Harry. Dancing, spinning, bursting sparks. Reminders of special non-status. What was I supposed to be doing if I quit being a cop? My wife and I were talking about having a baby, and three weeks in Mallorca ought to do the trick. It would be a gray slow time. Neither here nor there. Time to end things or get things started. A gold badge tossed on the captainâs desk. As movie-like an ending as possible.
But so much for Mallorca and great escapes and movie scenes rolling to end credits. I had started smoking again. Swiped loose cigarettes from everywhere. Menthols, kings, filter tips, Chesterfield Regulars. I had just about every type of smokable tobacco squirreled everywhere I could reach like pocket like shelf like desk drawer always a loose one someplace for a sudden drag. And to sit sometimes and smoke them in rows as if waiting for someone to walk through that door. An armload of facts, irrefutable. Maybe they had sicced some dark yoruba spick cop on me. Parked outside my house. Getting to know habits, manner, style, face. The pebbles striking my window at 4 a.m.
The agent had two bookends with him. Left them standing at the desk in the entry hall, faces impenetrably stone. Special agent? I expected older, salt-and-pepper hair, abrasive vocals. A face lined with experience and hassles, and not this young guy, hands sunk in the pockets of his long tan raincoat. I would have been more impressed had I caught him picking my lock or rifling through piles on my desk.
I hadnât even stirred my first cup of coffee. It rained buckets that morning and the wet was still in my bones. How I sat and started talking to him about cop life was beyond me. I didnât have visitors for a reason. Didnât have to scratch the surface much to strike a nerve. Nothing to hide, and thatâs the best policy. How it all comes spilling out.
âIâm Special Agent Myers,â he said.
There was also that hunger for the raspy bite of that first cigarette of the day, which went with the first taste of coffee.
âDetective Sanchez,â I said.
A calm, sure grip. Smile so simpatico in that AMERICAN HEARTLANDS kind of way. To trust that face the moment you spot it on the screen. Should I say CIA? It never pays to say. People get riled over the silliest shit these days. Three simple letters in an e-mail like FBI CIA or FALN (thatâs four letters), and suddenly thereâs a background check and a black car with tinted windows following you around. Funny clicks on the phone. That guy outside the bodega who for some reason says, âSmile for the FBI,â as you head for your car. Too clean-cut to be a used car salesman. Too much energy for such a small space. Offered him a coffee and that was a mistake. Ripping those sugar packets and sprinkling sugar liberal, then stirring mad. Spoon clang clanging like the fucking bells of Rhymney. On top of which he asked me to close the door. By the time I got behind my desk, it felt like the room had shrunk.
I guess I talked to him because I saw him as a cop from somewhere elseâWashington, not South Bronxâanother plane of reality where the power was stored. Maybe the feds had decided to step in and order a real investigation into what was happening here. It was an opportunity for me to talk to someone from OUTSIDE of here, OUTSIDE of this narrow confining orbit. To check and see if I was really going crazy. A new federal investigation would mean more new noise at a time when all was a vague limbo, not here not there. Good guys. Bad guys. A hazy blur. I donât know now why I even bothered to raise my hand. I suddenly got the feeling from the deep silence that I didnât want to talk anymore.
âI know about your record,â Myers said. âYou came highly recommended.â
The best time to light up that first cigarette of the day is halfway through that first cup of the day. Had to be halfway, give the taste buds enough time to get saturated with
But so much for Mallorca and great escapes and movie scenes rolling to end credits. I had started smoking again. Swiped loose cigarettes from everywhere. Menthols, kings, filter tips, Chesterfield Regulars. I had just about every type of smokable tobacco squirreled everywhere I could reach like pocket like shelf like desk drawer always a loose one someplace for a sudden drag. And to sit sometimes and smoke them in rows as if waiting for someone to walk through that door. An armload of facts, irrefutable. Maybe they had sicced some dark yoruba spick cop on me. Parked outside my house. Getting to know habits, manner, style, face. The pebbles striking my window at 4 a.m.
The agent had two bookends with him. Left them standing at the desk in the entry hall, faces impenetrably stone. Special agent? I expected older, salt-and-pepper hair, abrasive vocals. A face lined with experience and hassles, and not this young guy, hands sunk in the pockets of his long tan raincoat. I would have been more impressed had I caught him picking my lock or rifling through piles on my desk.
I hadnât even stirred my first cup of coffee. It rained buckets that morning and the wet was still in my bones. How I sat and started talking to him about cop life was beyond me. I didnât have visitors for a reason. Didnât have to scratch the surface much to strike a nerve. Nothing to hide, and thatâs the best policy. How it all comes spilling out.
âIâm Special Agent Myers,â he said.
There was also that hunger for the raspy bite of that first cigarette of the day, which went with the first taste of coffee.
âDetective Sanchez,â I said.
A calm, sure grip. Smile so simpatico in that AMERICAN HEARTLANDS kind of way. To trust that face the moment you spot it on the screen. Should I say CIA? It never pays to say. People get riled over the silliest shit these days. Three simple letters in an e-mail like FBI CIA or FALN (thatâs four letters), and suddenly thereâs a background check and a black car with tinted windows following you around. Funny clicks on the phone. That guy outside the bodega who for some reason says, âSmile for the FBI,â as you head for your car. Too clean-cut to be a used car salesman. Too much energy for such a small space. Offered him a coffee and that was a mistake. Ripping those sugar packets and sprinkling sugar liberal, then stirring mad. Spoon clang clanging like the fucking bells of Rhymney. On top of which he asked me to close the door. By the time I got behind my desk, it felt like the room had shrunk.
I guess I talked to him because I saw him as a cop from somewhere elseâWashington, not South Bronxâanother plane of reality where the power was stored. Maybe the feds had decided to step in and order a real investigation into what was happening here. It was an opportunity for me to talk to someone from OUTSIDE of here, OUTSIDE of this narrow confining orbit. To check and see if I was really going crazy. A new federal investigation would mean more new noise at a time when all was a vague limbo, not here not there. Good guys. Bad guys. A hazy blur. I donât know now why I even bothered to raise my hand. I suddenly got the feeling from the deep silence that I didnât want to talk anymore.
âI know about your record,â Myers said. âYou came highly recommended.â
The best time to light up that first cigarette of the day is halfway through that first cup of the day. Had to be halfway, give the taste buds enough time to get saturated with
Similar Books
