couch. “You don’t mind, do ya?”
The two agents exchanged a smile before the older agent introduced himself.
“Agent Holtzmann. With two n s.”
Tilley took the man’s hand, received a not unexpected crusher grip. Holtzmann appeared to be in his early fifties, a little too old for a field agent. Still, his thick, silver-gray hair and matching mustache, his military posture and flat gut, his sharp, blue eyes and firm, thrusting jaw all proclaimed his fitness-to-serve. Despite the advancing years, he fairly dripped testosterone.
“Where’s the coffee?” Tilley glanced around the room. It was as neat as a pin. If a pair of New York cops had been assigned to the same duty, the apartment, he knew, would look like his shoes.
“Actually,” Ewing said, “I don’t think it’ll take that long.”
“You mean the coffee isn’t made?” Tilley started for the kitchen. “Just point me toward the old percolator and I’ll fix …”
“He said it won’t take that long.” Holtzmann stepped in front of Jim Tilley. “Why don’t you sit down. You seem a bit anxious.”
Tilley stopped a yard from the agent. “Tell you the truth, grandpa, if it’s gonna be short and sweet, I’d rather stand.” No question about it, he was beginning to feel better.
“Hey, guys.” Agent Ewing quick-stepped across the room, put his hands on both their shoulders. He was taller than Jim Tilley, and clearly in shape, but his grip was relaxed, as was his wide smile. “Isn’t it a little early for a tussle?”
A tussle? Tilley grimaced, guessed that Agent Ewing said bullpucky instead of bullshit. Screwed instead of fucked.
“Tell ya what, Ewing …”
The phone sounded before Tilley could finish his sentence, an old-fashioned ring, harsh and demanding, that cut through his resentment. He took out his notebook and the stub of a pencil, followed the agents to the monitoring equipment stacked on a small Formica table in the dining alcove.
“Cellular phone,” Holtzmann said. “Could be coming from anywhere.” He picked up the two headsets lying on the table, handed one to Jim Tilley, put the other on, motioned for Ewing to answer the phone.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Marvin?”
“Pardon me?”
“This ain’t Marvin. Don’t kid me, pal. I know Marvin’s voice when I hear it. It ain’t right that you should pretend you’re Marvin.”
“I think you have the wrong number.”
“The wrong number?”
“Look, I’ve got to clear this line. …”
“I’ve got to clear this line.’ Ya sound like some kinda fuckin’ faggot. A real man would’a just hung up the goddamned phone by now.”
Ewing dropped the phone, turned to his partner with a shrug. Before he could speak, the phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“This is Marvin, did anybody call for me?”
Ewing’s head snapped back as if he’d been punched. “Who is this?”
“I think I got a credibility problem here. Didn’t I just say my name was Marvin?”
Holtzmann put his hands out, palms down. He mouthed the word, slow, then adjusted the volume on the already spinning tape recorder.
“All right, Marvin. Let’s play. Who do you want to speak to?”
“Speak to? I don’t wanna speak to nobody. All I wanna know is if anyone called for me.”
Ewing hung up the phone, but didn’t let go of the receiver. Twenty seconds later, when the phone rang, he nodded to his partner before picking it up.
“Hello?”
“So, what kinda pig do I got here? Do I got a regular New York pig? Or do I got a genuine federal FBI pig?”
“If you don’t identify yourself, I’m going to hang up again. I really don’t have time …”
“Yeah? Suppose I cut off the little cunt’s right ear and let ya listen to her scream. Would ya have time for me then?”
“Jilly Sappone.”
“Yeah. So tell me, right now, are you an Officer Pig or an Agent Pig?”
Ewing covered the mouthpiece, looked over at his partner. “Try to bond him up,” Holtzmann said. “Give him your office
The two agents exchanged a smile before the older agent introduced himself.
“Agent Holtzmann. With two n s.”
Tilley took the man’s hand, received a not unexpected crusher grip. Holtzmann appeared to be in his early fifties, a little too old for a field agent. Still, his thick, silver-gray hair and matching mustache, his military posture and flat gut, his sharp, blue eyes and firm, thrusting jaw all proclaimed his fitness-to-serve. Despite the advancing years, he fairly dripped testosterone.
“Where’s the coffee?” Tilley glanced around the room. It was as neat as a pin. If a pair of New York cops had been assigned to the same duty, the apartment, he knew, would look like his shoes.
“Actually,” Ewing said, “I don’t think it’ll take that long.”
“You mean the coffee isn’t made?” Tilley started for the kitchen. “Just point me toward the old percolator and I’ll fix …”
“He said it won’t take that long.” Holtzmann stepped in front of Jim Tilley. “Why don’t you sit down. You seem a bit anxious.”
Tilley stopped a yard from the agent. “Tell you the truth, grandpa, if it’s gonna be short and sweet, I’d rather stand.” No question about it, he was beginning to feel better.
“Hey, guys.” Agent Ewing quick-stepped across the room, put his hands on both their shoulders. He was taller than Jim Tilley, and clearly in shape, but his grip was relaxed, as was his wide smile. “Isn’t it a little early for a tussle?”
A tussle? Tilley grimaced, guessed that Agent Ewing said bullpucky instead of bullshit. Screwed instead of fucked.
“Tell ya what, Ewing …”
The phone sounded before Tilley could finish his sentence, an old-fashioned ring, harsh and demanding, that cut through his resentment. He took out his notebook and the stub of a pencil, followed the agents to the monitoring equipment stacked on a small Formica table in the dining alcove.
“Cellular phone,” Holtzmann said. “Could be coming from anywhere.” He picked up the two headsets lying on the table, handed one to Jim Tilley, put the other on, motioned for Ewing to answer the phone.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Marvin?”
“Pardon me?”
“This ain’t Marvin. Don’t kid me, pal. I know Marvin’s voice when I hear it. It ain’t right that you should pretend you’re Marvin.”
“I think you have the wrong number.”
“The wrong number?”
“Look, I’ve got to clear this line. …”
“I’ve got to clear this line.’ Ya sound like some kinda fuckin’ faggot. A real man would’a just hung up the goddamned phone by now.”
Ewing dropped the phone, turned to his partner with a shrug. Before he could speak, the phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“This is Marvin, did anybody call for me?”
Ewing’s head snapped back as if he’d been punched. “Who is this?”
“I think I got a credibility problem here. Didn’t I just say my name was Marvin?”
Holtzmann put his hands out, palms down. He mouthed the word, slow, then adjusted the volume on the already spinning tape recorder.
“All right, Marvin. Let’s play. Who do you want to speak to?”
“Speak to? I don’t wanna speak to nobody. All I wanna know is if anyone called for me.”
Ewing hung up the phone, but didn’t let go of the receiver. Twenty seconds later, when the phone rang, he nodded to his partner before picking it up.
“Hello?”
“So, what kinda pig do I got here? Do I got a regular New York pig? Or do I got a genuine federal FBI pig?”
“If you don’t identify yourself, I’m going to hang up again. I really don’t have time …”
“Yeah? Suppose I cut off the little cunt’s right ear and let ya listen to her scream. Would ya have time for me then?”
“Jilly Sappone.”
“Yeah. So tell me, right now, are you an Officer Pig or an Agent Pig?”
Ewing covered the mouthpiece, looked over at his partner. “Try to bond him up,” Holtzmann said. “Give him your office
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