the weapon stood a small man, wild-eyed behind heavy spectacles. The barge captain’s hair was gray and bristly but it had been Brylcreamed back—he looked like a wet otter.
Jack and his partner traded a wary look. Without a word, they moved to opposite sides of the landing: if the guy opened fire, he wouldn’t take them both out.
“I didn’t see nothin’,” the man said desperately. “I’ll swear to it in court. You guys don’t have nothing to worry about.”
“Point the gun down, Mr. Ortslee,” Daskivitch said firmly.
The man continued to point the rifle, but he pulled off his eyeglasses. “I’ll say I wasn’t wearing these. Look, I’m blind as a bat without ’em. I’ll say my eyes were bothering me and I took ’em off. Please, I’ll do anything you guys want.”
“We’re detectives,” Jack said. “NYPD.”
The man blinked and put his glasses back on. He peered out from the doorway, ready to dive back inside. “I’m not fallin’ for that,” he said. “I know damn well who you guys are.”
Moving slowly and deliberately, Jack took out his shield. Then he reached into his wallet and pulled out a card.
“Here,” he said. “Call this number and ask for Sergeant Tanney.
The man blinked down at the card. He stared out of the dark doorway. The door closed. They could hear him locking it on the other side.
“Jesus,” Daskivitch said, “did you see that fucking gun?”
Jack wiped sweat from his forehead. “It was prewar.”
“It was pre- Civil War. It’s a whaddayacallit, a fowling piece.”
“A blunderbuss.”
“That’s right. What the Pilgrims used to shoot turkeys.”
Both men grinned at their fortune to be standing there alive and in one piece.
After a moment, the door opened again.
“I’m sorry, officers,” the man said. “The gun is registered. Perfectly legal. I’ve got the papers.”
They sat in Ortslee’s living room, low-ceilinged like an attic. Despite the bright day outside and the big windows facing the street, the room was dingy and dim, paneled with cheap, dark veneer. It smelled of mothballs and sweat and mildewed carpet. The furniture was splintered rattan that looked like it belonged on a patio.
“Was it you who called to tip us off, Mr. Ortslee?” Jack said.
“I don’t wanna get involved in this.”
“You already are. Did you make the call?”
Ortslee struggled with himself, then gave a dismal nod.
“What did you see?”
“It was far away. I couldn’t see nothin’.”
“This is a very serious matter,” Jack said patiently. “We’ll keep anything you tell us entirely confidential.”
“I was far off. Probably seventy-five yards.”
“And?”
“There was two of them. Throwing something over the fence. That’s all I know.” Ortslee rose. “I gotta get ready for work now.” He scuttled out of the room.
The detectives followed. They caught up with him in his bedroom. A big suitcase lay open on the bed, half filled with jumbled clothes.
“Don’t fuck with us,” Daskivitch said.
“I really didn’t see nothin’,” Ortslee replied. His hands shook as he lifted a stack of shirts out of a dresser drawer.
“If you want, we can discuss this down at the precinct house,” Daskivitch said. “We could charge you with obstruction of justice. One way or another, you’re gonna tell us what you saw on that canal.”
“I know how this works,” Ortslee said. “I watch NYPD Blue every week.” His eyes darted to Jack, “You play the good cop and he plays the bad cop. Well, I’m not gonna fall for it.”
Jack chuckled.
“That damn NYPD Blue ,” Daskivitch said, shaking his head. “And I was so looking forward to my bad cop routine.”
“I can’t stay here,” Ortslee said. “They’re gonna figure out how to find me. And if they already killed one guy, why would they stop there?”
“Relax,” Jack said. “If you couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see you, right? Tell us what happened.”
“How’d it go?”
Jack and his partner traded a wary look. Without a word, they moved to opposite sides of the landing: if the guy opened fire, he wouldn’t take them both out.
“I didn’t see nothin’,” the man said desperately. “I’ll swear to it in court. You guys don’t have nothing to worry about.”
“Point the gun down, Mr. Ortslee,” Daskivitch said firmly.
The man continued to point the rifle, but he pulled off his eyeglasses. “I’ll say I wasn’t wearing these. Look, I’m blind as a bat without ’em. I’ll say my eyes were bothering me and I took ’em off. Please, I’ll do anything you guys want.”
“We’re detectives,” Jack said. “NYPD.”
The man blinked and put his glasses back on. He peered out from the doorway, ready to dive back inside. “I’m not fallin’ for that,” he said. “I know damn well who you guys are.”
Moving slowly and deliberately, Jack took out his shield. Then he reached into his wallet and pulled out a card.
“Here,” he said. “Call this number and ask for Sergeant Tanney.
The man blinked down at the card. He stared out of the dark doorway. The door closed. They could hear him locking it on the other side.
“Jesus,” Daskivitch said, “did you see that fucking gun?”
Jack wiped sweat from his forehead. “It was prewar.”
“It was pre- Civil War. It’s a whaddayacallit, a fowling piece.”
“A blunderbuss.”
“That’s right. What the Pilgrims used to shoot turkeys.”
Both men grinned at their fortune to be standing there alive and in one piece.
After a moment, the door opened again.
“I’m sorry, officers,” the man said. “The gun is registered. Perfectly legal. I’ve got the papers.”
They sat in Ortslee’s living room, low-ceilinged like an attic. Despite the bright day outside and the big windows facing the street, the room was dingy and dim, paneled with cheap, dark veneer. It smelled of mothballs and sweat and mildewed carpet. The furniture was splintered rattan that looked like it belonged on a patio.
“Was it you who called to tip us off, Mr. Ortslee?” Jack said.
“I don’t wanna get involved in this.”
“You already are. Did you make the call?”
Ortslee struggled with himself, then gave a dismal nod.
“What did you see?”
“It was far away. I couldn’t see nothin’.”
“This is a very serious matter,” Jack said patiently. “We’ll keep anything you tell us entirely confidential.”
“I was far off. Probably seventy-five yards.”
“And?”
“There was two of them. Throwing something over the fence. That’s all I know.” Ortslee rose. “I gotta get ready for work now.” He scuttled out of the room.
The detectives followed. They caught up with him in his bedroom. A big suitcase lay open on the bed, half filled with jumbled clothes.
“Don’t fuck with us,” Daskivitch said.
“I really didn’t see nothin’,” Ortslee replied. His hands shook as he lifted a stack of shirts out of a dresser drawer.
“If you want, we can discuss this down at the precinct house,” Daskivitch said. “We could charge you with obstruction of justice. One way or another, you’re gonna tell us what you saw on that canal.”
“I know how this works,” Ortslee said. “I watch NYPD Blue every week.” His eyes darted to Jack, “You play the good cop and he plays the bad cop. Well, I’m not gonna fall for it.”
Jack chuckled.
“That damn NYPD Blue ,” Daskivitch said, shaking his head. “And I was so looking forward to my bad cop routine.”
“I can’t stay here,” Ortslee said. “They’re gonna figure out how to find me. And if they already killed one guy, why would they stop there?”
“Relax,” Jack said. “If you couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see you, right? Tell us what happened.”
“How’d it go?”
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