I was trying to remember the last time I’d been to a bar for no other reason than to get a beer with some friends.
To be precise, I didn’t actually get a beer that day. I ordered a coffee, which drew some weird looks from the other patrons. When it arrived it was evident that the barman had taken it upon himself to add some whiskey, which I didn’t complain about. And the people I was with weren’t exactly my friends. I wasn’t there to surveil any of them, though. I didn’t have to squeeze any information out of anyone, or con anybody into trusting me. The situation wasn’t unpleasant in that regard, but it was definitely unfamiliar. It left me feeling a little adrift, like I didn’t have a good enough excuse for being there.
John Robson showed no signs of struggling to fit in. He was twenty feet away in the thick of a boisterous crowd of off-duty cops, a head or more taller than everyone around him, laughing and exchanging high fives as he recounted his afternoon’s heroics for the twentieth time.
“So I open the door and this woman’s standing there, OK? Well, no, that’s not true. This goddess is standing there. She waits a moment, to make sure I’ve noticed how low the zipper on her cute little jacket has gotten. Then she stretches up and kisses me. She slides a hand down the front of my pants, and she says, ‘Hey, big boy, this is your lucky day—’ ”
“She never said that!” One of the cops play-punched Robson in the shoulder.
“She just meant his height!” One of the others laughed.
“Oh, she said it.” Robson grinned. “And fellas, trust me. She meant it. Anyway, she squeezes past, into the apartment. She turns to face me. Opens her jacket the rest of the way. Takes a step toward me. Kneels down. Makes like she’s going to undo my pants. But what she actually whips out is…a nasty little switchblade from some secret pocket in her jacket. It was already crusted with someone else’s blood. And she tried to stick it in my gut.”
“What did you do?” The guy to Robson’s right looked genuinely alarmed.
“Well, I wasn’t really up for her idea, if you know what I mean.” Robson winked at the guy. “So I kicked her in the head. Tied her up. And helped myself to Walcott’s stash of beer.”
I finished the last dregs of my coffee, put the cup down on the bar, and was about to slip past the crowd and head for my hotel when Detective Atkinson came up to me. His tie was loose, his top button was undone, and he had a half-finished pint of Guinness in his hand. I guessed it wasn’t his first of the night.
“Good news, Paul.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “I just heard from the hospital. The cop from Walcott’s building? He’s going to make it. So’s the agent. They’re both out of danger.”
“That’s great news.” I closed my eyes for a moment. “I’m not going to lie. I was worried about them.”
“I was, too.” Atkinson planted himself on the stool next to mine. “So what do you think of McGinty’s?”
I looked around and decided I liked the place. It was honest and unpretentious. The bar itself was made of polished mahogany, time served and bearing the scars of hard use. The furniture was solid. The floor, clean. The pictures on the walls—old scenes of Dublin and the Irish countryside—inoffensive enough. The prices, reasonable. By Manhattan standards, anyway. If you wanted somewhere to unwind after a stressful day’s work, you could do a lot worse. As long as you didn’t mind the crowd of cops. But then, that was probably the main appeal for most of the people in there. “It’s a lot better than the Green Zebra. Do they serve breakfast?”
Atkinson grinned and took a swig of his beer. “I nearly said no. Did I tell you that? When you asked me to take your idea for that crazy plan to the lieutenant. There were too many agencies. Too much time on the phone, keeping me off the street. And you know what? I would have said no, if you hadn’t handed me Carrick on a plate for the Davies homicide. I never said thank you for that. I should have. It put a major feather in my cap.”
The barman brought another coffee without my having to ask. “My pleasure. I was happy to help.”
“There’s one thing I still don’t understand. How did you put them together, Carrick and Jonny Evans? That wasn’t even on our radar.”
I shrugged. “Lucky break, I guess. Our paths happened to cross, and we got to talking. People like to confide in me, for some reason. Speaking of Jonny, is there anything you could do to help him? I heard he did well, helping to take down Madatov’s guy inside the department. And I’d hate to see him end up like Norman Davies.”
“I don’t know.” Atkinson drained his glass. “I guess I could try. But tell me this. How did you know Carrick would go for the brownstone deal? How did you know Walcott would fall for that cash swap idea?”
“Human nature.” I tasted my coffee. There was even more whiskey in it this time. “Carrick was greedy. Walcott was desperate. It was just a question of putting the right kind of temptation in their paths.”
“Speaking of temptation…” Atkinson signaled for another beer. “So. What are you going to do next? Are you going to stick around?”
“It’s not time for next. I’m not done yet. I still have to find Pardew’s missing file.”
Atkinson slammed his palm against the bar. “And you will. I know it. I wasn’t sure before, but now I’m certain.”
“Thanks. I guess.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about his newfound surge in confidence.
“And after that? Will you stay in the city? You can’t keep living in a hotel room. But you have that house now, right? Up in Westchester?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead. But I’m not going to live in that house. Not yet. I’ll let Mrs. Vincent stay there. My father’s housekeeper. It’s her home, more than it is mine. Maybe I’ll move into the brownstone? That’s a nice place. And it’s a shame to leave it empty.”
“What about work? You can’t hang around the courthouse forever. Will you take over your father’s business?”
“I hadn’t thought about that. It would be nice to honor his memory somehow. But running his business? I’m not sure that would be a good idea. It’s in safe hands now. My father’s lawyer took care of the arrangements. It may be wise not to mess with it. Better to get the Pardew thing squared away, then decide.”