Two men sat in a graffiti-covered step van across the street from the Dreadnaught Grill. The dashboard was covered with empty coffee containers and candy wrappers. The men watched the white-clad figure emerge from the trap doors to the kitchen and head east on Spring Street.
"Who's that?" asked Detective Dudziak.
"That's Tommy Pagano," said Detective Rizzo, sitting behind the wheel.
"Yeah?"
"Tommy. The nephew," said Rizzo. "Sally's nephew."
"That don't look like the nephew to me," said Dudziak, fumbling for his scope in the glove compartment.
"That's him," said Rizzo. "That's the nephew."
"You got the pictures?"
"Left 'em onna breakfast table this morning. Kids were late for school. Forgot." Rizzo started the engine.
"What are you doin'?" asked Dudziak.
"I'm thinkin'," said Rizzo.
"You're sure that's him?"
"I'm tellin' you, that's him. That's Tommy. I remember the face."
Dudziak consulted a clipboard on his lap. "Where the fuck is he goin? Says here it's the middle of his shift, he's not due off till nine. What's he doin'?"
"I wanna follow him."
"Maybe he's runnin' an errand . . ."
"Maybe he is. Maybe he's runnin' an errand for Uncle Sally."
"Maybe he's runnin' out for a head of lettuce."
"It would be nice to find out."
"What?"
"C'mon," said Rizzo, "let's find out."
"Leave the post?"
"He who dares, wins."
"Oh, shit . . ."
"If he's not doin' nothin' we don't have to tell nobody. If he is, great. I'm tired a sittin' here just lookin' at a fuckin' restaurant. Maybe we got somethin' here."
"So we follow him?"
"We follow him. Maybe we get lucky."
THE TWO DETECTIVES followed the chef in the van down Spring Street.
"Oh, man . . . It's nice to get a breeze in here," said Rizzo. At Bowery, the chef headed uptown. The van dropped back, waiting for him to gain some distance.
"Don't lose him," said Dudziak.
"I got him, I got him," said Rizzo.
At Houston Street, the chef turned right, heading east.
"Where the fuck is he goin'?" asked Dudziak.
"I dunno, maybe he's got a girlfriend. Little love in the afternoon . . ."
The chef crossed onto the uptown side of Houston at Avenue A. Rizzo had to make a U-turn. The chef turned right at Fourth Street, once more heading east.
"That's Neverneverland in there," said Dudziak. "He's lookin' to cop."
"Look," said Rizzo. "He's slowin' down, he's lookin' . . ."
The chef crossed Avenue B, walking slowly through the suddenly crowded streets, headed for Avenue C.
Detective Rizzo pulled the van over to the side of the street and took the scope from Dudziak. He peered through the lens. The chef was exchanging words with a thin, young male Hispanic wearing a baseball cap. The young man held a short length of plywood; he motioned the chef toward an abandoned tenement. The chef looked up and down Fourth Street a couple of times and then ducked quickly under a corrugated metal barrier that didn't quite block the entrance to the tenement.
"Bingo!" said Rizzo.
"What?" exclaimed Dudziak. "He score?"
"This is just too good to be true," said Rizzo. "They gonna love our asses for this. We're gonna catch him dirty . . ."
"I don't know about this . . ."
"They are gonna love our asses for this at Strike Force! We score . . . We score big time." He imitated a cheering crowd. "Yessss! Two days on the job and we score. Are we a pair a swingin' dicks or what?"
"What's he coppin'? Crack?"
"Better," said Rizzo. "Much better. Tommy's a fuckin' dope fiend! I love it!"
"We better call in," said Dudziak. "We better call in before we do anythin'. Are we gonna do anything?"
"I dunno, I dunno. I'll call in a minute. I just wanna savor the moment. I just wanna sit here and enjoy myself for a sec. Tommy's a dope fiend. It don't say nothin' about that inna file. This is a break. Tommy Pagano. Dope Fiend. I'm gettin' a fuckin' hard-on just thinkin' 'bout it."
"He could come outta there any fuckin' minute. You better call in."
"He ain't goin' nowhere," said Rizzo. "I know that spot. They sell the Check-Mate in there. That's one of the populuh spots down here, man. They usually got forty, fifty skells lined up in there. Tommy's gonna be busy in there for a while."
"So, what? You thinkin' a grabbin' him he comes out?"
"Damn right. You know he's gonna be dirty. Alright. . . I'll make the call."
TEN MINUTES LATER, Detective Rizzo returned from the pay phone.
"They said we can grab him," he said.
"Who'd you talk to?"
"Some AUSA, Lipman, I think his name is. He said we can grab him."
"What about Al? The Fibby . . . He's not there? You ask him? He's supposed to be the supervisor."
"They beeped him. Lipman said it's okay to go ahead. He said grab him when he comes out. We bring him down to the precinct and twist his nuts for him. The feds'll pile on later."
"He's gonna give up his uncle for a few dime bags? Is that the idea?"
"Who knows? Who knows? Greaseballs are funny about their people doin' smack. Tommy's gonna hafta think about that, sittin' there in the interrogation room. He's gonna hafta think about how his uncle's gonna feel about that, him doin' that babania. Tommy might worry a little bit about that. Maybe he can stand up for the bust. But Uncle Sally's not gonna be happy. That's the kinda motivation makes cases."
"So we grab him," said Detective Dudziak.
"Yes we do."
OUT ON FOURTH STREET the chef moved at a brisk pace back toward the restaurant. He heard footsteps behind him, closing fast. Thinking he was about to get mugged, he broke into a trot. He crossed the street, reaching into his pants pocket as he picked up speed. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of a man running after him. He put the thin bundle of glassine bags in his mouth. The man looked like a cop, he realized; he was too heavy to be a mugger. Heart racing, the chef broke left for an abandoned lot connecting Third and Fourth streets. He saw another man coming straight at him. He considered swallowing the bags, but his mouth was too dry. He felt his knees weakening as he stumbled through the lot. Suddenly there was an arm around his neck. He felt himself thrown to the ground with somebody's weight on top of him. The arm tightened around his neck. A hand squeezed his cheeks. Yet another hand yanked his head back. Somebody was pinching his nose.
"Spit it out! Spit it out!" somebody was yelling.
The next thing he knew, he was being handcuffed.