on the northeast side of Bay Ridge. I live on the southwest side of the Ridge, Dyker Heights. So, every so often, I drive by the northeast. Check things out. Talk to some old-timers, the remnants of the Irish and Scandinavians that used to dominate that section of the neighborhood. And I talk to some of the Asian newcomers once in a while. Then I write out a report on the local Muslim activity and fax it over to Anti-terror Intelligence. They file it away, and everybody’s happy.”
“So, okay,” McQueen said.
Rizzo nodded. “Well, by my count, the six months for that tape we’re holdin’ comes up this February. Am I right?”
McQueen shrugged. “Yeah. February.”
Rizzo put down his rock glass and leaned across the table. When he spoke, McQueen could smell the liquor on his breath.
“I need an extension, kid,” he said softly.
Rizzo pretended not to notice the relief that flickered briefly in the young cop’s eyes. He kept his own face neutral.
“Oh,” was all McQueen managed.
“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “An extension. These friggin’ tuition loans won’t go away just because I retire, and it’ll be a couple a years before Marie is a doctor and can assume the loans Jen and me owe, never mind her own. Not to mention my other two girls.”
“How much time, Joe?” McQueen asked casually.
Rizzo spread his hands and cocked his head to the side. “Not sure,” he said. “A year, maybe—say, next October. Then with the administrative O.T., plus my regular O.T., I can get out with enough pension to carry the loans till the girls can take ’em off my hands. And by then, we’ll be far enough away from it that maybe no one will connect us to it when it does go public.”
McQueen smiled. “I understand. To tell you the truth, I could use a little more time myself. I need to make some contacts, some friends at the Plaza. That way, when we put that tape into the right hands, if the shit hits the fan and Daily does realize we screwed him, at least I’ll have some allies. Some cover.”
Rizzo nodded. “Sounds fair, Mike. After all, I’ll probably be out, my pension in hand, outta their reach. You should have some cover, too. Insurance, sorta.”
McQueen drank deeply, draining the glass. “Yeah,” he said. “Insurance.”
Later, leaving the restaurant after they’d eaten their lunch, Rizzo walked McQueen to his shiny black Mazda, which sat parked at an expired meter on Old Fulton Street. They shook hands.
“We’ll get it done,” Rizzo said solemnly. “Just a little later than we figured.”
McQueen, two Manhattans sitting heavily on his eyelids, smiled sadly. “Yeah,” he said, “we’ll get it done.”
PRISCILLA JACKSON took a seat on the heavy wooden chair beside Joe Rizzo’s squad room desk. She tossed the legal-size papers onto the cluttered desk surface.
“Well, Joe,” she said, “I read all three.”
Rizzo glanced at the sworn statements of Jimmy Cocca, Andy Hermann, and Nunzio Nottadomo, taken earlier by Six-Two personnel.
“Good,” he said. “Now you know as much as I do. Good statements, weren’t they? Bobby Dee might not be the best bull on the squad, but he is the best statement taker. He gets all the info, short and sweet.”
Priscilla nodded. “I’ll remember that. Now what? Do we start on that bar canvass?”
Rizzo shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked at the wall clock. “It’s only twenty after four. If we do it, we should start callin’ around to the bars later, about eight or so. More likely to catch the same bartender who worked last night.”
“Makes sense. So, what now?”
Rizzo sat back in his seat. “Well,” he said, “I figure we discuss it. The shooting, I mean. I got a theory.”
“Yeah, Mike told me about those theories of yours. So let’s hear it.”
Nodding, Rizzo said, “Okay. By the way, Mike says ‘hi.’ Next time I’ll bring you along, he’d love to see ya.”
“Good deal, Joe. So, what’s the theory?”
“Okay, get
“So, okay,” McQueen said.
Rizzo nodded. “Well, by my count, the six months for that tape we’re holdin’ comes up this February. Am I right?”
McQueen shrugged. “Yeah. February.”
Rizzo put down his rock glass and leaned across the table. When he spoke, McQueen could smell the liquor on his breath.
“I need an extension, kid,” he said softly.
Rizzo pretended not to notice the relief that flickered briefly in the young cop’s eyes. He kept his own face neutral.
“Oh,” was all McQueen managed.
“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “An extension. These friggin’ tuition loans won’t go away just because I retire, and it’ll be a couple a years before Marie is a doctor and can assume the loans Jen and me owe, never mind her own. Not to mention my other two girls.”
“How much time, Joe?” McQueen asked casually.
Rizzo spread his hands and cocked his head to the side. “Not sure,” he said. “A year, maybe—say, next October. Then with the administrative O.T., plus my regular O.T., I can get out with enough pension to carry the loans till the girls can take ’em off my hands. And by then, we’ll be far enough away from it that maybe no one will connect us to it when it does go public.”
McQueen smiled. “I understand. To tell you the truth, I could use a little more time myself. I need to make some contacts, some friends at the Plaza. That way, when we put that tape into the right hands, if the shit hits the fan and Daily does realize we screwed him, at least I’ll have some allies. Some cover.”
Rizzo nodded. “Sounds fair, Mike. After all, I’ll probably be out, my pension in hand, outta their reach. You should have some cover, too. Insurance, sorta.”
McQueen drank deeply, draining the glass. “Yeah,” he said. “Insurance.”
Later, leaving the restaurant after they’d eaten their lunch, Rizzo walked McQueen to his shiny black Mazda, which sat parked at an expired meter on Old Fulton Street. They shook hands.
“We’ll get it done,” Rizzo said solemnly. “Just a little later than we figured.”
McQueen, two Manhattans sitting heavily on his eyelids, smiled sadly. “Yeah,” he said, “we’ll get it done.”
PRISCILLA JACKSON took a seat on the heavy wooden chair beside Joe Rizzo’s squad room desk. She tossed the legal-size papers onto the cluttered desk surface.
“Well, Joe,” she said, “I read all three.”
Rizzo glanced at the sworn statements of Jimmy Cocca, Andy Hermann, and Nunzio Nottadomo, taken earlier by Six-Two personnel.
“Good,” he said. “Now you know as much as I do. Good statements, weren’t they? Bobby Dee might not be the best bull on the squad, but he is the best statement taker. He gets all the info, short and sweet.”
Priscilla nodded. “I’ll remember that. Now what? Do we start on that bar canvass?”
Rizzo shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked at the wall clock. “It’s only twenty after four. If we do it, we should start callin’ around to the bars later, about eight or so. More likely to catch the same bartender who worked last night.”
“Makes sense. So, what now?”
Rizzo sat back in his seat. “Well,” he said, “I figure we discuss it. The shooting, I mean. I got a theory.”
“Yeah, Mike told me about those theories of yours. So let’s hear it.”
Nodding, Rizzo said, “Okay. By the way, Mike says ‘hi.’ Next time I’ll bring you along, he’d love to see ya.”
“Good deal, Joe. So, what’s the theory?”
“Okay, get
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