The Confession of Joe Cullen by Howard Fast Page A

why’d you divorce her?”
    â€œBecause mostly we just ripped each other up. If I’d stayed married, either she’d have killed me or I’d have killed her.”
    â€œYeah — yeah. Let’s eat now. I’m hungry.”
    Freedman nodded. He didn’t want to be alone tonight. If Ramos wanted to eat, he’d eat. They went to Tony Polito’s place on Eighth Avenue. It was only half-past six, and except for another occupied table, the restaurant was empty. Tony had strong mob connections, such as the mortgage to his place, and therefore was overly polite to cops. “You come early, good. My house is your house. You’re not hungry, Lieutenant. I make you a beautiful little salad of arugula, a little olive oil and vinegar, a little spaghetti—”
    â€œHow the hell do you know that I’m not hungry?”
    â€œYou’re never hungry, Lieutenant.”
    Ramos burst out laughing. Tony brought them a bottle of wine, white Sicilian wine, which, he explained, was the best white wine in the world.
    â€œThis is a new line for the mob,” Ramos said. “They’re building it slow but very serious in the wine business.”
    â€œI’ll have a beer,” Freedman said.
    â€œThat’s a mistake,” Ramos said, tasting the wine.
    â€œI’ll risk it.”
    â€œYou’re not a very pleasant person tonight,” Ramos observed. “You’re ripping up everyone you talk to. All because your ex-wife won’t give you a date. You know what I think? I think you ought to marry her again.”
    â€œYou think she’d be stupid enough to marry me? Forget it, and you’re wrong. I gave up on Sheila — for tonight. On the other hand, consider this. Six cops have been shot to death in the last few months by drug dealers, the city is riddled with the stuff, it’s fucken ruining the city and the country, and every time we walk through a door, we could be dead on the other side of it, and you and me sit here and stuff our mouths.”
    â€œWhat do you want me to do, Lieutenant? Eat standing up?”
    â€œWhat the hell is with you, Ramos? Doesn’t anything get to you? We just listened to Cullen’s story about the biggest drug operation maybe in the world, and cocaine coming in like it owned every seat on its own airline—”
    â€œSo what, goddamn it, so what?”
    â€œLike that?”
    â€œHoly Mother of God, Lieutenant,” Ramos burst out. “There’s army and CIA and the State Department, not to mention the administration itself, mixed up in this business, and we’re a couple of cops from a precinct out of Lost Horizons …” His voice trailed off.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œOh, shit!”
    Freedman nodded. “OK, I’m sorry. I’m pissed off. I don’t know why the hell I’m dumping on you.”
    â€œIf you got a date with Sheila, you’d dump on her.”
    â€œMaybe you’re right.” Freedman wasn’t hungry, but he ate his spaghetti hungrily. He’d feel sick later, and he realized this and pushed the plate away from him, half eaten. He sat for a little while in silence, observing Ramos, who was devouring all of his food with gusto. Freedman had an ulcer and he began to feel it now, the initial thread of fire creeping up his gullet.
    â€œIt’s the lousy food you eat.”
    â€œYou’re eating the same lousy food.”
    â€œNo, sir, Lieutenant. This is not lousy food. It’s the pastrami and corned beef that’s putting you under. Myself, I grew up with brown rice and beans. Never had a gut ache—”
    â€œLeave it alone,” Freedman growled. “I am sick of that miserable stomach of yours.” He called Tony to bring him a glass of milk.
    The milk came and Freedman drained the glass and then burst out, “It’s a goddamn farce. The whole thing’s a joke. A man tells us about a murder and a drug business