The bar was crowded with on-duty cops, taking a break, and off-duty cops from the earlier tour, who didn’t want to go home. The walls were covered with yellowing newspapers—cop headlines—behind cracked and discolored plastic. A foot and a half below the ceiling was a shelf which ran around the room, displaying softball trophies, sports caps, chipped beer steins, some with hinged caps, old plastic models of 1950s airplanes, and various ratty record books—sports, Guinness, World Almanac—to settle bar bets, never consulted. A urine- and sweat-tinged fug slowly circulated, stirred by a stuttering fan. A CD system played the Doors’ “People Are Strange.”
Rossiter and Sears sat across a scarred wooden polyurethaned table, drinking coffee and eating their middle-of-the-night breakfast. A waiter put pie in front of Sears and shortcake in front of Rossiter. Rossiter shifted his bulk on the wooden bench, his thighs almost upsetting the table.
“One strawberry?” he asked.
“It’s called strawberry shortcake,” the waiter said. “Not strawberries shortcake.”
“You won’t give Scocci a pass, one of your own,” Sears said, “but for this guy Dickinson you put your dick on the chopping block.”
“Harry and I used to make mud pies together,” Rossiter said.
“You going to eat that?” Sears asked.
“Every night after supper, played Horse in my driveway.”
“Back when Horse was a game not a drug.”
“Joined the Scouts together.”
“You know how many calories that is?” Sears asked and forked a piece of shortcake and whipped cream.
“‘The Cub Scout follows Akela,’” Rossiter said. “‘The Cub Scout helps the pack go.…’”
“Goodie-goodies, the two of you,” Sears said.
“‘The pack helps the Cub Scout grow,’” Rossiter said.
“‘The Cub Scout gives goodwill,’” they said in unison.
“My brother’s troupe,” Sears said, “the Cub Scout gave good head.”
“I’ll bet you were one hell of a Brownie,” Rossiter said. “Harry, me … we went to the Jamboree together.”
“What did you get patches for?” Sears asked.
“Merit badges?” Rossiter said. “Indian lore, safety, insect study…”
“I played the clarinet,” Sears said.
“For the Brownies?” Rossiter asked.
“Fuck the Brownies,” Sears said. “Who had time for the Brownies?”
“What’d you play?” Rossiter asked.
“‘When I’m Sixty-Four’?” Sears said.
“Clarinet’s not a big rock instrument,” Rossiter said.
“Sly and the Family Stone, ‘Dance to the Music,’” Sears said.
“On the clarinet?” Rossiter asked.
“‘Tsiganeshti,’” Sears said. “‘Ba dem Zeiden’s Tish.’”
Rossiter narrowed his eyes: a question.
“‘At Grandfather’s Table,’” Sears said. “Klezmer. Yiddish. Whatever.”
“You’re Jewish?’ Rossiter asked.
“Methodist,” Sears said. “My grandparents were. Me? My God’s vanilla. Not much taste. But pure.”
“So why Ba dem yackety-yak?” Rossiter asked.
“My clarinet teacher was a big Jew,” Sears said.
“Big as me?” Rossiter asked.
“Big in the neighborhood,” Sears said. “Important. Symphony orchestra. Dances. Ninth grade, we still had sock hops in the church basement.”
“The Big Jew would play a church basement?” Rossiter asked.
“Every other kid’s playing ‘Peter and the Wolf,’” Sears said. “Bad um dum, dum dad um … The Cat!”
“I wanted to be the Wolf,” Rossiter said.
“You played French horn?” Sears asked.
“I played the radio,” Rossiter said, “the record player.”
“I had a recording,” Sears said. “Narrated by Arthur Godfrey.”
“Every year, the school did ‘Peter and the Wolf,’” Rossiter said. “They never had a French horn.”
“Who was that guy?” Sears asked. “The singer Arthur Godfrey fired?”
“So they let some lucky kid play it on a kazoo,” Rossiter said.
“Thirty years after,” Sears said, “my mom and dad still talked about it.”
“Never got the chance to play it,” Rossiter said. “Not even on the kazoo.”
“Talked about it more than the Kennedy assassination,” Sears said.
“Then,” Rossiter said, “I graduated from junior high.”
“Julius LaRosa,” Sears said. “That was the singer’s name.”
“And that was it,” Rossiter said. “Never got to play the kazoo.”
“I think he—Arthur Godfrey—was such a big deal because he had this integrated singing group,” Sears said.
“No more ‘Peter and the Wolf,’” Rossiter said.
“My father thought that was cool,” Sears said. “Nineteen sixties—it still got my mother’s goat.”
“Arthur who?” Rossiter asked.
A cop in a two-for-one gray three-button JoS A. Bank suit and an off-white shirt with a red tie sat down next to Sears, who shifted away from him. Hugging the wall.
“Wearing your TV shirt, McChesney,” Rossiter said. “You working some eleven-o’clock-newsbreak-stay-in-tune-for-the-sports-and-weather case?”
McChesney was rail thin, sallow, his skin the shiny brown of the polyurethaned table.
“How’s IAB?” Sears said, staring into the middle distance.
“Don’t start, Sears,” McChesney said.
“Hey, Connie,” Sears said, “I’m not the one who re-upped in Internal Affairs. Twice.”
“Last time I saw you,” Rossiter said, “when you were still on the street going after bad guys, I remember you nailed Public Enemy Number One.”
“A dangerous—what?” Sears grinned. “Longmeadow drunk?”
“He was trying to buy drugs right off the West Springdale Bridge,” McChesney said.
“That’s worth a commendation,” Sears said to Rossiter.
“You think this makes me pop a chubby,” McChesney said, “busting the balls of a good cop.”
“You got that right,” Sears said. “My partner, here, is a good cop.”
“You talk to the CO?” Rossiter asked.
“I wanted to reach out to you first,” McChesney said. “You being Harry’s friend and all.” McChesney half-turned toward Sears, who still did not look at him. “This guy—Dickinson—when he commits one of his cute felonies, your partner—the good cop over here—ever give him a pass?”
“You ever bend the rules?” Sears asked her partner.
“I’m an Eagle Scout,” Rossiter said.
“We can do this in my office?” McChesney still addressed Sears. “On video. If you want.”
“Let me know when,” Sears said. “I’ll wear my Clinique.”
McChesney got up.
“You change your mind,” he said, “give me a jingle.”
Two steps away from them, McChesney hesitated.
He licked his thin lips, made a tk-tk sound with his tongue.
“You going to ask me for a date,” Sears said, “come right out—say it.”
“Me?” McChesney said. “Why would I want to step in that swamp.”
Sears waited.
Under the table, Rossiter shifted his feet. The table heaved.
To Rossiter, McChesney said, “Your pal’s getting a rough break.”
Rossiter stared him down.
“I’m just saying,” McChesney said.
McChesney left.
Outside, Rossiter and Sears headed to their car.
“I’m drunk,” Sears said.
She fished in her left pants pocket.
“I got my keys,” Rossiter said. “Leave your car.”
“My paycheck,” Sears said. “I keep forgetting to go to the bank.”
“Use the ATM like the rest of us,” Rossiter said.
“Put my check in a machine?” Sears said. “You trust them? You know what, Rossiter, this shift, night shift, it don’t matter, we’re freaking vampires…”
As she opened the passenger door of Rossiter’s car, she said, “Your pal Harry’s got a gun, right?”
“He’s in the hospital,” Rossiter said. “Anyway, the gun’s a prop. Harry hates it when he spills his coffee. He’s not going to leave a mess.”