“You know, the N-word,” Levin says.
“No, I don’t know the ‘N-word,’” Monty says. “I know ‘nigger.’”
“And you’re okay with it?”
“I’m okay with Russo saying it,” Monty says. “I’m okay with Malone saying it. Someday I might be okay with you saying it.”
“How does it feel to be a black cop?” Levin asks Monty.
Malone winces. This could go either way. Monty could blow, or he could get professorial.
“How does it ‘feel’?” Monty asks. “I don’t know, how does it feel to be a Jewish cop?”
“Different,” Levin says. “But when I show up, Jews don’t hate me.”
“You think blacks hate me?” Monty asks. “Some do. Some call me a Tom, a house nigger. But the truth is, whether they say it or not, most black people think that I’m trying to protect them.”
“How about inside the Job?” Levin asks, not letting it go.
“There are haters on the Job,” Monty says. “Haters are everywhere. At the end of the day, though, most cops don’t see black and white, they see blue and everyone else.”
“But by ‘everyone else,’” Levin says, “most people think we mean ‘black.’”
It gets quiet, then they all get that stupid high smile you get from powerful weed. That blunt gets them fucking blasted. Then they’re up and dancing. Which is a surprise to Malone, because he doesn’t dance. But he is now, bopping with Niki in the thick crowd of clubgoers, the music throbbing through the veins in his arms, swirling around in his head, Monty ultracool, black man cool beside him, even Russo up and dancing, they are all fucked up.
Dancing in the jungle with the rest of the animals.
Or the angels.
Or who could tell the fucking difference.
They drive Levin home, down to West Eighty-Seventh off West End. His girl, Amy, doesn’t look too thrilled when they carry her semiconscious boyfriend to the door.
“He got a little over-refreshed,” Malone says.
“I guess so,” Amy says.
Cute-looking girl.
Dark, curly hair, dark eyes.
Smart looking.
“We were celebrating his first collar,” Russo says.
“I wish he’d called me,” Amy says. “I like to celebrate.”
Good luck, smart Amy, Malone thinks. Cops celebrate with other cops. No one else understands what you’re celebrating.
Being alive.
Taking down bad guys.
Having the best job in the world.
Being alive.
They toss Levin on the sofa.
He’s out.
“Nice to meet you, Amy,” Malone says. “I’ve heard a lot of nice things.”
“Same,” Amy says.
They dispatch Dominic to take the women back and then roll down Lenox Avenue in Russo’s car, with the stereo blasting and the windows open, singing along with N.W.A. at the tops of their lungs.
Searching my car, looking for the product
Thinking every nigga is selling narcotics.
Driving down this old street, this cold street, past the tenements, past the projects.
Malone hangs out the front window.
I don’t know if they fags or what
Search a nigga down and grabbing his nuts.
Russo lets out a demonic laugh and they all shout—
Fuck tha police
Fuck tha police
Fuck tha police
Fuck tha police!
Rolling through the jungle.
Stoned, drunk, high.
Through the hard gray of early dawn.
Yelling to the few startled people on the sidewalks—
Fuck tha police
Fuck tha police
Fuck tha police
Fuck tha police!
I want justice!
I want justice!
All together now—
Fuck you, you black motherfuckersssssssss!!!!!
Chapter 9
They take him as he walks toward his apartment.
A black car pulls over and three guys in suits get out.
Fucked up as he is, at first Malone thinks it’s the dope. Can’t really focus on them, doesn’t really care. Sounds like a bad joke, right, “Three guys in suits get out of a car and—”
Then a jolt—they’re hitters.
Pena’s people?
Savino?
He starts to reach for his gun when the lead guy shows his badge, identifies himself as “Special Agent O’Dell—FBI.”
He looks like a fed, Malone thinks. Short blond hair, blue eyes. Blue suit, black shoes, white shirt, red tie, Church Street Gestapo motherfucker.
“Please get in the car, Sergeant Malone,” O’Dell says.
Malone holds up his shield. His words come out like mud. “I’m on the Job, you fuckface Church Street fuck. NYPD, real police. North Manhattan—”
“You want us to cuff you right here on the street, Sergeant Malone?” O’Dell asks. “In your neighborhood?”
“Cuff me for what?” Malone asks. “Public intox? That’s a federal crime now? I showed you my shield, for Chrissakes, a little professional courtesy, huh?”
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
Malone gets in the car.
Fear spins around his fucked-up head.
Fear?
Shit, terror.
Because it hits him—they have him on the Pena rip.
Thirty to life tilting heavy toward life.
John grows up without a father, Caitlin walks down the aisle without you, you die in a federal lockup.
The terror of that blasts through the booze and the weed and the blow and shoots electric jolts through his heart. He feels like he could throw up.
He takes a breath and says, “If this is about inspectors and chiefs taking cash and prizes, that’s above my pay grade. I don’t know anything about that.”
Sounds like Fat Teddy to himself. I ain’t know nothin’.
“Don’t say another word,” O’Dell says, “until we get there.”
“Get where? Church Street?”
New York FBI headquarters.
The Waldorf, it turns out. They take a side door, go up a service elevator to the sixth floor and then into a suite at the end of the hall.
“The Waldorf?” Malone asks. “What, I get red velvet cake?”
“You want red velvet cake?” O’Dell asks. “I’ll call room service. Jesus Christ, you’re a mess. What the hell have you been doing? If we piss-test you now, what’s going to come up? Weed? Coke? Dexedrine? That’s your shield and your gun right there.”
A laptop computer is open on the coffee table. O’Dell points at the sofa in front of it and says, “Sit down. You want a drink?”
“No.”
O’Dell says, “Yes, you do. Trust me, you’re going to need it. Jameson’s, right? A good mick like you isn’t going to drink Protestant whiskey. No Bushmills for a guy named Malone.”
“Quit jerking me off and tell me what this is about,” Malone says. It ain’t the cool he wants to play but he can’t help himself. Can’t stand to wait another second to hear the death sentence—
Pena.
Pena.
Pena.
O’Dell pours a whiskey and hands it to him. “Sergeant Dennis Malone. Manhattan North Special Task Force. Hero cop. Your father was a cop, your brother was a fireman, gave his life on nine/eleven—”
“Keep my family out of your mouth.”
“They’d be so proud of you,” O’Dell says.
“I don’t have time for this bullshit.” He heads for the door. More like staggers, his feet feel like wood, his legs like Jell-O.
“Sit down, Malone. Take some weight off, watch a little TV.” This comes from a squat middle-aged guy sitting in an easy chair in the corner.