Crooked Numbers (6 page)

He grinned and shook his head. “You’re still smarting over that, huh?”

“Over what?”

“Me getting that gig. That I got to spend six months as ‘Chief Donne’s Boy.’”

“Why the hell would I resent him picking you?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Ray. Maybe because you wanted it.”

“Yeah, that would’ve looked good: Chief Donne picking his nephew to be on the fast track to promotion.”

“I earned my fucking promotion, Ray.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t, Dennis. I wouldn’t have put in a good word for you if I hadn’t thought you were a good cop.”

“I didn’t need your
good word.
”

“Dennis,” I said calmly. My hands were getting cold so I stuck them in my pockets. “We had a graduating class of a couple of hundred cadets. Everybody he considered needed a good word.”

“And yours was the best, right?”

“I’m his nephew. Yeah, it carried a lot of weight. You deserved it.”

Dennis looked out at the water, the lights from the bridge twinkling in the approaching darkness.

“How fast you get your shield?” I asked.

“Year-and-a-half after I left your uncle. He wanted to place me in Midtown North after I left him.”

“The Cuff Link Crew?”

He laughed. “Yeah. Told him I wanted the Ghetto Squad. Make my bones the old-fashioned way. Working case after case, getting my hands dirty. Made second grade two years ago.”

“That’s why I put in the good word, D. I didn’t take you as someone who’d take the easy route.”

He looked back at the river. “You don’t have any regrets?”

“About…?”

“What if he
had
helped you out, and you were the one with the special assignment six months after the academy? All nepotism aside. You don’t think about that? About how your future as a cop would’ve changed?”

I let out a deep breath. “You talking about my accident?” My legs tingled when I flashed back to the fire escape.

“Yeah, Ray. I am. I can see why you couldn’t take the gig with your uncle. Let’s say you let him throw something else your way. You’re not on the streets of Williamsburg, and you don’t take that plunge. And that kid don’t get himself killed.”

“Dennis,” I said, “there’s not a day that goes by I don’t think about my accident. My body won’t let me. And there’s also not a day I don’t think of Raheem Ellis and how he’d probably still be alive if I hadn’t chased him into that building. But I’ve moved on, man. I got a new life. I’m working on being good with that.”

He turned to look me in the eyes. “That why you came out here today, Ray? Because you’ve moved on?”

“I came out here today to help keep Dougie’s story in the paper, Dennis. No offense, but you and I both know the shelf life of this kind of case. As long as the press is on it, so are your bosses.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t the happy kind. “So I won’t be seeing you butting your nose around, right?”

“Don’t see any reason why you would,” I said. “I got what I wanted.”

“Because I know what happened with that other kid of yours a while back. The kid from the Clemente Houses.”

You don’t know everything.

“Frankie. Yeah. I don’t know what you think you—”

“I still talk with Chief Donne, Ray. He may not talk about his Boys, but he
does
speak quite highly of his nephew.”

“A different time, Dennis. Different situation.”

“I hope so.” He stuck out his hand. “Maybe I’ll swing by The LineUp some night. You still doing time working the stick?”

“Every Tuesday night,” I said, shaking his hand. “That’d be cool.”

“Yeah,” he said. He turned to go and then stopped. “Maybe you could ask Rachel to come around.”

I was wondering how long it’d take for her to come up.

“You know how I said you’re a good cop, Dennis?”

“Yeah?”

“You were a fucking lousy boyfriend.”

“Jesus. We’re not gonna have this conversation again, are we, Ray?”

“I’m not,” I said.

“Maybe I’ve changed, Ray. Learned to keep the shit at the precinct before heading home.”

“I’ll see you at The LineUp, Dennis. Tuesday nights.”

I could tell he was thinking of something else to say. When he couldn’t come up with anything, he raised his hands. “Whatever.” He turned again to leave, and this time he didn’t stop.

I looked over at the East River and took in a bit of clean, cold air. The lights from the bridge were dancing across the water. I found myself wanting to smile at the beauty of the whole image until a thought hit me: That bridge and those lights might have been the last things Douglas Lee ever laid his eyes on.

“YOU SURE YOU DON’T WANT
a burger?” Mikey asked me. “I can have the kitchen throw one on the grill, be ready in ten minutes.”

