“Yeah.”
“You really want it?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, it’s yours.”
Ricky looked out over the river. It seemed to Schaeffer that a faint smile crossed his face.
They stood in silence for a few minutes and, right on time, the tourist, Shelby, showed up. He was looking terrified and hurt and angry, which is a fucking tricky combination to get into your face all at one time.
“I’ve got it,” he whispered. There was nothing in his hands — no briefcase or bag — but Schaeffer had been taking kickbacks and bribes for so long that he knew a lot of money can fit into a very small envelope.
Which is just what Shelby now produced. The grim-faced tourist slipped it to Schaeffer, who counted the bills carefully.
“The watch too.” Ricky pointed eagerly to the man’s wrist.
“My watch?” Shelby hesitated and, grimacing, handed it to the skinny man.
Schaeffer gave the tourist his driver’s license back. He pocketed it fast then hurried east, undoubtedly looking for a taxi that’d take him straight to the airport.
The detective laughed to himself. So, maybe New York ain’t such a nice place to visit, after all.
The men split the money. Ricky slipped the Rolex on his wrist but the metal band was too big and it dangled comically. “I’ll get it adjusted,” he said, putting the watch into his pocket. “They can shorten the bands, you know. It’s no big deal.”
They decided to have a drink to celebrate and Ricky suggested Hanny’s since he had to meet somebody over there.
As they walked along the avenue, blue-gray in the evening light, Ricky glanced at the placid Hudson River. “Check it out.”
A large yacht eased south in the dark water.
“Sweet,” Schaeffer said, admiring the beautiful lines of the vessel.
Ricky asked, “So how come you didn’t want in?”
“In?”
“The boat deal.”
“Huh?”
“That T.G. told you about. He said you were going to pass.”
“What the fuck’re you talking about?”
“The boat thing. With that guy from Florida.”
“He never said anything to me about it.”
“That prick.” Ricky shook his head. “Was a few days ago. This guy hangs at Hanny’s? He’s who I’m gonna meet. He’s got connections down in Florida. His crew perps these confiscated boats before they get logged in at the impound dock.”
“DEA?”
“Yeah. And Coast Guard.”
Schaeffer nodded, impressed at the plan. “They disappear
“I’m thinking about getting one. He tells me I pay him, like, twenty Gs and I end up with a boat worth three times that. I thought you’d be interested.”
“Yeah, I’d be interested.” Bob Schaeffer had a couple of small boats. Had always wanted a really nice one. He asked, “He got anything bigger?”
“Think he just sold a fifty-footer. I seen it down in Battery Park. It was sweet.”
“Fifty feet? That’s a million-dollar boat.”
“He said it only cost his guy two hundred or something like that.”
“Jesus. That asshole, T.G. He never said a word to me.” Schaeffer at least felt some consolation that the punk wouldn’t be saying
They walked into Hanrahan’s. Like usual, the place was nearly deserted. Ricky was looking around. The boat guy apparently wasn’t here yet.
They ordered boilermakers. Clinked glasses, drank.
Ricky was telling the old bartender about T.G. getting killed, when Schaeffer’s cell phone rang.
“Schaeffer here.”
“This’s Malone from Homicide. You heard about the T.G. Reilly hit?”
“Yeah. What’s up with it? Any leads?” Heart pounding fast, Schaeffer lowered his head and listened real carefully.
“Not many. But we heard something and we’re hoping you can help us out. You know the neighborhood, right?”
“Pretty good.”
“Looks like one of T.G.’s boys was running a scam. Involved some tall paper. Six figures. We don’t know if it had anything to do with the clip, but we want to talk to him. Name of Ricky Kelleher. You know him?”
Schaeffer glanced at Ricky, five feet away. He said into the phone, “Not sure. What’s the scam?”
“This Kelleher was working with somebody from Florida. They came up with a pretty slick plan. They sell some loser a confiscated boat, only what happens is, there is no boat. It’s all a setup. Then when it’s time to deliver, they tell the poor asshole that the feds just raided ’em. He better forget about his money, shut up and go to ground.”
That little fucking prick…. Schaeffer’s hand began shaking with anger as he stared at Ricky. He told the Homicide cop, “Haven’t seen him for a while. But I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks.”
He disconnected and walked up to Ricky, who was working on his second beer.
“You know when that guy’s going to get here?” Schaeffer asked casually. “The boat guy?”
“Should be any time,” the punk said.
Schaeffer nodded, drank some of his own beer. Then he lowered his head, whispered, “That call I just got? Don’t know if you’re interested but it was my supplier. He just got a shipment from Mexico. He’s gonna meet me in the alley in a few minutes. It’s some really fine shit. He’ll give it to us for cost. You interested?”
“Fuck yes,” the little man said.
The men pushed out the back door into the alley. Letting Ricky precede him, Schaeffer reminded himself that after he’d strangled the punk to death, he’d have to be sure to take the rest of the bribe money out of his pocket.
Oh, and the watch too. The detective decided that you really couldn’t have too many Rolexes after all.
Detective Robert Schaeffer was enjoying a grande mocha outside the Starbucks on Ninth Avenue. He was sitting in a metal chair, none too comfortable, and he wondered if it was the type that outdoor furniture king Shelby distributed to his fellow hicks.
“Hey there,” a man’s voice said to him.
Schaeffer glanced over at a man sitting down at the table next to him. He was vaguely familiar and, even though the cop didn’t exactly recognize him, he smiled a greeting.
Then the realization hit him like ice water and he gasped. It was the fake Internal Affairs detective, the guy T.G. and Ricky had hired to clip him.
Christ!
The man’s right hand was inside a paper bag, where there’d be a pistol, of course.
Schaeffer froze.
“Relax,” the guy said, laughing at the cop’s expression. “Everything’s cool.” He extracted his hand from the bag. No gun. He was holding a raisin scone. He took a bite. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“Then who the fuck are you?”
“You don’t need my name. I’m a private eye. That’ll do. Now listen, we’ve got a business proposition for you.” The PI looked up and waved. To Schaeffer he said, “I want to introduce you to some folks.”
A middle-aged couple, also carrying coffee, walked outside. In shock, Schaeffer realized that the man was
