up now, the dirty orange New York sunrise. It always seemed to make promises it wasn’t going to keep. Today will be different, it said. But today never was.
“What else do you know about this?” R.J. asked his friend.
Hookshot shrugged and sipped again. “Just what’s in the papers. And what’s not. It’s a little early yet for anything to be on the street.” He smiled, his teeth gleaming in the dim light from the rising sun. “And anyway, ain’t nobody else gives a shit about a dead Hollywood lawyer, ’cept you and the cops.”
“All right, Hookshot. What’s not in the papers?”
“Don’t say what kind of poison. Usually mean they trying to stick somebody with it and they think they’re close. Don’t say what midtown hotel—”
“The Pierre,” R.J. said. “In the Presidential Suite.”
“Uh-huh. Which probably means they got a good idea who went in and out.”
“Which means they got me,” R.J. said with disgust.
“You were in there?”
“Yeah.”
“And you knew this guy enough to kill him?”
“I just met him,” R.J. said. “And that was enough.”
Hookshot shook his head. “You in the shit this time, R.J.”
R.J. dropped the last chunk of doughnut onto the counter. It tasted like cardboard. “Tell me about it,” he said.
And being in the shit didn’t stop there.
R.J. headed for Belle’s apartment. It was close and he was so tired the extra twenty blocks to his own place were just too much to think about. But when he got there—
“Big trouble, Mr. Brooks,” Tony the doorman told him. “There wasn’t nothing I could do to stop them.”
“Stop who, Tony?” R.J. said, his need for sleep making it all seem kind of far away.
Tony nodded as the door swung open. A black detective R.J. knew slightly came out, a cardboard box stuffed under one arm. “Them,” Tony said. “He had a warrant and everything.”
“What the—” R.J. stepped over to the detective. “Say, Jackson, what gives here?” He nodded at the open carton the cop was carrying. “That looks like my stuff in there.”
“Used to be your stuff,” Jackson said. “Evidence now.” He pushed past R.J. toward his car, double-parked at the curb.
R.J. followed. “All right, let’s see the paper, goddammit.”
Jackson dropped the carton onto the trunk of his car. R.J. heard rattling inside, like from pill bottles. “Here you go, Mr. Brooks,” Jackson said formally, holding out a piece of paper. It was a search warrant, all right. For the premises herein listed. Belle’s apartment.
R.J. snarled and handed it back. “I’ll need a receipt for that stuff in the box.”
Jackson looked sour. “My shift ended four and a half hours ago, Brooks. How about a break?”
“A break!” R.J. demanded, outraged. “I got you goddamn storm troopers pounding on my door at three A.M., and when I try to go to bed, you’re packing up my goddamned sheets, and now you want a break? Gimme the damn receipt, Jackson. And tell Kates if even one of you bastards bends the tiniest little rule I’m going to get my money’s worth out of my ACLU membership and have him making license plates up the river.”
Jackson made a face, but he made out the receipt, too, itemizing all the stuff he had taken from Belle’s apartment. Mostly it was stuff from the medicine cabinet, which wasn’t any big surprise. R.J. was a poisoner now, and he guessed that’s where guys like him kept the tools of the trade. In the medicine chest, for Christ’s sake. Sure. Pepto Bismol, aspirin, and cyanide.
“Here is your receipt, sir,” Jackson said with savage formality. He tore off the sheet and handed it to R.J. “Here you go, sir. Thank you, sir. Please shove this directly up your ass, motherfucker sir.”
“Thanks, Jackson. I suppose your pals are at my other place, and at my office?”
Jackson gave him a mean grin. “If it was up to me, man, we’d have a guy taking a dump with you. I don’t like poison.” He spat into the gutter
“What else do you know about this?” R.J. asked his friend.
Hookshot shrugged and sipped again. “Just what’s in the papers. And what’s not. It’s a little early yet for anything to be on the street.” He smiled, his teeth gleaming in the dim light from the rising sun. “And anyway, ain’t nobody else gives a shit about a dead Hollywood lawyer, ’cept you and the cops.”
“All right, Hookshot. What’s not in the papers?”
“Don’t say what kind of poison. Usually mean they trying to stick somebody with it and they think they’re close. Don’t say what midtown hotel—”
“The Pierre,” R.J. said. “In the Presidential Suite.”
“Uh-huh. Which probably means they got a good idea who went in and out.”
“Which means they got me,” R.J. said with disgust.
“You were in there?”
“Yeah.”
“And you knew this guy enough to kill him?”
“I just met him,” R.J. said. “And that was enough.”
Hookshot shook his head. “You in the shit this time, R.J.”
R.J. dropped the last chunk of doughnut onto the counter. It tasted like cardboard. “Tell me about it,” he said.
And being in the shit didn’t stop there.
R.J. headed for Belle’s apartment. It was close and he was so tired the extra twenty blocks to his own place were just too much to think about. But when he got there—
“Big trouble, Mr. Brooks,” Tony the doorman told him. “There wasn’t nothing I could do to stop them.”
“Stop who, Tony?” R.J. said, his need for sleep making it all seem kind of far away.
Tony nodded as the door swung open. A black detective R.J. knew slightly came out, a cardboard box stuffed under one arm. “Them,” Tony said. “He had a warrant and everything.”
“What the—” R.J. stepped over to the detective. “Say, Jackson, what gives here?” He nodded at the open carton the cop was carrying. “That looks like my stuff in there.”
“Used to be your stuff,” Jackson said. “Evidence now.” He pushed past R.J. toward his car, double-parked at the curb.
R.J. followed. “All right, let’s see the paper, goddammit.”
Jackson dropped the carton onto the trunk of his car. R.J. heard rattling inside, like from pill bottles. “Here you go, Mr. Brooks,” Jackson said formally, holding out a piece of paper. It was a search warrant, all right. For the premises herein listed. Belle’s apartment.
R.J. snarled and handed it back. “I’ll need a receipt for that stuff in the box.”
Jackson looked sour. “My shift ended four and a half hours ago, Brooks. How about a break?”
“A break!” R.J. demanded, outraged. “I got you goddamn storm troopers pounding on my door at three A.M., and when I try to go to bed, you’re packing up my goddamned sheets, and now you want a break? Gimme the damn receipt, Jackson. And tell Kates if even one of you bastards bends the tiniest little rule I’m going to get my money’s worth out of my ACLU membership and have him making license plates up the river.”
Jackson made a face, but he made out the receipt, too, itemizing all the stuff he had taken from Belle’s apartment. Mostly it was stuff from the medicine cabinet, which wasn’t any big surprise. R.J. was a poisoner now, and he guessed that’s where guys like him kept the tools of the trade. In the medicine chest, for Christ’s sake. Sure. Pepto Bismol, aspirin, and cyanide.
“Here is your receipt, sir,” Jackson said with savage formality. He tore off the sheet and handed it to R.J. “Here you go, sir. Thank you, sir. Please shove this directly up your ass, motherfucker sir.”
“Thanks, Jackson. I suppose your pals are at my other place, and at my office?”
Jackson gave him a mean grin. “If it was up to me, man, we’d have a guy taking a dump with you. I don’t like poison.” He spat into the gutter
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