I wake up to a sweaty pillow. I turn it over and lie still for a while. I try to make sense of the dreams that fired up all that sweat, but by the time I’m focused enough, they slip away. When I go out, I go out hard.
The first thing I do after I get my brain straightened out is check my cell, but not for the time. I want to make sure I didn’t sleep through Davidson trying to call me. It’s a few minutes after 7 a.m. I slept maybe three hours. Wouldn’t have slept at all if I hadn’t downed a couple of Klonopins with a glass of Jameson. Most of the night was spent trying to figure out a good story for Davidson. One of the benefits of blow, especially good blow, is it gives you the fortitude to do shit like that.
I think I got a good story out of it.
I remember I have to shower and shave. It takes me a few minutes, but I manage to push myself up to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
Daylight’s trying to make an entrance through the curtains. It’s still semidark in the bedroom, so the curtains are doing their job. I turn the end table light on ’cause I’m not ready for the light of day. I can’t remember the last time I pulled the curtains open, actually.
I down four ibuprofen with the remaining glass of water I keep on the nightstand. When I’m able to, I stand up, pull my T-shirt off, drop my boxers, and stumble my way to the bathroom.
The bathroom light is brutal. I sit on the toilet and try to take a shit, use some of the toilet paper to blow my nose.
There’s a glob of mucus mixed with blood on the toilet paper; then blood trickles out of my left nostril. I wad up a bit of toilet paper and stuff it up my bleeding nostril, replacing it with a bit more until the bleeding stops.
No luck with taking a shit so I move to the sink, find the saline solution, and squirt it up my nostrils a couple of times until it drips out of my nose and into the sink.
I shave, then take a long, hot shower. When I return to my bedroom I check my cell again and notice a call that just came in from Davidson. I pull out some clean boxers from the top dresser drawer, sit on the edge of the bed, and give him a call.
“Was afraid you weren’t going to return my call,” he answers.
“I was in the shower. What’s up?”
“I’m at the Nickel. Can you get over here at about noon?”
“That won’t be a problem. You already got an Assistant U.S. Attorney assigned to this?”
“Yes. It’s going to district court, so I’m here waiting to paper it.”
“I’m assuming you got some arrests, then?”
“You assume correctly, my friend. We’ll talk when you get here. I’ve got a desk on the third floor now.”
I let myself chuckle. “How’d you wrangle that?”
“Me and a couple other guys from Youth Division got detailed to an FBI task force for crimes against children. The AUSA that’s assigned to work with us wanted us close so she secured some space for us in an empty office.”
“Sounds like a good gig for you. At least it gets you out of Youth Division.”
“We’ll see how long it lasts. It’s good work, though. So listen, I’ll see you when you get here. Hit me on the cell when you’re downstairs.”
“Will do. And start figuring out how you’re gonna keep me out of everything. I’m too busy to deal with witness conferences and grand juries and shit like that.”
He’s silent.
“All right?”
“Just get down here by noon, bro.” And before I can respond he says, “Later,” and disconnects.
Damn, that son of a bitch didn’t give me an answer.
Fourteen
Cops sometimes refer to the U.S. Attorney’s Office as the Nickel or Triple Nickel, ’cause the address is 555. It’s located on 4th Street, between E and F, about three blocks from Costello’s office, and I have to deal with the parking situation again.
I circle the blocks in the area until a spot opens up, maybe twenty minutes. It’s frustrating as shit because my time belongs to me now, not the department. Back when I was on the job, I wasted so much of my life in this car circling blocks. Most of the time, I’d simply give up and park somewhere illegal, put an “Official Police Business” placard on the dash, and hope for the best. It’s the damn DPW you have to worry about getting a ticket from, not cops. Having a placard rarely helped. It was always a roll of the dice.
I give up and park illegally, just like old times. I throw the placard on the dash, step out of the car, and put on my suit jacket. I’m wearing my navy blue Britches suit that I bought in Georgetown back in the day, when they were still open. It’s still a good suit, but I’m thinking with all the money I recovered I should buy myself some newer suits. I grab my overcoat from the front seat ’cause it looks like rain.
Davidson meets me in the lobby.
We shake hands and he says, “You’ve lost some weight.”
“Been eating right,” I tell him.