and the tired, hard-edged words
of the prostitute seemed like church whispers as they drifted through the bar. Clay
slid from the rear booth and stood up, black shoes scuffing the floor. He wore
tan chinos and a simple, v-necked navy blue t-shirt and his hair was freshly
cut. In this neighborhood he would have stood out, been noticed by everyone he
passed. But nobody had noticed a stray cat with copper fur and one white ear.
Clay started toward the front of the bar.
Sergeant Brodsky looked up sharply from questioning Jaalisa,
notepad and pen in his hands, and he frowned deeply, then stood up and moved to
block Clay's path.
"I didn't even see you come in," Brodsky said.
The man had a round little keg of a beer gut and his slumped
even when standing, but his eyes were bright and intelligent. He only looked
the part of the fool. Even now there was something in his voice that suggested
that he knew there was something unusual, even unnatural, about Clay Smith, but
he would say no more about it.
"You weren't supposed to," Clay told him with a
smile.
Brodsky processed that a moment, eyes narrowing. Then he
nodded. "You find anything?" "Yes. Your perp."
Closer to the front door, the plainclothes detective cleared
his throat. "Sergeant, what the hell is this?" He strode toward them,
shoes rapping the pitted wood floor. "Where the hell did this guy come
from?"
The detective was pale, with dark circles beneath his eyes. He
had probably not been drinking yet today, but the stale smell of alcohol exuded
from his pores. There were sweat rings forming under his arms and the white
shirt looked rumpled as though he might have slept in it.
"Lieutenant Pete Landry, meet Clay Smith," Brodsky
said. "He's here to help."
The Lieutenant's nostrils flared and he stared at Clay. "You're
him."
"Yes."
"He's got a lead on the perp," Brodsky offered,
making a game attempt to defuse the tension.
"Oh, he does, huh?" The Lieutenant rolled his eyes
and reached into his shirt pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped
one out, dragging the moment, and fished into his pants for a lighter. When he
snapped it open and set fire to the end of the cigarette, he gazed at Clay
through the flame, then clicked the lighter shut.
"So, give, genius. Who killed Travaligni and the kid?"
Clay did not smile. Instead, he stared at the wretched,
silently screaming ghosts that clung to Pete Landry, tearing at him with
insubstantial fingers. Trav the bartender was there. And the kid. But there
were others as well. An attractive, middle-aged woman, a thug with cruel eyes,
an old man whose spectral body seemed contorted somehow.
"Come on, Lieutenant," Clay said. "You did. You
killed them."
The hand holding the cigarette to Landry's lips shook and
dropped away from his mouth.
"Christ, Clay!" Brodsky snapped. "What the
hell are you —"
"The kid had something on you, saw you do something
else you shouldn't have been doing. Or maybe he was a runner for you. What are
you supplying on this block, Pete? Crack? Heroin? He pissed you off, this kid. And
the fool bartender, he should've slept in, just this once, but his work ethic
wouldn't let him."
The other uniformed officers had begun to slide toward them
now, drawn by the words and by the way the air in the bar had grown suddenly
heavier.
The Lieutenant hesitated only another moment, then put the
cigarette to his lips again and took a long drag as his colleagues watched him
in confusion and doubt. He let a plume of smoke out the side of his mouth and
then glanced around at the uniforms.
"Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Come in here,
making accusations like that."
Clay glanced at Brodsky again. "I doubt he used his
police issue. But I also figure he's arrogant enough not to have dumped the gun
he did use. Check under the seats of his car, maybe the trunk, I think you'll
find it. I also think if you check his hands you'll find residue."
Lieutenant Landry snorted and shook his head, tendrils of
smoke
of the prostitute seemed like church whispers as they drifted through the bar. Clay
slid from the rear booth and stood up, black shoes scuffing the floor. He wore
tan chinos and a simple, v-necked navy blue t-shirt and his hair was freshly
cut. In this neighborhood he would have stood out, been noticed by everyone he
passed. But nobody had noticed a stray cat with copper fur and one white ear.
Clay started toward the front of the bar.
Sergeant Brodsky looked up sharply from questioning Jaalisa,
notepad and pen in his hands, and he frowned deeply, then stood up and moved to
block Clay's path.
"I didn't even see you come in," Brodsky said.
The man had a round little keg of a beer gut and his slumped
even when standing, but his eyes were bright and intelligent. He only looked
the part of the fool. Even now there was something in his voice that suggested
that he knew there was something unusual, even unnatural, about Clay Smith, but
he would say no more about it.
"You weren't supposed to," Clay told him with a
smile.
Brodsky processed that a moment, eyes narrowing. Then he
nodded. "You find anything?" "Yes. Your perp."
Closer to the front door, the plainclothes detective cleared
his throat. "Sergeant, what the hell is this?" He strode toward them,
shoes rapping the pitted wood floor. "Where the hell did this guy come
from?"
The detective was pale, with dark circles beneath his eyes. He
had probably not been drinking yet today, but the stale smell of alcohol exuded
from his pores. There were sweat rings forming under his arms and the white
shirt looked rumpled as though he might have slept in it.
"Lieutenant Pete Landry, meet Clay Smith," Brodsky
said. "He's here to help."
The Lieutenant's nostrils flared and he stared at Clay. "You're
him."
"Yes."
"He's got a lead on the perp," Brodsky offered,
making a game attempt to defuse the tension.
"Oh, he does, huh?" The Lieutenant rolled his eyes
and reached into his shirt pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped
one out, dragging the moment, and fished into his pants for a lighter. When he
snapped it open and set fire to the end of the cigarette, he gazed at Clay
through the flame, then clicked the lighter shut.
"So, give, genius. Who killed Travaligni and the kid?"
Clay did not smile. Instead, he stared at the wretched,
silently screaming ghosts that clung to Pete Landry, tearing at him with
insubstantial fingers. Trav the bartender was there. And the kid. But there
were others as well. An attractive, middle-aged woman, a thug with cruel eyes,
an old man whose spectral body seemed contorted somehow.
"Come on, Lieutenant," Clay said. "You did. You
killed them."
The hand holding the cigarette to Landry's lips shook and
dropped away from his mouth.
"Christ, Clay!" Brodsky snapped. "What the
hell are you —"
"The kid had something on you, saw you do something
else you shouldn't have been doing. Or maybe he was a runner for you. What are
you supplying on this block, Pete? Crack? Heroin? He pissed you off, this kid. And
the fool bartender, he should've slept in, just this once, but his work ethic
wouldn't let him."
The other uniformed officers had begun to slide toward them
now, drawn by the words and by the way the air in the bar had grown suddenly
heavier.
The Lieutenant hesitated only another moment, then put the
cigarette to his lips again and took a long drag as his colleagues watched him
in confusion and doubt. He let a plume of smoke out the side of his mouth and
then glanced around at the uniforms.
"Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Come in here,
making accusations like that."
Clay glanced at Brodsky again. "I doubt he used his
police issue. But I also figure he's arrogant enough not to have dumped the gun
he did use. Check under the seats of his car, maybe the trunk, I think you'll
find it. I also think if you check his hands you'll find residue."
Lieutenant Landry snorted and shook his head, tendrils of
smoke
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