The left hand giveth, and the right hand taketh away.
'What for?'
'We believe we've found the horse. We'd like to put it under twenty-four-hour surveillance.'
Both waited for my reply. I took a moment, then gave it to them.
'You're out of your minds.'
'Excuse me?'
'I've got another girl murdered here, and you want me to pull my people off the case so they can stake out a horse? You're out of your goddamn minds.'
'Lieutenant, I'm sure you're aware --'
'I'm aware that you're wasting my time. I don't give a rat's ass what Vicky says, or what your boss says, or what the cross-dressing ghost of J. Edgar Hoover says. Stay out of my way, or I'll arrest you and toss you in general population wearing gang colors.'
They looked at each other, then back at me.
'Perhaps it's best that you've been removed from the case,' the one on the left said.
I stood, twenty years of pent-up anger swelling in my chest.
'Get the fuck away from me.'
It must have been a startling transformation, because they both flinched. Then they got away from me. I sat back down, content to follow the self-pity route a bit longer. Eventually Benedict found me, handing over my coat.
'What did Abbott and Costello have to say?'
'They want to borrow some uniforms to stake out a horse.'
'Which house?'
'Not house. Horse. Like with four legs and John Wayne on top.'
'They think a horse did it?'
'Their profile. Remember their French Canadian Connection?'
He seemed to think about this.
'Did you tell them to fuck off?'
I nodded, putting on my coat. Then we walked back into the fray.
Herb and I, the crowd, the media, and the world, watched as the contents were removed from the cooler.
It was a scene from a horror film, but the sadness in me outweighed the shock.
Then I stood along the sidelines while Herb took control of the crime scene.
Chapter 30
BENEDICT WAS THE ONE WHO TALKED me into keeping my date.
'All we can do now is wait for the reports to come in. Go have lunch.' 'There are a million things to do.'
'And a million people to do them. This is your job, Jack, not your life. Go eat. Everything will be here when you get back.'
'My clothes are still at the cleaners.'
'You look fine. Go. That's an order. Bains made me the senior on this investigation, remember?'
Traffic was good. I made it to the restaurant ten minutes early, and parked in front of a hydrant. The place did a moderate lunch, and the lobby was bustling when I entered. Jimmy Wong's was a Chicago landmark of sorts, famous in its day. The decor was pure 1950s, a throwback to the Rat Pack era. It even had the requisite wall of fame. I eyed a signed picture of Klinger from M*A*S*H and checked my hair in the glass. After some brief finger fluffing, I went to the host desk.
A Chinese man wearing a red bow tie informed me that my date had not yet arrived, and directed me to the bar, where I could wait. I ordered a Diet Coke, becoming increasingly uncomfortable as the minutes passed. The last thing I needed was time to sit and dwell.
I watched him come in, seeing his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He wore a tailored suit, dark blue pinstripe, with a light blue shirt. His smile was pleasant and seemed genuine when his gaze fell on me. He had a good walk, confident, with a slight bounce, toes pointed straight ahead and not out to the sides like a duck. I never found duck walkers attractive.
I stood to meet him, hoping my smile didn't look dopey.
'How do you do, Jack.' He offered his hand, his grip firm but gentle.
'Very nice to meet you, Latham. Great suit.'
'Do you think so? Thanks.'
We let the host seat us at a dimly lit corner booth. Almost immediately a busboy set down a pot of tea. Neither of us touched the pot, or our menus. I tried to look relaxed, but wasn't sure if I was succeeding.
'So, where do you work?' I asked. It seemed like a good way to get the conversational ball rolling.
'I work for Mariel Oldendorff and Associates. Head accountant. It's about as exciting as it sounds. You're a police captain?'
