Ramone looked away.
“Gus is married to a sister, he tell you that?” said Holiday to Cook.
“Shut the fuck up, Holiday,” said Ramone in a tired and unthreatening way.
“You say he married your sister?” said Cook, trying to cut the chill.
“My sister’s dead,” said Holiday. “She died of leukemia when she was eleven years old.”
“It’s a joke,” said Ramone to Cook. “He played that one on me when we were in uniform. It wasn’t any funnier then.”
“I’m not joking,” said Holiday.
Ramone and Cook waited for the rest, but nothing came.
Cook cleared his throat. “So, you’re married to a black woman, Gus?”
“Last time I checked.”
“How’s that working out?”
“I guess she’s gonna keep me.”
“No bumps in the road?” said Holiday.
“A few,” said Ramone.
“Just a few?” said Holiday. “Rumor was you were having, what do they call that, fidelity issues a while back.”
“Fuck your rumors. Who told you that, your boy Ramirez?”
“I don’t remember. It could have been him. It was just something that was going around.”
“Bullshit.”
“Johnny said you dropped in on him today at the academy.”
“Yeah, I saw him. Ramirez was wearing his pink belt. Teaching recruits how to block a punch. The proper stance and all that. Another guy who rose to the bottom.”
“You mean like me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You could work another twenty and you’d never be the police that I was.”
“You shouldn’t drink so much, Doc. Your mouth overloads your asshole when you do.”
“What’s your excuse?”
“I gotta take a leak,” said Ramone, and he got up out of his chair. He went down the hall.
Cook had watched and listened as they went quietly back and forth through forced smiles and tightened jaws. And now Holiday was relaxed, his hand wrapped loosely around the bottle of beer.
“You were pretty rough on him,” said Cook.
“He’s got thick skin. He can take it.”
“You know his wife?”
“I met her a long time ago. She was police for a short while. Nice-looking woman. Smart. I hear they’ve got a couple of good-looking kids, too.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“There isn’t one. I just like to aggravate him. Guy marries a black woman, he thinks he’s Hubert H. Humphrey and shit.”
“He didn’t bring the subject up. You did.”
“I’m just having a little fun with him,” said Holiday. “That’s all it is.”
Ramone came back from the head but did not sit back down or touch what was left of his beer or shot. He pulled his wallet and dropped twenty-five dollars on the table.
“That ought to cover me,” sad Ramone. “I’m out.”
“I’m just curious,” said Cook. “You never did say if you had any suspects.”
“I don’t know much of anything yet,” said Ramone. “That’s the God’s honest truth. But listen, you guys are done with this, right?”
Holiday and Cook both nodded lamely. It was hardly an oath.
“Pleasure to spend some time with you, Sarge,” said Ramone, reaching out to shake Cook’s hand.
“You, too, Detective.”
Holiday put his hand out. Ramone took it.
“Gus.”
“Doc.”
They watched him walk from the bar, a slight list in his step.
“He knows more than he thinks he knows,” said Cook. “It just hasn’t come to him yet.”
“Still wouldn’t mind beating him to it,” said Holiday.
“Well, we didn’t exactly say we’d stay out of it.”
“Did he ask a question? I was just nodding my head to the music.”
“So was I.”
“You want another beer?”
“I’ve had my limit,” said Cook, watching the same woman Holiday had remarked upon, now talking to a man at the bar. “You go on. I’ll just sit here and dream.”