“He’ll get over the two bullet holes in him. What he hasn’t been told yet is he’s got pancreatic cancer and won’t live more’n three months.”
“Jesus,” Pearl said.
Butterfield shrugged. “It’d be easier to feel sorry for him if he hadn’t been living off kids’ drug money for years.”
“He in any condition to have a conversation?” Quinn asked.
“Sure. I wouldn’t say he’s eager to leap outta bed, or even able, but he’s conscious and not in a lot of pain.”
Butterfield led them to Room 620 and then told them to go on in and he’d wait out in the hall.
It was a small room with only one visitor’s chair, and that with a stack of folded linens on it. Sunlight sneaked in through slatted blinds. It smelled as if someone had been hanging around there chewing spearmint gum.
The three detectives stood close to Vernon Lake’s bed as he regarded them with rheumy brown eyes. He was an African American man in his thirties, with a powerful upper body and a sharply defined face of ebony planes made darker by black stubble. The bed was cranked up so he was almost in a sitting position. His midsection was swathed in white gauze, as was his right bicep. An IV unit with two plastic packets of medication hanging from its metal stand was feeding clear liquids into a vein on the back of his left hand. His wrists were handcuffed to the steel bedrails.
He didn’t smile as he looked up at them. “You ain’t doctors.” He sounded tired, but didn’t slur his words, obviously not too drugged up with painkillers to know what he was saying.
“Healers of society,” Quinn said, flashing his shield.
“Not my society.”
“We got some questions for you,” Pearl said.
“Then maybe I oughta have my lawyer here.”
“You got one?” Fedderman asked.
“Public defender. Name of Sophie Murray.”
“She’s a tough one,” Quinn said. “You might wanna call her at a certain point. All we want from you are a few answers about Joseph Galin.”
“Don’ know him.”
“He’s the guy you paid for protection while you were dealing. Back when he was a cop and we were all younger and better looking.”
Lake pressed his head back into his pillow and said nothing.
“We can offer you a deal,” Quinn said, “if you give us some answers and don’t play the hard ass. You know Galin’s been shot and killed. Maybe you even did it.”
“Talk that way,” Lake said, “an’ I want my lawyer.”
“Hear me out before you decide. We’re not interested in pinning Galin on you. We know you’re innocent. You know you’re going up for a long time on the drug charges, not to mention trading shots with another dealer. He’s gonna be okay, by the way, just like you.”
“I been tol’ he was dead.”
“Then somebody’s jerking you around.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time for that. All cops do, ain’t it, jerk us plain folks around?”
“Some cops sometimes,” Quinn admitted. “Not me, not now. All we want’s some straight information about Galin. He’s dead now, so if you owed him something, it doesn’t matter.”
“I din’ owe that man nothin’.”
“We want Galin’s killer,” Quinn said. “We’ve got no interest in you otherwise. What we’d like to know is, was he dirty?”
“Why should I-” Lake decided in mid-sentence to be silent. His powerful neck muscles flexed as he scrunched his head farther back into his pillow. He was obviously going to be stubborn.
“ ’S’cuse me, please.” Quinn stuck his head outside the room’s door and said something to Butterfield, then ducked back in.
Lake glared at him without moving his head. “Don’ matter what you do. Till I get-”
“Shut up,” Quinn said, hardening his tone. “Be a smart asshole for once and shut up till you know the game and decide whether to play.”
Lake seemed to relax, but only slightly. This was the kind of cop talk he knew. His breathing was loud and rhythmic in the quiet room.
There was a knock on the door. Quinn went to it and was handed something, then closed the door and came back to stand again by Lake’s bed. He was holding a Bible.
“You a religious shit-head?” he asked Lake.
“Long-ago Baptist, if it be any of your business.”
“I’m a religious man, through and through. It’s why I’m a cop. I don’t miss church on Sundays, and I try to live by the good book. You believe me?”
“Don’ believe a thing you say.”
“That hurts me. I’m gonna offer you a trade. You don’t want it, then we can do the lawyer thing and you can talk or go mum or whatever, but the deal will be off the table.”
“That legal?”
“For Christ’s sake, I’m a cop.”
“Yeah, that’s what I be thinkin’.”
Quinn held the Bible out flat in his left hand and rested his right palm on it. “I’m gonna tell you this, and I’m swearing to it on the Bible. You tell us what we want to know about Galin, and…well, I can’t guarantee you won’t do some time on the charges against you, but I can and do guarantee, on this good book and by all I hold holy, that you won’t serve more than eighteen months.” He handed the Bible over for Pearl to hold. “Now, we can go that way, or we can do this by another book. You can call your lawyer in and we’ll go through the usual bullshit, and maybe you’ll do okay and only get fifteen to twenty years, but this offer will be off the table.”
Lake closed his eyes, thinking about it.
Fedderman walked over and pretended to gaze out the window. Pearl held the Bible and looked at Quinn, standing there with his arms crossed, staring down at Lake. Beneath the medicinal minty scent in the room was the stench of Lake sweating under the white sheet that covered his lower body. Perspiration gleamed on his muscular chest and shoulders, on his broad forehead.
Lake, still with his eyes closed, said, “You can really do this?”
“I can do this.”
“Guarantee me an eighteen-month cap?”
“Eighteen months or less, and you’ll be out,” Quinn assured him.
Pearl felt a queasiness, watching Quinn telling the truth yet misleading a dying man like this. Hard, hard bastard, Quinn. Believable as an emissary from God.
“We got us a deal,” Lake said, opening his eyes. “But you best be tellin’ me the truth.”
“You’ll know soon enough that I am,” Quinn said. He didn’t shake Lake’s hand, but he reached down near the steel cuffs and touched it. Lake replied with a wriggle of his fingers.
The man in the bed sighed. He was going to unload. Quinn had pulled it off. Pearl felt a guilty elation.
“Galin was dirty,” Lake said. “I paid him once a month to lay off my dealin’s an’ to let me know if somethin’ heavy was movin’ my direction. I do gotta say, he kep’ to the deal.”
“How much did you pay him?” Quinn asked.
“Ten thousand a month, then later on he wanted fifteen.”
“He get it?”
Lake snorted a kind of laugh that hurt him and made him wince. “I paid. He be worth it.”
“This go on till he retired?”
“No. Till six, seven years ago, when I went in for a short stretch. Nothin’ to do with Galin, though. Got stopped for a traffic violation, had a trunk fulla product. Shitty luck, was all it was. What it usually is. When I got out, I knew Galin was gonna retire soon.” He smiled. “An’ of course I wasn’t dealin’ then anyways.”
“No need to get into that,” Quinn said.
“I wasn’t surprised when I heard Galin was shot,” Lake said.
