“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you’re not exactly famous for being tolerant of jerks.”
“I’ll have you know that I can be the most circumspect of individuals whenever I choose.”
“Hm-mmm, right, Jeremy, whatever you say. Where did you say you were meeting this detective.”
“I didn’t and I ain’t,” I said.
“Well, in that case, I guess Simon and I’ll just have to rent a video for tonight’s entertainment.”
Chapter 10
Certain things you can almost always count on in life. One is that within a few hundred feet of every elementary school in any city, you’ll find a candy store. I think it’s some kind of ordinance. And in that same city, somewhere in every police precinct, you’ll find a cop bar, a place where cops can go after their shifts and relax with each other, talk about the day, say things that they wouldn’t necessarily repeat anywhere else, because other people, people who hadn’t just spent the day chasing bad guys and giving them their rights and filling out forms, well, those people might not always understand where the cop was coming from with some of his or her comments. I realize now that, when I was a high school teacher, the faculty room had probably been the equivalent of a cop bar for many of my colleagues and me. I understand the mentality behind the concept. Every profession needs a place where the workers can feel free to express themselves without fear of being challenged at every turn. That doesn’t mean that everything that’s said in these places is politically correct or even correct in a general sense, just that people need a place to blow off steam once in a while.
Cop bars aren’t off-limits to the general public, and a lot of groupie-types tend to hang out at the bars, pretending to be part of the scene. As long as they stay in the background, the groupies are pretty much tolerated by the cops. In fact, some of the groupie types are quite attractive, and in those cases, there are always cops who are more than willing to strike up casual friendships with the groupies. I’m not saying it’s right or wrong, just that it’s there. As for anyone else who wanders into a cop bar, that person figures out pretty quickly that he or she is not in your typical tavern. Too many of the people in the place seem to know each other too well, which immediately brands anyone else as an outsider. It’s not that anyone tells you to leave, just that you can sense that you don’t belong there, even if you’re not exactly sure why.
Clancy’s was a cop bar, had been for a long time. When I walked in at about ten after seven, I got a few looks but nothing more. People knew I wasn’t a cop, but they could also tell I wasn’t there to cause any trouble. A lot of it’s just the way you carry yourself. I don’t have an attitude about cops, probably because I know they’re basically like everyone else, some good, some bad. When I was a teacher, I had first-hand experience with a situation where one group of people was blamed for just about everything that went wrong. I had kids who came to class maybe once every two weeks, I called them drop-ins, and when they did show up, they’d usually put their heads down and go to sleep. Yet when those kids failed my class, I often had administrators questioning me about my “failure rate.” I did the best I could, under what at times were impossible circumstances. Some of my fellow teachers were fantastic, a few were awful, but condemning the entire staff or the profession itself never seemed to make much sense to me. I feel pretty much the same way about cops.
Denny had described Wykcoff for me, but I’d have known he was a cop anyway. Anywhere cops go, they act like they own the joint. In fact, during the years that I taught, other than the teachers and other staff members, the only people who came into the schools and didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by all the teenagers were cops.
Wyckoff was about my height but he weighed maybe thirty pounds more, most of it around his waist. He looked like someone who’d maybe been in shape a long time ago, but I doubted if he’d seen the inside of a gym for at least a decade, probably longer. He glanced around, nodded to a few people, and then headed straight for the bar, where I was sitting by myself. He was wearing a wrinkled, dark green suit that had probably been out of style when he bought it. Maybe he was waiting for it to come back into fashion. It was going to be a long wait.
“You Barnes?” he asked.
“Yep,” I replied.
“Let’s grab a booth, okay?”
“Sure,” I said, and I followed him to a small booth near the back of the place. As soon as we sat down, a waitress came over to take our orders.
“The usual, Carson?” she asked him.
“Yeah, Elaine, and put it on my friend’s tab.”
Elaine nodded and turned to me.
“How ‘bout you, sir? What’ll it be?”
“Just a Coke, please, with ice.”
After she left, Wykcoff looked across the table at me for a minute and then said, “You an alkie?”
“Un-uh,” I told him. “Just never acquired a taste for beer. I’d’ve ordered a white wine spritzer, but I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends.”
“I checked you out with a couple of people. Heard you thought you was a riot.”
I stretched my hands out to the sides, palms up.
“What can I say? It’s a gift that I’m willing to share.”
“Yeah, whatever. So about the Pendleton case. Who you workin for?”
“Rachel Pendleton.”
“The widow, huh? Good looker, that one. Don’t blame ya for wantin’ to drag this out a bit.”
I ignored that, and asked, “What’s
