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Outside on the sidewalk Billy Burke placed a hand against the small of his back, arched his shoulders, and stretched. He was dressed in jeans and a houndstooth jacket that looked as though he had slept in it. Three buttons had been torn from his blue checked dress shirt. "Sorry you got dragged out of bed, Cheech." Burke glanced at Whitney. The look on her face forced him to turn away. Whitney's lawyer had gone to retrieve his car so he could drive her home, but Frankie glanced around just to be sure. "It's not a problem, but Murphy may decide to bend some ears at the paper, just to cover his ass. So you better tell me everything that happened." Billy shook his head. "It was stupid, Cheech. This cop, Grady, was half in the bag. I think he spotted the press plates on my car and decided he was going to break my chops. Anyway, he pulled me over and told me I¹d run a red light. Then he started mouthing off -- said he was sick of newspaper and television assholes who thought they could do whatever they wanted. Before I could say anything, he started ranting about that cop in Brownsville, the one who shot that black honor student last month. He said the kid was a scumbag junkie and that we ruined the cop's life by playing him up as some trigger-happy kid killer." Billy rubbed his eyes. "Hell, I should of just kept my mouth shut and taken care of it the next day. I knew then he was half loaded. His damn breath almost knocked me over. Instead, I told him where to get off; told him I was going to let his captain know he had a drunk working for him." He gave Fabio a regretful look. "That's when he really lost it. He grabbed me by the throat and pulled me out of the car, spun me around, and started patting me down." Burke let out a low laugh. "All this time his partner -- this young kid he's riding with -- is begging him to cool it. I think he could see his brand-new cop career headed straight for the toilet." He shook his head again. "That's when Whitney got out of the car to find out what was happening. She came up behind Grady and asked what was going on, and he turned around and belted her. One shot, right to the chest. Just like they teach at the academy. Knocked her ass over teacups." He let out a long sigh. "And that's when I lost it and decked him." "If you'd kept quiet in the first place, you wouldn't have had to play Sir Galahad." Whitney was staring into the street as she snapped out the words. Billy let out another breath and looked to the heavens. Frankie ignored her, thinking, And if you'd kept your cute little ass in the car, I'd still be in bed. He glanced at Billy. And you probably would be, too. With her. Frankie stared at Burke, wondering how long it would take him to mend fences with the lady. He was a good-looking guy -- wavy black hair with a few flecks of gray starting to show through, soft green eyes contrasted against rugged features that seemed a bit world-weary. Frankie had known Burke for seven years, and not only liked the man but respected him. Early on he had made Burke his protégé considering him the best reporter he had ever encountered. Until a few years ago there had been no question in Frankie's mind that Burke would be the paper's next city editor. But when his chance came, Burke's life had been falling apart, and any hope he had of running the city desk fell apart with it. And his life was still falling apart. You could see it in his face. It was a deep, personal pain that seemed to sit behind his eyes. Frankie understood that pain, knew what had caused it, and he silently prayed it was something he would never experience himself. He forced the thought away. Right now there was a more pressing problem. He took Billy's arm and led him a few steps down the sidewalk. "I need you to listen up a minute," he began. "You know and I know that a certain city editor is gonna ask some very pointed questions about this tomorrow. And he's gonna be hoping for answers that will put you in a pile of shit." Frankie raised his hands as though speaking a regrettable truth he wished he could change, but a truth nonetheless. "Look, if this had happened to one of his fucking pets, he wouldn't give it a second thought. But it happened to you. So if he doesn't get the right answers, he's gonna jump all over your ass, and he's gonna love every fucking minute of it. Now, you got two choices. You can tell him to fuck off and end up working in Queens for the next three months, or you help me put together a story he's gonna buy." Billy stared out at the traffic moving down Flatbush Avenue. "What do you need to know?" "First, tell me what the hell brought you two out to Brooklyn." "Fate," Billy said. He gave Frankie a lopsided grin. "Actually, we came out for a late dinner at Monte's. Whitney heard it was a wiseguy hangout and wanted to see it." He grinned again. "She said it would be interesting to eat with a bunch of hoodlums." He let out a short laugh. "Those were her exact words." "Jesus Christ." "Hey, she works for the Sunday Magazine." He laughed again. "I think she expected to see the Godfather scarfing down a plate of scungilli. Anyway, we were heading back to Manhattan when that clown pulled us over." Frankie turned and beckoned for Whitney to join them. "Billy says you came out here for dinner," Frankie said when she reached them. "That's right. Coming to Brooklyn was my second mistake of the night." She gave Billy an icy look, making it clear what her first mistake was. Frankie ignored her and pushed on. "The copy of the report Murphy gave me says this happened a little after eleven. Why'd you both wait so long to call the city desk?" Whitney's face turned