“The key word there is ‘first.’”
“With our schedules,” Claudette says, “it’s hard to find time.”
“I might start working a little less,” Malone says. “Take a little more time off.”
“I’d like that.”
“Yeah?”
“Very much,” she says. “But we don’t have to always do, you know, this.”
“It’s nice, doing this.”
“I just want time with you, baby,” Claudette says.
Malone gets up to use the men’s, but instead he goes to the woman at the hostess stand and tells her he wants a real bill, bust-out retail because there are some things you get comped for, other things you pay for.
You take your girl out, you pay for it.
The hostess says, “The manager said—”
“I know,” Malone says, “and I appreciate it, but I’d like a real bill.”
The real bill arrives. He pays it, leaves a nice tip and pulls the chair out for Claudette. “I thought you might like to go to Smoke. Lea DeLaria is there tonight.”
Malone doesn’t know who that is, just that she’s a singer. He went to the website and looked it up.
“I’d love that,” Claudette says. “I love her. But you don’t like jazz.”
“This is your night.”
The Smoke Jazz and Supper Club is up on 106th and Broadway, back on Malone’s turf. It’s small, only about fifty seats, but Malone already called to reserve a spot in case she wanted to go.
They get a table for two.
DeLaria sings standards in front of a bass, drums, piano and saxophone quartet. Claudette feigns astonishment. “A white woman who can sing. My, my.”
“Racist.”
“Just keeping it real, baby.”
Between songs, DeLaria looks down at Claudette and asks, “Is he nice to you, darlin’?”
Claudette nods. “Very nice.”
DeLaria looks at Malone. “You’d better be. She’s so beautiful. I might just take her away from you.”
Then she launches into “Come Rain or Come Shine.”
I’m gonna love you, like nobody’s loved you, Come rain or come shine
Happy together, unhappy together Come rain or come shine . . .
There’s a little stir in the crowd as Tre comes in with a posse. DeLaria gives him a nod of acknowledgment as Tre goes to his table, then the hip-hop mogul spots Malone and then Claudette and gives Malone a nod of respect.
Malone nods back.
“Do you know him?” Claudette asks.
“I do some work for him from time to time,” Malone says. And now the word will be out everywhere that badass Denny Malone is dating a sister.
“Do you want to meet him?” Malone asks.
“Not really,” Claudette says. “I’m not so much into hip-hop.”
Malone knows what’s going to happen next and it does. A bottle of Cristal arrives at the table courtesy of Tre.
“What kind of work do you do for him?” Claudette asks.
“Security.”
DeLaria changes over to “You Don’t Know What Love Is.”
“Billie Holiday,” Claudette says.
She gets lost in it.
Malone looks over at Tre, who’s looking back at him, reevaluating him, trying to figure out who the guy is that he’s seeing now.
I get it, Malone thinks. I’m trying to do the same thing.
The white dress slides off her like rain flowing down obsidian.
Her lips are full and warm, her neck musky.
After they make love and she falls asleep, he lies awake and looks out her window and remembers the words of the song—
Until you’ve faced each dawn with sleepless eyes, You don’t know what love is . . .
Chapter 19
His cell phone rings again.
He ignores it again, turns back into Claudette and tries to go back to sleep with his face in the sweet crook of her neck. Then his conscience gets the better of him and he looks at his phone.
It’s Russo. “Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” Malone asks.
“About Torres,” Russo says.
It sends a jolt through Malone. “What?”
“He ate his gun.”
Right out in the Manhattan North parking lot, Russo tells him. Two uniforms heard the shot, ran out and found him in his car. Motor running, AC on high, radio blasting salsa music and Torres’s brains sprayed over the back windshield.
No note.
No message.
No skid marks, the man just did it.
“Why the fuck would he do that?” Russo asks.
Malone knows why.
The feds pressed him. Become a rat or go to jail.
And Torres had an answer for them.
Brutal, mean, racist, lying, vicious motherfucker Raf Torres had an answer for them.
Fuck you. I go out like a man.
Malone gets out of bed.
“What’s up?” Claudette asks sleepily.
“I gotta go.”
“Already?”
“A cop killed himself.”
Malone bursts through the door, grabs O’Dell by the lapels, lifts him out of his chair and walks him into the wall.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” O’Dell says.
“Motherfuckers.”
Weintraub gets up and comes over to break it up but Malone turns and gives him the death stare, like if you really want in on this you’re going to get in on this, and Weintraub backs off. Says weakly, “Settle down, Malone.”
“What did you do?” Malone asks. “Try to flip him? Get him to wear a wire? Or else you were going to cuff him at the precinct house in front of his brother officers, make him do the perp walk out the door in front of the television cameras and a crowd of locals hooting ‘Pig!’ Talked to him about going to prison, what would happen to his family?”
“We did our job.”
“You killed a cop,” Malone says to O’Dell, his spit flicking into his face. “You’re a cop killer.”
“I tried to call you, the second I heard,” O’Dell says. “This is not on us, it’s not on you, it’s on him. He made his own choices, including this last one.”
“Maybe he made the right choice,” Malone says.
“No, he didn’t,” O’Dell says. “He didn’t have the guts to face up to what he’s done. You did, Malone. You’re making it right.”
“By killing a brother cop.”
“Torres took the coward’s way out,” Weintraub says.
Malone explodes off the chair, gets in his face. “Don’t you say that. Don’t you fucking ever say that. I saw that man go down the stairwells, I saw him go through the doors. Where were you, huh? Having a two-martini lunch? Safe in bed with your girlfriend?”
“You didn’t even like the guy.”
“That’s right, but he was a cop,” Malone says. “He was no coward.”
“All right.”
“Sit down, Denny,” O’Dell says.
“You sit down.”
“What are you, high?” O’Dell asks. “Are you jacked up on something?”
Just a half-dozen go-pills and a couple of lines of blow. “Test me. I piss hot, you can add it to the charges, how’s that?”
“Calm down.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to calm down?!” Malone yells. “You think it’s going to end here? You don’t think there aren’t going to be rumors? People aren’t going to start asking questions? Fucking IAB will be all over this!”
“We’ll take care of it.”
“Like you took care of Torres?”
“Torres was not my fault!” O’Dell says. “And if you call me a cop killer again, I’ll—”
“You’ll fucking what?!”