3 Quarters by Denis Hamill

dissertations on the missing link of evolution either. We were never pals, but maybe O’Brien knew I worked at the Manhattan DA’s office. That’s not considered as bad as Internal Affairs, but I’m not a cop’s kosher meal either. He saw me and bolted. Kuzak and Zeke just glared at me when I stepped out of the stall. I didn’t say a word, made believe I was preoccupied, disinterested.”
    â€œThese the guys you think set you up later, maybe?” Gleason asked, mumbling through his burger.
    â€œI think so,” Bobby said. “Anyway, I go out to the party room, where a band is playing, and I walk directly to John Shine to let him know what I heard. To get a read from him, because he’s not your ordinary numb-nuts beat cop. He was my training officer and has better radar than an air-traffic controller. Maybe he thinks it’s a bullshit scam, not worth a full investigation. I want to bounce it off him. But when I start telling him, he’s distracted, transfixed, like half the guys at the party. Because here comes Sandy from the medical office, looking hot as one of Victoria’s Secrets herself. But she’s laughing and talking and walking with this . . . this goddess! This Dorothea, dressed in a clinging minidress. The lead singer fumbled the words of the song. I mean, this wasn’t an entrance. It was an event. Dorothea didn’t mean it to be; it just came with the genes. She was out of place, like Sophia Loren walking into a laundromat. Half the women in the room would have liked to shoot her on the spot for felonious perfection.”
    â€œOr bedded her,” Gleason said. “How many broad cops you figure are moes?”
    â€œJohn Shine bet me I couldn’t get a date with her,” Bobby said, ignoring Gleason. “I had a few cocktails in me, was feeling my beer balls. I was missing Connie and Maggie something terrible. I knew the worst this dream-in-a-dress could do was say no. The divorce was much worse than any rejection this woman could give me. Plus I would have regretted not trying for the rest of my life. And John bet me; he was egging me on.”
    â€œI told ya, I know who John Shine is,” Gleason said. “One of the toughest cops I ever cross-examined. Confident, unflappable, straight. A defense lawyer’s nightmare. Know why? Because he’s one of those rare cops who always tells the fuckin’ truth on the stand.”
    â€œJohnny Shine ruined his health on the job,” Bobby said, “screwed up four disks in his back, wrestling with a crack dealer. He was always in pain. But he never complained, kept working. He helped get me my transfer to the Harbor Unit. Then I made detective and transferred to the Manhattan DA’s squad. We sort of lost touch. But sometimes the world is perfect. Three years ago, Shine won the goddamn New York State Lottery for three million bucks. He retired from the job, opened up a saloon out in Bay Ridge, but didn’t forget where he came from. Later, he loaned me money for my defense. He offered to help pay for an appeal, but I couldn’t let him throw good money after bad.”
    â€œSo Shine made you a bet about Dorothea . . .”
    â€œYeah, so I forgot all about why I was there, about Kuzak and Zeke and O’Brien and the pension-racket rumor. I walked right up to Sandy and asked her to introduce me to Dorothea. She did, and we danced a fast one, a slow one, and sat out the next one at the bar together,” Bobby said as they slowly walked to the Jeep, his eyes searching the area for the elusive white Taurus. “I asked her out to dinner the next night. She asked what I had in the fridge. I told her leftover pasta. She said she’d love some of that, so we stopped at a liquor store and she bought a bottle of expensive French wine . . .”
    â€œOy!” Gleason shouted, fumbling for a smoke. “A first nighter!”
    â€œI