“Just the pint of Brooklyn,” I repeated. “I had a late lunch.”

“Okey dokey.” Mikey slipped a coaster under my pilsner then headed down to the other end of the bar. That’s when Edgar Martinez O’Brien lifted his glass to me.

“Four, one, two,” he said. Edgar’s daily toast to the years, months, and days he had until retiring from the New York City Transit Authority. He was on his regular stool—the one with the best view of the TV—drinking his regular pint of Bass with tomato juice. Tonight, like every other recent evening, he had his laptop with him.

I clinked my glass against his. “I don’t know what they’re going to do without you, Edgar.” My usual response.

“Hire me to consult.” His usual response. “And how was your day, Raymond?”

One thing about Edgar: when he asked how your day was, he meant it and wanted all the details. Another thing is, Edgar was a cop junkie, which was why he hung out at The LineUp as much as he did. This is a cop bar, owned by Mrs. Mac, a cop’s widow, and quite often staffed by ex-cops. My shift was Tuesday nights. Edgar never got enough of listening to the stories the cops—past and present—tell each other. There was a time when I used to find Edgar more of a pain in the ass than anything else, but a year and a half ago he’d come through for me big-time and now we were—for lack of a better word—buddies. So when he asked me about my day, there was no holding back.

When I had finished with the details, Edgar leaned back, folded his arms, and smiled. He took off his glasses and wiped them with a napkin.

“The detective,” Edgar said. “He let you check out the crime scene?”

“Wasn’t up to him,” I said. “Dougie was killed almost a week ago. The courts are open for public use.”

He slid his glasses back on. “Pretty slick how you figured out the murder weapon mighta been a lock pick. They checking for similar MOs?” Edgar loved that cop talk.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sure they are.”

“Cool.” He leaned closer to me. “So what do you do next, Ray?”

“Well,” I said, lowering my voice, “I’m going to finish my beer, go home to bed, wake up tomorrow, and see if the story made the paper.” If it did, I’d have to call two mothers: Dougie’s and mine. Dougie’s mom would thank me, while mine would go out and buy all the copies at the corner deli by her house.

“Come on, Ray. You know what I mean. About the Royal Family connection.”

“Probably nothing, Edgar. I reached out to Junior, and he made it clear Tio does not talk about Family business with people outside the Family.” I took a sip of my beer. “I promised Dougie’s mom I’d call Allison and see if she could keep the story alive. I did that. Whatever Murcer comes up with in regards to the gang stuff, I hope he checks it out. My guess, it doesn’t come to much.”

Edgar let out a disappointed sigh and then opened his laptop. He played with the keys for about fifteen seconds and turned the screen so I could see it.

“This,” he explained, “is all the news that’s fit to print about the Royal Family. Every piece containing their name and the word ‘gang’ written in the past six months. I could go back further if you want. A year, maybe?”

I slid the computer closer to me, looked at the screen, and scrolled down. Not a lot of press on these guys. Four pieces over the past half year. Junior was right: Tio did keep his business on the down low. I clicked on one of the stories, and it was all of six short paragraphs. Even the headline was sketchy:
LOCAL GANG SUSPECTED IN DRUGSTORE BREAK
-
IN
.
Not much info in the four paragraphs, and what there was sounded more like what people thought than what they actually knew. The rest of the stories were pretty much the same. Light on details, no names, no actual evidence of anything. Gang gossip.

Edgar was reading along with me. “Not much, huh?”

“Like they barely exist,” I agreed.

“You still know anybody in the gang unit?”

“Edgar,” I said. “There’s no one I know who’s going to be more helpful to me than the guys Murcer can reach out to. Like I told Dougie’s mom, let’s see what they come up with. Murcer’s got a pushy reporter more than interested in this story. I know him. He’ll exercise due diligence.” I took a quick sip. “At least for the next few days.”

“I guess you’re right,” Edgar said, not even trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. He was probably hoping this was going to be the beginning of another adventure. He looked at my almost-empty pint glass. “You ready for another?”

I drained what was left. “Yeah. Why not?” I knew this was his way of keeping the conversation going, but if it got me another beer, where was the harm?

Edgar waved down Mikey, who brought another round over.

