“Buy me a drink?” Vic asked Erin as they headed for the stairs.
“Why would I do that?”
“To apologize for being a bitch.”
She grinned at him. “To you? Never.”
“Okay, I’ll get the second round,” he said.
“Not tonight,” she said, remembering. “I’ve got a thing I need to do.”
“Getting laid?”
“No!”
“You’re totally getting laid.”
“You’d say that whatever I said.”
He shrugged. “Probably.”
“It’s nothing like that,” she said. “I’m meeting an informant.”
“Oh.” Vic was suddenly serious. “You want some backup?”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I got this.”
“You sure?”
“Hey. It’s me.”
“Yeah, it’s you,” he said. “Sometimes when you go to meet informants you find bombs, or Nazi gunmen.”
“No Nazis tonight.”
“Promise?”
“You worried about me?”
“I’m worried I’ll miss out on the fun.”
“Okay, Vic. I promise, the next time I’m going to get in a fight with neo-Nazis, I’ll call you first.”
“Deal. Take care of yourself, O’Reilly.”
“Back at you.”
* * *
Erin was feeling good when she walked down the alley to the Corner’s back door. Two homicides were cleared, one perp deceased, the other in custody. That was a fine day’s work by any detective’s standards. She had Rolf at her side, and she’d be seeing her boyfriend soon. Granted, they had to clear up whatever business Liam had, but she was looking forward to a pleasant evening after.
Ian wasn’t on duty. Caleb, another of Carlyle’s security guys, let her in. He was a typical Irish Mob guy; heavyset, tough-looking, tattooed.
“Where’s your boss?” she asked.
“Back room,” he grunted.
Erin nodded, went to the indicated door, and knocked.
The door swung open and Erin’s good feeling vanished. She was staring up into Mickey Connor’s flat, cold eyes. The O’Malley enforcer filled the doorway. He looked down at her. She looked back. Neither one spoke for a moment.
“You gonna stand there all night?” Erin finally asked.
Mickey made a sound that might have been either a snort or a low laugh, but there was no hint of a smile. “What’re you doing here?” he asked.
“What’re you doing here?” she shot back. “I was invited.” But her thoughts were racing. Had something happened to Carlyle? Was she about to get jumped? She wondered how fast Mickey was. Could she clear her Glock before he got his hands on her? How many shots would it take to put that big body down?
“Mickey,” Carlyle’s voice came from behind Mickey. “She’s the reason we’re here tonight. I’m thinking you should let her in.”
“I don’t work for you,” Mickey said over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off Erin.
“It was a suggestion, not an order,” Carlyle said quietly. “But if it’s orders you’re wanting, I’m certain we can get Evan on the telephone.”
Mickey’s eyes finally shifted. A moment later, so did his body, making a path for Erin. She had to pass closer to him than she wanted. She caught a faint scent of sweat and cheap deodorant. Standing within a few inches of him, she could feel the physical menace that radiated off the man. Every instinct in her screamed to get away from him. She pretended not to feel the perfectly rational fear, keeping her face impassive. She even let herself give him a ghost of a smile. She remembered her dad’s advice for dealing with street thugs.
“They’re like a pack of stray dogs. If they smell fear on you, you’re done. You gotta make them think you’re braver than they are. Or, if you can’t manage that, make them think you’re crazier than them. They respect crazy people.”
Rolf didn’t feel the need to be as subtle as Erin. His hackles rose when he looked at Mickey and a low rumble came from his chest.
Carlyle was sitting at the card table, opposite Liam McIntyre. On the table was a pair of glasses and a bottle of Glen D whiskey. Liam had a soda glass in front of him, filled with the same godawful chocolate liquor concoction he’d had poker night, a “death by chocolate.” It was topped with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry.
Carlyle stood up to greet her. Liam didn’t. Mickey leaned against the wall by the door and crossed his arms over his chest.
“So,” Erin said, still pretending to be nonchalant. “What’re we doing here?” She slid into the seat on Carlyle’s left. He was already pouring her a drink. She took a sip, only a small one. This was one time she really wanted a clear head.
“Liam has something to say to you, Erin,” Carlyle said.
“I’m here,” she said. “Start talking.”
Liam gave her a quick glance. He seemed unable to hold steady eye contact. He was one of the twitchiest guys she’d seen, with the same manner as a hardcore meth tweaker.
“We cool?” he muttered. “I mean, Cars says you’re cool, but I gotta know, right? ‘Cause if we’re doin’ business, we gotta have, like, an understanding.”
“Liam,” Erin said, leaning forward. “Relax, okay? What is it you need?”
“I heard there’s somethin’ goin’ down,” he said, shooting her another furtive, bloodshot look. “There’s some shit getting’ moved.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“How much weight?”
“Ten, twelve kees of H. Colombian, good shit. Ninety-five percent pure.”
Erin did some quick math in her head. Twelve kilograms of high-quality South American heroin could wholesale for a million dollars, give or take. Not the biggest haul in law-enforcement history, not by a long shot, but significant.
“Who’s moving the product?” she asked.
Liam shifted uncomfortably. He really wasn’t used to talking business with cops.
“Lad,” Carlyle said quietly, “it’s all right. This is precisely the sort of thing Erin can help with.”
“Italian guys,” Liam said in a quick, low voice. “Lucarellis.”
“Where’s this going down?” Erin asked.
“East River docks.”
“You got the dock number?”
“Pretty close.”
“Liam,” Erin said, “pretty close isn’t good enough.”
“It don’t matter,” Liam said. “I know how they’re movin’ the shit downtown.”
“How?”
“It’ll be in a delivery truck. Marked Speedy X-Press. That’s an ‘X’ and then ‘Press.’”
“You know where they’re going?”
“Little Italy. They’ll probably take Saint James to Bowery to Canal.”
Erin looked closely at the nervous little guy. “You know a lot about this move.
