Do us one more favor, the men in charge said. It’s right here in my hand, what you want. All I have to do is slide it across the table. Shake that ass for tips one more time. Then we’ll stop asking. Except they never did. Not today. Not tomorrow. She thought of her plans for later that night. She could let them go. She could stay home. Tomorrow, she would be a cop again. Right, she thought. Tomorrow. Which meant not tonight. Tonight she remained whatever it was she had become, what she had made herself into, over the past six weeks. She’d refused to put a name on it. If she named that other self, she thought, it might stay.
One more night, she thought. One more time. On my terms.
Because you’ve never told yourself those words before. Not ever. Not a million times.
“Tell me one thing,” Maureen said. “Tell me they’re not making me a rat. Promise me that they’re not gonna sell me to the DOJ when they’re done with me. Tell me that’s not the price tag. That Justice wants someone of their own undercover in the department. Someone easy to use, who they can hurt. Did they come to me because they don’t have the nerve to ask this of Atkinson? Because she’s clean. Because they got nothing on her.”
“I’ve heard nothing,” Preacher said, “about the Department of Justice. Or about this being some kind of permanent snitching gig for the feds. It should be the one favor.”
Maureen laughed. “C’mon, Preacher. There’s never just one favor. Admit it. Skinner finally decided to bring me back because the FBI showed up and gave him a chance to do them a favor. I do this favor for the feds and I get my job back. I’m not stupid. Nobody’s doing anything for my benefit. I’m the perfect puppet. Quid pro quo, little bird.” She rubbed her eyes, sat on the bench. “Here I am accusing you of being the FBI’s bitch, when in the end, it’s me who’s going to be their bitch.”
“I don’t know for a fact,” Preacher said, emphatic, “that your reinstatement continges on you talking to this FBI guy, but, whether it does or it doesn’t, doing the feds a solid can’t hurt your chances. You’re a good Catholic girl. Don’t think of it as a price tag, think of it as penance.”
“I gave up that Catholic shit,” Maureen said.
“Then think of it as karma,” Preacher said. “I don’t judge. Think of it as a mutually beneficial opportunity of which you’ve been availed. I don’t much give a shit how you sell it to yourself. Just, for once, make the Man happy. It won’t kill you. I’ve dabbled in it in my three decades on the job and I survived. And I remind you, if the bosses wanted to be cruel to you and roll around in their own shit in the process, which wouldn’t be a first for this department, criminal charges around this Quinn thing and the Gage murder are a real possibility. You gotta live with that. You gotta factor that in.”
“And I remind you,” Maureen said, “this bird can sing. Factor that in.”
“Sing about who?” Preacher said. “Quinn? His partner Ruiz? Not much point to that, is there?”
Maureen knew there was a third name Preacher had left off the list. His. He knew he didn’t need to say it, that she’d register the omission.
“Listen to me, Coughlin. The best thing that could’ve happened for you did happen. The people in power, they’ve decided they need you. That only you can do what they need done. Be smart. Take advantage of it. Pride has no place in this job we do. Results are what matter. Favors. Debts. Information. Get your badge back so the Man can forget about us and we can get back to doing the work we were put on God’s green earth to do. Catching the bad guys. Believe.”
Maureen got up from the bench. “Speaking of bad guys, I saw Dice yesterday. Downtown.”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” Preacher said. “Not my case. Not even my district. Not your case, either. And you’re not a cop again until tomorrow. So shit that happened yesterday needs to stay there.”
“She had nothing to say about Leary anyway. Except that there’s been people looking for her. I think maybe Solomon sent someone after her, to protect Caleb.”
“What did I just say? What did I just say to you about yesterday?”
“What? She followed me to my car and started talking. I was at the Spotted Cat having a drink and she saw me. I think she needed money, really. I think that’s what it was about.”
“And you just decided, hey, while I’ve got you here, let me ask about that murder suspect you know.”
“It wasn’t anything,” Maureen said.
“Then why tell me about it?” Preacher asked. “Why mention it?”
This motherfucker, Maureen thought. Honesty. Up to a point. “I thought you’d be happy to hear the girl’s not dead. That’s what I meant by bringing it up.”
“I am glad,” Preacher said. “I am. When you’re official again, reach out to Atkinson, let her know Dice is breathing and in town. Then maybe stay this side of Canal Street for a while.”
Maureen pulled her heels to the small of her back one at a time, stretching her thighs. “I’m with you. I am.”
Preacher was giving her that disapproving look again, like every wrong thing she had done over the past few weeks was scrolling across her body like a movie on a screen.