a deep red, and she looked away. "That's the way Grady played it," Billy said. "He took us to the central booking station, had us strip-searched, booked, then put in holding cells for a while before they brought us here to the Seven-eight. We weren't allowed any calls until we got here. I think his sergeant was pissed when he found out that happened -- I could hear him snarling at Grady out in the hall -- but by then there was nothing he could do." Frankie glanced at Whitney. Her back was rigidly straight, and she was still staring into the street. The revelation of the strip search had deepened the color in her face. He tried to visualize her being told to bend over and grab her ankles. He couldn't quite manage it. And the female holding cell, given the area, had probably been loaded with the evening's collection of skags and hookers. He fought off a grin and decided it might be quite a while before Billy again climbed between those lovely legs. "Okay, let's go home and forget about it. Leave the damage control to me. This moron, Grady, did enough things wrong I should be able to bury him with our fearless leaders." "What's going to happen with us?" Whitney asked. "Will we have to go to court?" Frankie shrugged. "Grady says he won't drop the charges, and even his bosses can't make him if he wants to play hard-ass. But I'll call the Brooklyn DA. He's a politician. He knows better than to play games with us. Don't worry about it. The worst that's gonna happen is he'll ask the judge to adjourn the case in contemplation of dismissal. That means you'll appear in court, you'll go home, and six months later the charges will be expunged from the record. I'll take care of any questions at the paper. But if anybody there asks you about this, you make sure you don't tell them any more than you told me. The cop was a drunk who had a hard-on for the media, and you two were just innocent bystanders. That's it. End of story. You got that?" "I'm not sure I want to let it drop," Billy said. "I think Whitney and I should file a complaint with the Civilian Review Board." Frankie stared at him, blinked, then let out a barking laugh. "Bullshit." He tapped one finger against Burke's chest. "You listen to your Cheech, my boy, and just let it die. The powers that be are not gonna be happy about this. Just keep our beloved city editor in mind. You are not one of Lenny Twist's favorite people. And your star isn't exactly in the ascension with the other editors either. So drop it and let me handle it." Billy drew a deep breath. "Cheech, if that drunken asshole stays on the street, sooner or later he'll kill some poor bastard. Christ, if he did this to a newspaper reporter, what the hell do you think he'll do to some black or Hispanic kid who happens to piss him off? We¹ll have another Brownsville all over again." Again Frankie tapped Burke's chest, emphasizing each word. "That . . . is . . . not . . . your . . . problem. You let me take care of Grady." "What are you going to do?" Whitney asked. Frankie stared at her, as if she, too, were about to propose something stupid. "I'm not disagreeing with you," she said quickly. "In fact, I agree with you completely. I just want this whole thing over with, and I certainly don't want any trouble at the paper." She paused a beat. "But . . . well . . . I am curious." Frankie nodded. "Okay. But this is for our ears only." His lips formed a self-satisfied smirk. "Let's just say that later this morning, our good friend the deputy commissioner just might run a little check with personnel to find out where Patrolman Grady lives. Then, later, he just might have a little talk with the chief of patrol and express his concern about the horrendous understaffing at whatever New York City precinct is the farthest one away from Grady's house." The smirk disappeared, and he let out a sigh and shook his head in mock sadness. "It wouldn't surprise me at all if that Irish asshole ends up working as the broom in that precinct." Fabio's smirk returned, decidedly evil now. "A few days after that happens, I think Patrolman Grady also just might get a little phone call. And when he gets that call, somebody just might ask that Irish prick how he likes sweeping floors and cleaning locker rooms and if he ever thinks about us when he drives his fat Irish ass all that way to work each day." Frankie's smirk grew. "There's also a certain bigmouth desk sergeant who's supposed to retire next week. Except I think his paperwork just might get lost. Maybe for a couple of months. In the meantime he might be doing a little foot patrol with all the skells in Times Square." Billy studied Frankie and found himself enjoying the man's outrageous bravado. Fabio looked quite pleased with himself. His dark hair was slicked back, accenting a sharp widow's peak, and his head was tilted so he could look at them along the length of his nose. His pudgy body seemed puffed up like a victorious rooster, Billy thought, one who fully expected to have his way. He glanced at Whitney and knew his own plan for Grady didn't have a prayer. There would be no chance with the Civilian Review Board without her corroborating statement. The look on her face told him not even to ask. He shook his head. "Okay, Cheech. We'll play it your way." Frankie glanced at Whitney to confirm what he already knew -- that there would be no opposition in that corner either. Satisfied, he turned back to Billy. "That's a good troop," he said. "Where's your car?" "They left it on the street where they busted me." "When Whitney's lawyer gets back, I'll take you over there." He grinned. "With a little luck, some of it might still be there." Click here to return to main book page. |
