’ll find a room in Canarsie— they gotta be cheap in Canarsie. Not exactly a tourist mecca—and get a good night's sleep. That's one thing about being sober. Tm sleeping again. Took a while. First couple weeks were pretty rocky but now it's good. Pretty sweet to wake up rested instead of hungover. Td forgotten what that was like.

So tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I’ll take care of business then I have the afternoon free until my nine o'clock flight home. I hope Gail takes me up on Rockefeller Center. She probably won't, probably too much, too soon. Besides, she came to New York for a convention and to hang out with friends. She can see me anytime.

Look at me. I got Sunday over with before it's even started. What happened to 'one day at a time'? Still Saturday, far as I know. Oh, great. Here comes the stewardess with the booze trolley. 'I’ll have three Scotches and a can of club soda, please. Oh, and don't go too far away with that thing.'

That's what I wanted to say, but it came out 'Coffee. Black.'

The fat guy got a Budweiser and of course I had to pass it to him. The can was cold and wet like it just came out of a cooler. I wanted to rip it open, guzzle it down and pass it on like nothing had happened. I wonder how much alcohol they stock for a five-hour morning flight. Probably not enough to keep me going once I got started. That's the thing. Mary says you have to think the drink through—think that first drink all the way through to the end. One would be nice, two would be lovely and three even better, but how many would be enough? There's no such thing as enough. One drink doesn't even begin to satisfy the craving, just kicks it into overdrive and sets up the desire for more. More and more and more, world without end, amen. This is getting me nowhere.

Mary would ask why I want a drink right now.

Oh, many reasons, Mary. For starters Tm in a tin can a mile above the earth. The smell of the fat guy's Bud is crawling up my nose—no temptation there—not to mention Tm about to revisit the scene of my youthful and childish crimes. And atone for them. If I can. Other than that, gee, no reason.

This isn't very productive. Maybe I should get some work done. Think about what I can do instead of what I can't. Mary would say that too.

Jesus, I sound like a damn AA parrot. 'Squawk, squawk, squawk.'

Okay. Time's up. On to reports.

CHAPTER 5

The fat guy ordered a second beer and when he snapped it open Frank tasted the tangy, malty spray through her nose. She took a long swallow of tepid coffee and focused on Johnny's sixty-day.

By the time the plane landed at JFK the fat guy had downed four beers. Watching him jerk out of a drooling, snoring sleep, she was glad she stuck to coffee. She made haste from the plane and followed the exit signs to the taxi stand. When her cab came she asked the driver, 'You know the Canarsie Cemetery? On Remsen in Brooklyn.'

'Yah, yah. I know whey ees,' the cabbie answered.

'All right. I want a hotel near there. A Holiday Inn or a Motel Six, something like that.'

'Yah, yah.' He bobbed his head. 'I know prace.'

She sat back and the cabbie slalomed from the terminal. Frank lowered the window—no matter what coast she was on, cabs still smelled of rancid body fluids. The stale air rushed out. What replaced it was the muddy, dank smell of Jamaica Bay and she was instantly ten years old again. The gushing cold air ripped at her eyes but she kept her face into the wind. The bay smells mixed with truck diesel and the must from centuries of city living. A hunger pang stabbed her and she suddenly craved a warm onion bialy with a shmear. As the driver tore through the precocious dusk, Frank allowed a thin smile and rolled the window up.

She rapped on the Plexiglas divider. 'I changed my mind. I want to go into the City. To the Times Square Crowne Plaza.'

'You no want Brookryn?'

'No. Midtown. The Crowne Plaza.'

'From Motey Six to Crowne Praza?'

'Yeah.'

The cabbie shrugged and slid the window shut, veering north off the parkway a couple exits later.

Frank was at the hotel in under an hour. She carried no bags, only a toothbrush in her briefcase. Upstairs, stretched on the taut bed, she wondered which floor Gail was on. She clicked the TV on and roamed through channels. Nothing caught her interest. She knew there was a bar downstairs. Warned herself not to even think about it. She should think about food instead, and remembered her desire for the bialy. She dialed the operator, called Katz's Deli. They were open until nine. Frank thought about schlepping all the way down to the Lower East Side but decided she was more restless than hungry. Nor was she sure she wanted to go traipsing through her old neighborhood, seeing things she might not want to be reminded of.

Instead she took the stairs to the lobby. In the gift shop she popped for an outrageously priced pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She found the gym and worked out for an hour. After a shower she walked down Broadway, finally stopping in front of a kebab house. She'd passed the Italian restaurants knowing she'd want wine with dinner. Sushi was out because of the sake. Pizza because of the beer. But she couldn't associate Afghan food with alcohol, so she ate there. Mixed kebabs with spiced tea were good and after dinner she wandered Times Square back to the hotel.

It was eight thirty, too early to go to bed and still nothing on TV. She read the New York Times