Claudette comes out a few minutes later. “Tired now. Sleepy.”
Malone lays her on the sofa, goes into the bathroom, kneels down and pukes into the toilet. He’s violently sick until there’s nothing left to throw up and he dry heaves. Then he sits on the black-and-white tile floor, reaches up to the sink for a hand towel and wipes the sweat off his face. After a couple of minutes, he gets up, splashes cold water on his face and the back of his neck.
He brushes his teeth until the vomit smell is gone.
Then he takes his phone and punches in the number.
Hears “Hello.”
O’Dell must have been sitting by the phone, the smug bastard, waiting. Knowing I was going to cave.
Malone says, “I’ll give you lawyers. But no cops, you hear me?”
I will never give you brother cops.
Chapter 11
Sykes waves him upstairs the second he walks into the house.
He gets up to the office, Sykes asks, “Have you ever heard of ‘rape under the color of authority’?”
“No.”
“For example,” Sykes says, “if a person in a position of power, say a police detective, has a sexual relationship with a person under that power, say a criminal informant, that is rape under the color of authority. It’s a felony—ten years to life.”
“She’s not a CI.”
“She was high.”
“She’s not a CI,” Malone repeats.
“Then who is she?” Sykes asks.
“That’s not your business,” Malone says.
“When a woman causes a tawdry scene in the lobby of my station house,” Sykes says, “it is very much my business. I cannot have one of my detectives’ personal lives embarrassing the Job in public. You’re married, aren’t you, Sergeant Malone?”
“Separated.”
“Does this woman reside in Manhattan North?”
“Yeah.”
“So you carrying on with a woman who lives in your jurisdiction,” Sykes says, “is conduct unbecoming an officer. At the very least.”
“Bring charges.”
“I will.”
“No, you won’t,” Malone says. “Because I just cleared your big fucking case, your career is back on track and you’re not going to do anything to put a negative light on your command.”
Sykes stares at him and Malone knows he’s right.
“Keep your personal messes out of my station house,” Sykes says.
Malone and Russo cruise up Broadway north of 158th.
“You want to talk about it?” Russo asks.
“No,” Malone says. “But you do, and you’re going to, so go ahead.”
“A black woman with a drug problem?” Russo asks. “It’s not good, Denny, particularly given the current, shall we say, sensitive racial environment.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“By which you mean you’ll end it?”
“By which I mean I’ll take care of it,” Malone says. “Subject closed.”
Broadway up here is broken into north and south lanes with a strip of trees in the center, and the nail shop below Carter’s safe house is on the west side.
“It’s a second-floor walk-up,” Russo says. “Fat Teddy can’t be liking that.”
Russo pulls over by an ATM on the east side of the street, they get out and pretend to take out money but instead watch Babyface walk into the liquor store next to the nail shop.
Five minutes later he comes out with a six-pack of Colt 45, which he passes to Montague.
Malone and Russo cross Broadway and go into a diner. Fifteen minutes later Montague comes in and sits down across from Malone.
“Go on,” Malone says. “Say it.”
“What am I going to say?” Monty asks. His eyes have mischief in them, but Malone sees the seriousness underneath. “I prefer black women, too.”
“That was some scene,” Russo says.
“I admire your taste in women,” Monty says. “I truly do. But with all the heat on us right now, the last thing we need is more attention.”
“I told Russo I’ll take care of it.”
“And I heard you,” Monty says. “On more pressing matters, the Chaldean gentleman wants to keep his liquor license. I explained that he just sold alcohol to a minor. He doesn’t seem to know Carter, and I told him we just wanted to use his back storeroom for a few weeks and all is forgiven.”
Malone gets up. “We better get the fuck out of here.”
They get back into the car and watch as Levin goes in. It takes him forty-five minutes, then he comes out, gets into the car, and Russo drives them out of there.
“We can punch a hole in the drywall,” Levin says, “push a wire up to the second floor and we’ve got ears on Carter’s little office.”
“What about shifts?” Russo asks. “Teddy knows me, Malone and Monty, and you can’t do twenty-four seven.”
“You guys are techno Neanderthals,” Levin says. “Once we get the wire in, I can monitor it on my laptop anywhere close with Wi-Fi. Which is, like, everywhere. And we don’t do twenty-four seven, just when Teddy comes in.”
“Nasty Ass can give us that,” Malone says. “Levin, you sure you’re good with this? No warrant, it’s illegal as shit. We get caught, you lose your shield, maybe go to jail.”
Levin smiles. “Just don’t tell Amy.”
“You coming back to the house?” Russo asks Malone.
“No, I have to go downtown,” Malone says. “Prep for Fat Teddy’s Mapp hearing.”
“Good luck with that,” Russo says.
“Yeah.” It’s the stupid fucking irony of this whole thing. To make the gun case, they have to keep Fat Teddy out of jail and on the street, and if they’d known that then, they could have gotten him a walk without buying the case.
And none of this federal bullshit would have happened.
Now he has to buy the case to keep his own ass out of jail.
He feels like he’s going to puke.
Quit feeling sorry for yourself, Malone thinks.
Man up and do what you got to do.
Malone finds Nasty Ass junkie-bopping up Amsterdam at 133rd and pulls over. “Get in.”
He’d forgotten how bad the snitch smells. “Jesus, Nasty.”
“What?” Nasty is relaxed, happy. He must have scored.
“You ever use a toilet?”
“I don’t have no toilet.”
“Borrow one,” Malone says. He rolls the windows down. “You know a nurse who used to score around here? Name is Claudette?”
“A sister? Real pretty?”
“Yeah.”
“I seen her.”
“Who does she score from?”
“Slinger named Frankie.”
“White guy?” Malone asks. “Works Lincoln Playground?”
“That’s him.”
Malone gives him a twenty.
“White people are cheap.”
“That’s why we have the money,” Malone says. “Get out.”
“White people rude, too.”
“Now I have to turn this car in, get a fresh one,” Malone says.
“You hurtful, man. You a hurtful motherfucker.”
“Call me.”
“Cheap, rude and hurtful.”
“Out.”
Nasty Ass gets out of the car.
Frankie sits on the steel bench in the holding cell at the end of the hall.
Malone picked him up and took him to Three-Two, not Manhattan North. Then let him sit for a while to get him jacked up. The cell stinks of piss, shit, vomit, sweat, fear, desperation, hopelessness and a heavy dose of Axe cologne that Frankie probably lifted from Duane Reade.
Malone opens the door and walks in. “No, don’t get up.”