dog’s owner, a middle-aged man in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat, warns the
pooch that the cute-looking driver probably isn’t ready for that level of intimacy, and they continue on their merry way.
Alvarez takes out his cellphone and voice recorder, then connects up the cable microphone and inserts the earpiece. He searches the phone for the last number he called, then redials. As he
listens to the ring tone, he switches on the Olympus.
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s Detective Alvarez, Tremaine. I’m gonna be a little bit longer. My car’s decided it’s too cold to move.’
‘Fuck is this, man? You want to hear this shit or not? I don’t need to be taking no risks like this.’
To Alvarez, Cavell sounds a little flustered. Not quite the cool gangsta image he had adopted in the garage.
‘All right, Tremaine. Keep it puckered. I’ll be with you in fifteen, twenty minutes tops.’
‘Aiight, but any more than that and I’m gone.’
Alvarez hangs up. He disconnects the recorder and puts it into the glove compartment, then drops the cellphone back in his pocket. He pulls his Glock, checks the indicator telling him
there’s a round in the chamber, then reholsters it.
When he climbs out of the car and locks it up, the cold hits him. He feels as though he will freeze to the sidewalk if he stands here too long.
He walks toward the building, glancing into the interior of each vehicle as he passes it. At the lobby door he doesn’t ring the bell for Cavell’s apartment, but instead buzzes the
superintendent.
When the super opens the door, Alvarez flashes his badge and ID.
‘I need to speak with one of the tenants. Unannounced.’
The super, a gray-haired, grumpy-looking man, has spaghetti sauce around his mouth and is still chewing.
‘There gonna be shooting?’ he asks, losing a strand of spaghetti as he does so.
Alvarez says, ‘Well, it’s not on my to-do list.’
The super sucks the pasta back in, chews some more.
‘’Cause I don’t need no holes in my building. And not in my tenants neither. I just want a quiet night. Good food, cold beer and Barbarella .’
‘Your wife?’
‘I wish. The movie. Jane Fonda stripping off in zero-G. My wife, she looks more like Henry Fonda.’
Alvarez is already heading for the stairs. ‘Enjoy the movie,’ he says.
‘No holes, remember,’ the super calls after him, and then Alvarez hears a door shutting.
He takes the stairs two at a time, but with stealth, listening as he goes. Outside apartment 3C he puts his ear to the uniform slab of a door.
He doesn’t fear Cavell. Cavell is a young punk. But Alvarez doesn’t like the fact that, right now, Cavell is calling the shots and acting kinda weird. And so it seems sensible to
Alvarez, especially acting without backup like this, to proceed with some caution.
If this is some kind of trap, Alvarez thinks, then Cavell will believe he can breathe easy for a while, his victim not expected for a good fifteen minutes yet. He’s not going to stand
there with a cannon pointed at the door for that long. And if he’s got anybody else in there with him – say a whole bunch of his homies laden with artillery – then it’s
likely that they will be equally at ease for now. There’ll be some conversation. A couple of jokes. Maybe even some detailed description of what fun things they are going to do to that spic
cop when he walks in.
But Alvarez hears nothing. Not a murmur. He is not even certain that Cavell himself is in there.
He draws his gun and lowers it to his side, then knocks on the door. It is only seconds before the door opens and Cavell’s face appears in the gap. He is wearing a gray Hilfiger hooded
zip-up over a blue T-shirt. He looks slightly surprised.
‘That was fast, man. You get the car—’
Alvarez snaps his gun hand up and aims the weapon at the center of Cavell’s forehead. With his other hand he pushes the door wide open to get a view into the apartment.
‘Turn around,’ he
pooch that the cute-looking driver probably isn’t ready for that level of intimacy, and they continue on their merry way.
Alvarez takes out his cellphone and voice recorder, then connects up the cable microphone and inserts the earpiece. He searches the phone for the last number he called, then redials. As he
listens to the ring tone, he switches on the Olympus.
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s Detective Alvarez, Tremaine. I’m gonna be a little bit longer. My car’s decided it’s too cold to move.’
‘Fuck is this, man? You want to hear this shit or not? I don’t need to be taking no risks like this.’
To Alvarez, Cavell sounds a little flustered. Not quite the cool gangsta image he had adopted in the garage.
‘All right, Tremaine. Keep it puckered. I’ll be with you in fifteen, twenty minutes tops.’
‘Aiight, but any more than that and I’m gone.’
Alvarez hangs up. He disconnects the recorder and puts it into the glove compartment, then drops the cellphone back in his pocket. He pulls his Glock, checks the indicator telling him
there’s a round in the chamber, then reholsters it.
When he climbs out of the car and locks it up, the cold hits him. He feels as though he will freeze to the sidewalk if he stands here too long.
He walks toward the building, glancing into the interior of each vehicle as he passes it. At the lobby door he doesn’t ring the bell for Cavell’s apartment, but instead buzzes the
superintendent.
When the super opens the door, Alvarez flashes his badge and ID.
‘I need to speak with one of the tenants. Unannounced.’
The super, a gray-haired, grumpy-looking man, has spaghetti sauce around his mouth and is still chewing.
‘There gonna be shooting?’ he asks, losing a strand of spaghetti as he does so.
Alvarez says, ‘Well, it’s not on my to-do list.’
The super sucks the pasta back in, chews some more.
‘’Cause I don’t need no holes in my building. And not in my tenants neither. I just want a quiet night. Good food, cold beer and Barbarella .’
‘Your wife?’
‘I wish. The movie. Jane Fonda stripping off in zero-G. My wife, she looks more like Henry Fonda.’
Alvarez is already heading for the stairs. ‘Enjoy the movie,’ he says.
‘No holes, remember,’ the super calls after him, and then Alvarez hears a door shutting.
He takes the stairs two at a time, but with stealth, listening as he goes. Outside apartment 3C he puts his ear to the uniform slab of a door.
He doesn’t fear Cavell. Cavell is a young punk. But Alvarez doesn’t like the fact that, right now, Cavell is calling the shots and acting kinda weird. And so it seems sensible to
Alvarez, especially acting without backup like this, to proceed with some caution.
If this is some kind of trap, Alvarez thinks, then Cavell will believe he can breathe easy for a while, his victim not expected for a good fifteen minutes yet. He’s not going to stand
there with a cannon pointed at the door for that long. And if he’s got anybody else in there with him – say a whole bunch of his homies laden with artillery – then it’s
likely that they will be equally at ease for now. There’ll be some conversation. A couple of jokes. Maybe even some detailed description of what fun things they are going to do to that spic
cop when he walks in.
But Alvarez hears nothing. Not a murmur. He is not even certain that Cavell himself is in there.
He draws his gun and lowers it to his side, then knocks on the door. It is only seconds before the door opens and Cavell’s face appears in the gap. He is wearing a gray Hilfiger hooded
zip-up over a blue T-shirt. He looks slightly surprised.
‘That was fast, man. You get the car—’
Alvarez snaps his gun hand up and aims the weapon at the center of Cavell’s forehead. With his other hand he pushes the door wide open to get a view into the apartment.
‘Turn around,’ he
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