because no one believed anything was going to happen. Garcia understood politics and didnât want to brand himself as an alarmist nut by shooting off his mouth. Not that it would do any good. Yesterday heâd uttered the phrase âY2Kâ to a divisional commander whoâd replied, âWhy too what?â
At 6:30 in the morning Garcia walked into Bernieâs Deli at 85th and Broadway, ordered scrambled and toast, and poured himself a cup of coffee. Forty-five, an inch over six feet, heavy and imposing in his uniform with double rows of brass buttons, Garcia dropped his hat and briefcase on a rear table as he did every day. It was a Friday, prelude to a long New Yearâs Eve weekend, and the good citizens of Manhattan were making earnest preparations to drink too much and wear funny hats as if this were an ordinary New Yearâs Eve. Heâd seen twenty-five New Yearâs Eves as a cop, but this year, besides the usual boozy amateurs puking in his radio cars, he had to face millennium crazies, space invaders, and religious lunatics predicting the end of the world, all before midnight when the electronic shit was scheduled to hit the millennium fan.
He really loved being a cop, and long ago had learned that preventing a crime was far better than catching and punishing a criminal. In this case, the city, that anonymous bitch, was about to commit a sin of omission, a horrendous crime of neglect that he was unable to prevent.
Garciaâs old friend Bill Packard arrived at the same time as his eggs.
âHappy New Year, comandante, â said Packard, a staff cardiac surgeon at Bellevue hospital.
âFuck you, too, Bill.â
âYou donât look happy.â
âI just want it over with,â Garcia said. âWalking over here I passed three liquor stores, all busy at six in the morning.â
âWell,â Packard said with a big smile as he sat down, âtodayâs the day. You ready?â
âGimme a break. Nobodyâs ready.â
âCopeland is.â
âHe says he is,â Garcia retorted. âThereâs a difference.â
âWeâre gonna find out soon enough,â Packard said, looking at his watch. âIn seventeen hours and fifteen minutes. Hey, Bernie!â he shouted. âTurn on the TV, will ya?â
âWhy?â
âThe new year will arrive in the middle of the Pacific Ocean in a few minutes.â
âSo what?â
âJust turn it on, Bernie.â
âYou want some breakfast, Bill?â
âYeah, yeah, yeah.â
The delicatessen owner grudgingly switched on CNN and scowled at a commercial for Budweiser, the official beer of millennium insanity.
âExpecting a big night?â the policeman asked the doctor.
âAre you kidding?â Packard replied. âIâm just glad I donât work in the emergency room, but I got problems you wouldnât believe. Do you know how many computers we have at Bellevue? Do you have any idea how many computers run every goddamn device in my ICU? Do you know how many have been checked out? None. N-O-N-E, thatâs how many.â
âYouâre supposed to work on the people, Bill, not the computers.â
Grimacing, shaking his head with frustration, Packard poured himself a cup of coffee and stared at the TV.
Jonathon Spillman, now the manager of the brand-new Safeway Store at 96th and Broadway, walked in and sat down.
âDonât say it,â Garcia warned.
âDonât say what?â
Packard winked and silently mouthed, Happy New Year.
âIâm Jewish, in case you forgot,â Spillman reminded them. âThe New Year is in September, and the year is 5760, if you didnât know. Whereâs Copeland?â
âNot here yet,â the doctor replied. âTonight heâll find out if all his fancy software works. Will Donnie boy save Chase Manhattan from extinction? As if I give a shit.â
âCopeland
James Holland
Erika Bradshaw
Brad Strickland
Desmond Seward
Timothy Zahn
Edward S. Aarons
Lynn Granville
Kenna Avery Wood
Fabrice Bourland
Peter Dickinson