asked Daskivitch’s boss, Sergeant Riordan. The man slouched on the edge of his desk in the Seven-six squad room, rubbing his jaw as if he had a toothache. The pain of command.
“Jack called it,” Daskivitch said. “The barge is motoring along, the captain’s up on deck checking a pressure gauge for the plutonium or whatever-the-hell-poison he’s hauling, and he glances up and sees this thing come flipping over the fence.”
“A ‘thing’?” Riordan asked.
“Yeah—it was our vic. First the bargeman thought someone was dumping trash along the canal—which seems to be the big sport over there—but then these two white guys come climbing over the fence after it. He couldn’t see too well on account of the trees and shrubs and crap, but then the perps see him and they wig and scramble back over the fence.”
“What kind of a look did he get? Could he ID ’em?”
“Doubtful. He says he was seventy-five yards away.”
“You want to bring him in and show him some pictures?”
“He swears he never saw their faces.”
“He’s just a little hermit who watches too much TN ,” Jack said. “I ordered him to stay put in case we need him again. Gary gave him the number here in case he suddenly remembers something, but he seems pretty useless.”
“What’s next?” Riordan said.
Jack picked up a glass paperweight from his partner’s desk and hefted it in his palm. “I’ve got a couple of snitches to see.”
“You want company?” Daskivitch asked.
Riordan looked up at the clock. “You guys are gonna be heading into OT soon.”
Daskivitch looked dejected. “You want me to punch out?”
The rest of New York City was ecstatic that the murder rate had dropped to a fraction of its peak ten years before, but the detective squads had suffered budget cuts. Business, as it were, was off.
Riordan sighed. “Go with Leightner. God knows, you might actually learn something.”
six
T HEY SAT IN JACK’S car, just up Atlantic Avenue from a little grimy bunker of a bar called the Luray Inn, the kind of dive where a customer might try to unload coat pockets full of boosted cigarettes or supermarket steaks. Jack shifted, but the back of his shirt stuck to the seat—they couldn’t keep the air conditioner running because they might have to wait for hours. Daskivitch, mercifully had given up drumming on the steering wheel and they sat in a companionable silence. Jack was optimistic: they’d started with an anonymous dump job, but in just over twenty-four hours they had an ID and a possible drug connection.
On the sidewalk next to the bar, two tiny Arab kids were goofing around. Two old mattresses rested against a brick wall, and one of the kids pressed the other between them until he yelped. When he escaped, they switched roles. It didn’t take a lot to entertain little kids.
On this side of the street, a customer emerged from a Salvation Army thrift store. Through the plate-glass window Jack watched a friendly cashier make small talk as she rang up a sale. A young couple came out of the store, the pony-tailed girl wearing a backless cotton blouse, the boy in a tie-dyed T-shirt.
“Can you believe this?” Daskivitch said. “That sixties bullshit is coming back again.”
The fact was, Jack had missed a lot of the legendary sixties the first time around. The Groovy Decade had passed Red Hook by: while Greenwich Village kids just a few miles across the river were turning on to pot and Bob Dylan, the Hook remained solidly conservative, a place for working men and out-of-work veterans. There was drink, yes, and there was crime, but he never knew a hippie or a head until he got on a troop transport and flew four thousand miles away from Brooklyn. By the time he came back, even cops had long sideburns.
Motion near the end of the block.
“Here they come,” he told Daskivitch. “The woman’s called Janelle. The guy goes by T.”
The man was grizzled and homely, a little black guy trying to walk like a big
“Jack called it,” Daskivitch said. “The barge is motoring along, the captain’s up on deck checking a pressure gauge for the plutonium or whatever-the-hell-poison he’s hauling, and he glances up and sees this thing come flipping over the fence.”
“A ‘thing’?” Riordan asked.
“Yeah—it was our vic. First the bargeman thought someone was dumping trash along the canal—which seems to be the big sport over there—but then these two white guys come climbing over the fence after it. He couldn’t see too well on account of the trees and shrubs and crap, but then the perps see him and they wig and scramble back over the fence.”
“What kind of a look did he get? Could he ID ’em?”
“Doubtful. He says he was seventy-five yards away.”
“You want to bring him in and show him some pictures?”
“He swears he never saw their faces.”
“He’s just a little hermit who watches too much TN ,” Jack said. “I ordered him to stay put in case we need him again. Gary gave him the number here in case he suddenly remembers something, but he seems pretty useless.”
“What’s next?” Riordan said.
Jack picked up a glass paperweight from his partner’s desk and hefted it in his palm. “I’ve got a couple of snitches to see.”
“You want company?” Daskivitch asked.
Riordan looked up at the clock. “You guys are gonna be heading into OT soon.”
Daskivitch looked dejected. “You want me to punch out?”
The rest of New York City was ecstatic that the murder rate had dropped to a fraction of its peak ten years before, but the detective squads had suffered budget cuts. Business, as it were, was off.
Riordan sighed. “Go with Leightner. God knows, you might actually learn something.”
six
T HEY SAT IN JACK’S car, just up Atlantic Avenue from a little grimy bunker of a bar called the Luray Inn, the kind of dive where a customer might try to unload coat pockets full of boosted cigarettes or supermarket steaks. Jack shifted, but the back of his shirt stuck to the seat—they couldn’t keep the air conditioner running because they might have to wait for hours. Daskivitch, mercifully had given up drumming on the steering wheel and they sat in a companionable silence. Jack was optimistic: they’d started with an anonymous dump job, but in just over twenty-four hours they had an ID and a possible drug connection.
On the sidewalk next to the bar, two tiny Arab kids were goofing around. Two old mattresses rested against a brick wall, and one of the kids pressed the other between them until he yelped. When he escaped, they switched roles. It didn’t take a lot to entertain little kids.
On this side of the street, a customer emerged from a Salvation Army thrift store. Through the plate-glass window Jack watched a friendly cashier make small talk as she rang up a sale. A young couple came out of the store, the pony-tailed girl wearing a backless cotton blouse, the boy in a tie-dyed T-shirt.
“Can you believe this?” Daskivitch said. “That sixties bullshit is coming back again.”
The fact was, Jack had missed a lot of the legendary sixties the first time around. The Groovy Decade had passed Red Hook by: while Greenwich Village kids just a few miles across the river were turning on to pot and Bob Dylan, the Hook remained solidly conservative, a place for working men and out-of-work veterans. There was drink, yes, and there was crime, but he never knew a hippie or a head until he got on a troop transport and flew four thousand miles away from Brooklyn. By the time he came back, even cops had long sideburns.
Motion near the end of the block.
“Here they come,” he told Daskivitch. “The woman’s called Janelle. The guy goes by T.”
The man was grizzled and homely, a little black guy trying to walk like a big
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