PARKED CURBSIDE across from the Precinct on W 54th is an ice cream truck. I treat Gabby to a chocolate cone. We walk east along W54th turning on 8th Ave in the direction of the theater district and Times Square. We lick frantically before the ice cream has a chance to melt. The temperature remains in the high-seventies. The weather has brought people out into the street; locals, tourists, business-people, panhandlers in rags, street-performers, drug addicts, and crazies. You live in New York long enough, you take it in stride. Otherwise, you leave.
Popping the heel of the cone into her mouth, Gabby says, “We don’t keep secrets, partner.”
“You talking about Tony?”
“Yeah. What was that all about?”
“Plausible deniability.”
“For who?”
“You, Mel, Tony.”
“Why should we need it?”
“For what I’ve asked Tony to do, maybe.”
“Which is?”
“I’d rather not say until I know more.”
“And Tony?”
“Tony already qualifies for full pension. The worst that happens to Tony is he retires a year early to Florida. We don’t have the luxury.”
We continue to walk. Like most of us who live in the City, I consider New York to be the center of the known universe. New York has more diversity, more choice, more distraction, more debauchery, more wealth, and more joy per square foot than any other place on the planet. At any time, on any given day or night, you can indulge any one of the five senses: over-indulge if you like. To me, I Love New York is more than a slogan, it’s a way of life.
Crap in my City, it pisses me off.
“Do you trust me?”
“Only with my life,” Gabby says as if it’s a given. Then, after a double-take: “Why? Not thinking of putting it on the line, are you?”
I chuckle. “No.”
“Good, because I have no intention of becoming live bait.”
“Nothing like that.” I try to sound reassuring. “But I’m ready to go at The Chatterbox hard.”
“And by Chatterbox I take it you mean Marcus Livingstone?”
“One and the same.”
“We’ve been told by McGowan there is no Chatterbox.”
“It’s like sitting up all night Christmas Eve only to be told by your mom and dad there is no Santa Claus.”
“And you, of course, still believe in Santa.”
“I’m an optimist.”
Gabby seems doubtful. “It would be easier for you to go along, Dex.”
“Livingstone is connected to five homicides; we know it. McGowan is a political whore.”
“Is it worth risking your job?”
“This is my fucking job, Gabby.”
“Okay, partner, settle down. Let’s assume you’re right, and the Chief is wrong. What do you intend to do about it?”
“It’s what Jimmy said about drawing The Chatterbox out, rattling his cage, offering myself up as bait. I’d like to tell Marcus Livingstone I know who he is, what he’s done, and I have the evidence to prove it.”
“I know who you are, and I know what you did? Really? We know how well that turns out in the movies, Dex.”
“I want a confession.”
Gabby stops mid-stride. “Do you seriously believe, with all we know of the man, he’s that stupid?”
“Not stupid, arrogant. He believes he’s invincible.”
Gabby shows me her back. She resumes walking. Over her shoulder, she says, “You’re making it personal, Dex. As policing goes, it sucks.”
I hurry to catch her up.
“You’ve been watching too much Netflix. You’re no Luke Cage. In real life, you end up dead. Hell, even Luke got cancelled.”
We board a train at the W 50th Street MTA station. On the train, Gabby says, “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did. Not exactly. But this is a madman, Dex, cold-blooded and calculated, one way or the other.
“Whether he’s killed once or five times, he does so without hesitation or remorse. We both know the way it works. You talk as if it’s a competition to see who has the bigger dick. But this guy’s dick is twelve-inches-long!”
At this, the rest of the car stares.
“Listen to me,” Gabby says, touching my arm. “I know you mean well. But you’ve seen Livingstone for yourself. You know what he’s capable of. If it’s a competition, no offense, he’s worth two of you put together in a barroom brawl. You imagine a scenario you think you can control, but you can’t. So, if it’s my approval you want, the answer is an unequivocal, absolute, Nyet.”
“I’m not asking for approval, partner. Or permission. Just back-up.”
A low blow, but I throw it anyway.
“You can’t predict how he’ll react.”
“The law of unintended consequences?”
“For every action there is an equal or greater reaction. It’s the greater reaction that worries me.”
“And if there’s another body?”
“Quit trying to guilt me, Dexter.”
We ride in silence until Gabby disembarks at the Franklin Street station. Before stepping off, she says, “There’s no telling what he might do if you back him into a corner. Sleep on it. Come back to me in the morning when you’re sane.”
It’s eight o’clock by the time I arrive home. Attached to the front door to my apartment is a plain manila envelope fastened to the panel with duct-tape. Inside the apartment, I open the envelope. Inside the envelope is a cheap burner flip-phone.
Once inside, I warm myself a tin of Hearty Vegetable beef soup and grill myself a cheese sandwich. I twist open a bottle of Bud Light, turn on the television, set the channel to CNN, settle-in to wait.