Horowitz could be like a city gridlock in rush hour.
“It’s not gonna happen, kid. He don’t talk to reporters.”
“He talked to you.”
“Yeah, but we’re—”
“You’re what?”
Horowitz dropped his cigarette and ground it out carefully. Then took out his pack of Camels again, fumbled for a light. Inhaled deeply. All the while avoiding Pete’s eyes.
Pete decided to push it. “You’re what? Friends? Neighbors? Golf buddies?”
“We go back a long way.”
“Okay, so you . . .”
“Look. I get that you’re just starting out, Wonicke. I get that. You’re trying to make your name. But Charlie Devlin and I go back. I owe him. So I’m not letting you put so much as one damn question mark over the way he’s running this investigation.”
Pete kept his eyes on the other man’s. Kept his voice steady. Wondered about what seemed like a hell of an overreaction.
“I just want to meet the guy. Just color him in in my mind. Satisfy my curiosity. You say the word and I won’t even mention his name in print, not unless he gives me an official statement and says I can use it.”
Silence.
Then: “Wait here.”
Horowitz made his way back inside, and Pete leaned against the hood of a Ford. For an old guy, Horowitz walked fluidly, from the hips.
He was back within ten minutes. As he approached, he jerked his head, and led the way to a dusty gray sedan parked at the back of the lot.
“Where we going?”
“You wanted to meet him.”
“Now?”
“Why not?”
“You called him?”
“Yep.”
Horowitz’s car was filthy inside: paper coffee cups, sandwich wrappers, cartons of Chinese food. It was like the graveyard of a hundred stakeouts.
Pete took a pile of papers from the passenger seat, tossed them in back. “Thanks, man. Really, I . . .”
“I’m not doing this for you.”
Horowitz backed out, head turned, eyes on the road.
“Then . . .”
“Devlin’s a good cop but he’s under a lot of pressure on this one. He’s got five kids and he needs this job. He’ll be up for retirement in a few years, and he needs to finish out his thirty with a clean record.”
He swung onto the highway, checked the mirror.
“He had some . . . trouble in the past—but he’s good at his job. He’s focused. He needs a result on this: he’ll get there, but he don’t need bad press.”
Pete fumbled for a cigarette. “So, what, you’re telling me . . . what are you telling me?”
Horowitz sighed. “Charlie Devlin’s an ornery sonofabitch. Can be a real bastard. He’s a tough guy to like—but I owe him.”
He took a hard left and Pete was flung against the door.
“Look, Wonicke. You wanted to speak to him—but it works both ways. I’m not telling you to write anything that isn’t true. Just give him a break. That trouble I mentioned? He needs to wipe the slate clean. I can’t help him, I’m stuck on this goddamn fraud thing. And I won’t be around forever anyway.”
“But I don’t owe him anything.”
“No, you don’t. Not yet. But you sure as hell need him. That’s why you asked for this, right? He’s lead detective on the biggest case I’ve seen in years.”
“It’s just a . . .”
“I know it ain’t that big a story yet. But it will be. You got two dead kids, no witnesses, and a hot broad who’s slept with half of New York. If it ever goes to trial, it’ll be fucking dynamite.”
Pete thought about this.
“You need an in. And Devlin needs you. Or someone like you. You don’t want to work like this, just say the word and I’ll find someone else.”
Pete stared out of the window. Kept his mouth shut.
Horowitz pulled into the parking lot of Tony’s and they got out. As they headed for the entrance, a car pulled in behind them and the driver sounded his horn. Horowitz raised a hand, then turned to Pete. Spoke through his teeth.
“Let me do the talking. Just act like you agree with me. And no fucking swearing.”
They watched Devlin strolling across the parking lot as though it was his own backyard. He reached them, slowly shook Horowitz’s outstretched hand.
“Arthur. Been a long while.” He turned to Pete and frowned.
Horowitz took half a step forward. “This is Pete Wonicke. He’s lead reporter on the Malone case.”
Devlin looked him up and down, stuck out his hand and gripped Pete’s.
“Wonicke? That a Polack name?”
“My grandfather was Polish. I grew up in Iowa.”
“Uh-huh.” He raised an eyebrow at Horowitz, who shrugged and opened his arms.
“Let’s eat, boys.”
They ordered and Horowitz asked, “How’s Kate? And the kids?”
Devlin nodded. “Good, good. John and Mike are in college now. Mikey graduates next year. And Tom’s still playing football. Hoping for a scholarship.”
For a moment he was like any other proud father.
Horowitz laughed. “Jesus. Time goes quick, right?” He turned to Pete. “Last time I saw them, John and Mike were in grade school and Tom—I’m not sure Tom was out of diapers.”
Devlin was taking two photographs out of his wallet.