End of Watch

time, he knew. The lying, hypocritical bastard knew. He knew.

The accusation became a chant. She walked, each step being the next thing to do. She reiterated her mantra, concentrating so brutally on Cammayo that she forgot the liquor stores and bars. By the time she walked her rage into a simmering, bruised anger, it was dusk. She had no idea where she was. Except on a corner. Near a bar.

Daley's Bar.

It sounded so welcome. The outside was brick, the door worn wood. Small signs in opaque windows blinked Bud and Open. A working-class bar. She bet it was dim inside and smelled like centuries of beer. She imagined the sour, malty smell, the way the bartender would draw the beer from the tap, the thick glass against her lips, how the beer would bubble over her tongue in a sharp gush.

She pulled on the door handle and stepped inside. She was right. It was dim and smelled of generations of smoke and sweat and ale. Three men at the bar turned to stare. She walked in their direction. Her eyes tracked the bartender.

'What'll it be?' he asked.

She leaned into the smooth, slick wood. Rows of bottles beckoned. She considered each one. The bartender shifted his weight, sighed.

'Phone book,' she finally answered.

The bartender glared. He slapped the book on the bar and continued his conversation with the men.

Outside, Frank hailed a cab. The drive to Tribeca was short. Annie had the door open before Frank could turn her key in the lock.

'Where were you? I was gettin' worried.'

'Walking.'

Behind her Annie bolted the door. 'Walkin'? You walked here from Brooklyn?'

Frank sighed. 'I walked. I stopped. I took a cab.'

'Oh. You hungry? You must be starvin'. I bought pizza. It's in the oven. I'll get you a slice.'

Frank waved her off. 'I'm not hungry.'

'You sure? You had dinner?'

'No.'

'You should eat. I'll get you a slice.'

'I'm not hungry, Annie.'

'Forget hunger. You should eat anyway.'

Giving in seemed easier than fighting. Frank dropped into a kitchen chair. 'Get your statement?'

'Yeah. You worked him nice,' Annie said, sliding a plate onto the table.

Frank picked at an olive, wishing she had a beer chaser.

'The thing I don't get is why Pablo thought he'd killed a cop. What made him think that?'

Frank shrugged. 'Ask his brother.'

'I did. He couldn't say.'

'Must've seen us coming outta Cal's.'

'But how dumb is that to jack a cop?'

'Cop with a little girl's a different story. Cop's gonna protect the kid, so they'll probably just hand the money over and not make a fuss. Besides, it was winter. It was cold. Not like there were a lot of good marks out. And for Christ's sake,' Frank snapped, 'we're talkin' about a junkie, right? It wasn't fuckin' Einstein that jacked my pop. How fuckin' smart is a junkie? Especially one lookin' to fix?'

Frank pushed away the pizza. Annie watched from against the sink.

Frank apologized. 'It's just... a lot to take in. That this bastard—this pious man of God, right? That he knew the whole time and never told anyone. All the time I was looking and wondering, he knew. All the time my Uncle Al spent looking and wondering, Cammayo knew. All the hours my uncle spent trying to find this bastard. He retired still looking. Died two months later. Liver failure. Drank himself to death. Never got over he couldn't find his own brother's killer. Pablo didn't kill just one person. He took a lot of other lives with him. So forgive me if I'm a little bitter, huh?'

'There ain't nothin' to forgive. You got a right to be angry.'

'A priest, of all people. A guy you're supposed to be able to trust. That's the part that burns me. Pure and holy and all that crap.' Frank ran her fingers through her hair. 'Man of God, my ass. How can you believe what these people tell you, Annie? You're a bright woman. How can you believe that crap the church feeds you about truth and virtue and honesty? It's a ration of shit. How can you believe what they tell you out one side of their mouth when they're lying out the other side?'

'It's not a man I believe. It's an idea.'

'Yeah, well, what fuckin' idea is that?'

'I understand you're upset but I don't think attackin' my belief is gonna make you feel better.'

'No. I'm serious. I want to know. You don't believe in a man but an idea. So, enlighten me. What's the big idea? Let me in on the secret.'

Annie pursed her lips and folded her arms. Frank was pleased with the conversation's distraction despite feeling guilty about needling Annie into a defensive posture.

'You really wanna know or am I just handin' you more ammo?'

'I really wanna know.'

Annie pulled out the chair opposite Frank. 'The big idea,' she started slowly. 'It's hard to put into words. It's more a feeling than an idea. It's a conviction, a certainty that someone is watchin' out for me. Like that story I told you about the lake. When that old woman fished me out, I was shook, but I felt absolutely safe. I felt rescued. Somethin', someone was takin' care of me. All that stuff about Mary and Jesus and God'—she crossed herself —'habit. It's all nice but in my humble opinion it's not the truth. For instance, Mary over there. I love her dearly. I cherish her, but she's not the big idea. Neither's Jesus or even God. They're just avenues to something much bigger, to a mystery, to a spirit so huge we can't even begin to imagine it. But for all its immensity that mystery permeates every cell of our bodies. It's there all the time, but I forget. I get caught up in paperwork, traffic, meetin's, a run in my stockin', everything, and I forget I'm part of somethin' much bigger 'an all that. I forget I'm a part of the mystery, of the immensity of it all, and Mary's my way of reconnectin' to that feelin'. She's the path I take to the mystery, to that absolute conviction that everything's right with the world no matter how messed up it looks from my miniscule perception. And there's lots of paths, but again, in my opinion, they all lead to the same the place.'

'To the mystery.'

'Yes. To an infinite . . . indefinable conviction that rests in the marrow of my bones.'

'That's a paradox. Infinite and indefinable yet sitting in the marrow of your bones.'

'That's the thing!' Annie slapped the table. 'It is a paradox. It's cellular yet it's immense. It's indefinable yet it's absolutely know-able. That's the mystery of it all. It's why one face, one name, can't start to describe it. So I have my faith, I have my Mary, but I know they're limited. I know that priests and nuns and popes are limited. They're only human. All they can do is tell the stories that might get you to the mystery, but they're not the mystery. They're just spokesmen, the pitch men.'

'PR for the unknowable.'

'Exactly.' Annie leaned over the table. 'You ever tell my mother we had this conversation and I'll cut your tongue out, ya hear me?'

'She believes the story?'

'God bless her.' Annie nodded. 'The story's more important to her than the meaning of it. That's how you get your fanatics, your zealots. It's easier to believe in the stories than to seek the mystery behind them. Dogma's for people too tired to think. But faith, that's trickier business. It requires work and effort, especially when things aren't goin' your way.'

Frank probed, 'When your son died, did you have faith?'

Annie sat back. She smoothed the creases in the tablecloth. 'I was angry. I was mad. But under it all I think I always knew it was the way it had to be. I didn't know why—I never will—but you and me, we see it every day. People die every day. Kids, good people, people that got no business dyin'. Like your father. It's just all part of life, part of the mystery, much as we hate it and much as it hurts. That's when I started turnin' away from the church I was raised in and leaning more on Mary. She was comfortable. Her story reassured me I wasn't the only one to