“I’m on Broadway.”
Libby’s in the chorus of Chicago, which Cirello figures is probably the dancer equivalent of a gold shield. And she’s looking at him with those green eyes, letting him know that she’s his equal.
Cool, Cirello thinks.
Very cool.
“You live in the city?” he asks.
“Upper West Side,” she says. “Eighty-Ninth between Broadway and Amsterdam. You?”
“Brooklyn Heights.”
“I guess we’re not geographically compatible,” Libby says.
“You know, I’ve always thought geography was overrated,” Cirello says. “I don’t think they even teach it in school anymore. Anyway, I work in Manhattan, down at One Police.”
“What’s that?”
“NYPD headquarters,” he says. “I work in the Narcotics Division.”
“So I shouldn’t smoke weed around you.”
“I don’t care,” Cirello says. “I’d do it with you, except they test us from time to time. Let me ask you something, you have roommates?”
“Bobby,” she says, “I’m not sleeping with you tonight.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” Cirello says. “Frankly, I’m offended. What do I look like, some cheap whore, you can let him buy you a burger and you think it means you can have your way with him?”
Libby laughs.
It’s deep and throaty and he likes it a lot.
“Do you have roommates?” Libby asks.
“No,” Cirello says. “I have an efficiency, you have to step outside to change your mind, but I like it. I’m not there a lot.”
“You work all the time.”
“Pretty much.”
“What are you working on now?” she asks. “Or can you tell me?”
“We were going to talk about you,” Cirello says. “For instance, I didn’t think dancers ate cheeseburgers.”
“I’ll have to take an extra class tomorrow, but it’s worth it.”
“Class?” Cirello asks. “I thought you already went to college for this.”
“You have to keep working,” Libby says, “to stay in shape. Especially if you’re going to indulge in late-night meat binges, and I realized how gross that sounded the second it came out of my mouth. How about you? Do you eat healthy?”
“No,” Cirello says. “I eat like a cop, whatever I can grab on the street at the moment.”
“Like doughnuts?”
“Don’t profile me, Libby.”
“What about all that wonderful Greek food?”
“Not so wonderful when you grow up on it,” Cirello says. “Don’t tell my ya-ya, but I’d take Italian every time. Or Indian, or Caribbean, anything, as long as it’s not wrapped in a grape leaf. Let me ask you something else: Indians or Reds?”
“Reds,” Libby says. “I’m all about the National League.”
“Should Rose get in the Hall?”
“Absolutely,” Libby says. “I bet on myself every day. I’ll bet you do, too.”
“You know, this could work out.”
“Mets?”
“Of course.”
She takes a french fry off his plate and pops it in her mouth. “Bobby, about this cheap whore thing …”
Cirello spoons coffee into the briki and turns the gas stove to medium. He stirs the coffee until the foam rises, pours it into two cups and walks over to the bed. “Libby? You said wake you at seven.”
“Oh shit,” she says, “I have to get to class.”
He hands her the coffee.
“This is wonderful,” she says. “What is it?”
“Greek coffee.”
“I thought you said you hated Greek food.”
“I’m so full of shit …”
She walks into the bathroom, apparently unbothered by her nudity. Yeah, I wouldn’t be bothered either, Cirello thinks, a body like that. When she comes out, her red hair is in a ponytail and she has a sweatshirt and leggings on.
“Time to do the walk of shame,” she says.
“Let me drive you.”
“I’ll take the subway.”
“Is that your way of saying this was a one-night stand?” Cirello asks.
“Look at you, Mr. Big-Shot Detective, all insecure,” she says. She kisses him on the lips. “It’s my way of saying that the subway is faster.”
He tosses his coffee down. “Come on, I’ll walk you.”
“Yeah?”
“Like I said, I’m a nice Greek boy.”
At the top of the subway entrance she says, “You’d better call me.”
“I’ll call you,” Cirello says.
She kisses him lightly and goes down the stairs.
Cirello stops at a newsstand, buys the papers, and walks to a diner for breakfast. He sits down at a booth, has a big cheese omelet with rye toast, and looks through the Times. There’s a prominent story about the actor who overdosed.
And now, Cirello thinks, I have to reach out and sell myself to the people who killed him.
Easy to say, harder to do.
These people aren’t billionaires because they’re idiots. They don’t own cops in Mexico just because Mexican cops are easier to buy—they own cops because they have leverage on them. The offer isn’t “take it or leave it,” the offer is “take it or we kill you and your family.” That way they know they can trust the cop they bought—he isn’t going to flip on them.
Doesn’t work that way up here.
No wiseguy in his right mind would kill a New York City cop, much less threaten his family, because he knows he’d have thirty-eight thousand angry police up his ass. Even if he survived his arrest—which is unlikely—the Irish and Italian prosecutors and the Jewish judge would see that he did the rest of his life under the worst prison in the state. Worse, it would fuck up business, so the bosses make sure their troops don’t do that shit.
The black and Latino gangbangers know better than to kill a cop, because it would shut their businesses down.
Cops get killed, all right, too many, but not by OC.
The Mexicans are going to be hinky about buying an NYPD cop because they won’t have the insurance policy on him.
So you have to give them some.
He goes to the garage, picks up his car, a 2012 Mustang GT, and drives out to Resorts World Casino.
A week later he’s at a Starbucks in Staten Island listening to the barista sing the theme song from Gilligan’s Island.
“You’re too young to know that show,” he says.
“Hulu,” she answers. “What can I get you?”
He looks at her name tag.