“You two doing okay?” he asked. Mikey was still amazed at my friendship with Edgar. Most of the other regulars did their best to stay clear of his constant questioning and his inability to let go of a train of thought.

“Doing well,” I said. “Thanks.”

I slid my empty glass away to make room for the new one. My cell phone started to vibrate in my pocket. I pulled it out and didn’t recognize the number on the screen. Usually I’d let it go to voice mail, but curiosity got the better of me and I answered it.

“Hello?”

“Mr. D?” a voice said.

“Yes?”

“Yo, Mr. D. It’s me. Junior.”

“Hey, Junior,” I said, and once again had Edgar’s full attention. “What’s up?”

“I called Tio and explained the sitch. You know, with the cops and the beads around the dead kid’s neck?”

“Yeah.”

“Said he knew ’bout that already. But then I told him you was looking into it, and at first he got all pissed, but then I told him who you was, and he remembered you from the papers when you helped that other kid, y’know?”

“Okay…”

“Anyways,” Junior said, “he says he’ll meet with you.”

I sat up straighter. “Really?”

“Yeah. He said better you than the cops. You can do that, right?”

“Absolutely, Junior,” I said, starting to believe my own spin. “When?”

“Tomorrow, man. He said nine o’clock. You know the pizza place next to the dollar store a block away from the hospital?”

“Yeah.”

“A’ight, then. Be there at nine.”

“Junior,” I said, “thanks a lot for this. I owe you one.”

“Nah, Mr. D. This is me payin’ you back for not jacking me up when I decked that kid in the playground.”

“Okay, Junior. Thanks again.”

“Later, Mr. D.”

I hung up and looked at Edgar’s curious face. If his tongue had been out, he would have looked like a puppy waiting for a treat. I raised my glass and touched it against his.

“Looks like I’m meeting with a gang leader tomorrow,” I said.

Edgar gave me his biggest shit-eating grin. “Pretty cool.”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling a buzz I hadn’t felt in a long time. “I guess it is.”

THE LIGHT-SKINNED HISPANIC
kid who showed up at the locked door of the pizza shop was just over four feet and looked like he was still in elementary school. He was wearing a black and gold New Orleans Saints football jersey with the number seven on it, matching do-rag, baggy blue jeans, and a nice, new pair of purple sneakers. The watch on his left wrist was big enough to serve spaghetti on. He looked me up and down, paused after putting his hand on the lock, and said, “Who you?”

“Raymond Donne,” I said through the glass door. “I’m here to see Tio.”

The kid shook his head. “Ain’t no Tio here, mister. You sure you at the right pizza place?”

Yeah. I was sure. Calmly, I said, “Junior told me to meet Tio here.”

The kid smiled and nodded. “Whatcha say your name was?”

Fucking with the white guy. Enjoy it while you can, little man. “Raymond Donne,” I repeated. “Tio’s expecting me.”

“Hold on a minute,” he said. “I be right back.”

He turned around, did a nice, slow walk to the back of the restaurant, and disappeared through a set of swinging doors. I looked over my shoulder across the street and noticed a teenager at the corner on a cell phone. Same Saints jersey—his with the number eleven—same do-rag as the kid. I held on for about a minute and was about to knock again when the kid came through the swinging doors, followed by a larger, older Hispanic male wearing a similar outfit, without the do-rag. His jersey had the number one.
Subtle
. Number One put away his phone and took a seat at a booth, while the kid came back to the door. This time he unlocked it and held it open for me.

“C’mon in, mister,” he said. “Tio say he
expecting
you.”

“Thanks, kid,” I said as I stepped inside.

“Name’s Boo,” the kid said. To make his point, he showed me the gold chain around his neck that did indeed say
BOO
. I also noticed some purple and gold beads peeking out from under the neckline of his jersey. Boo relocked the door. “Follow me.”

He brought me to the booth where the older guy was sitting. I stood there as Boo went through the swinging doors again; doors I could now see led to the kitchen. The guy at the booth took a big sip from the steaming cup he had in his hands and motioned for me to sit down. I did. Today’s paper was opened to the page with Allison’s story about Dougie. My picture was staring back at me.

“Can I get you something, Mr. Donne?” the guy asked.

“If that coffee tastes as good as it smells, I’ll take some.”