Things have picked up at O’Shea’s. It’s happy hour in the loosest sense of the term, since most of the regulars have permanent frown lines. Marty looks relieved to see me alive, since I didn’t stick around for his chowder after the newscast. He makes a couple of guys who have been waiting for drinks wait some more.
“Sam, what can I get you?” he asks. I can tell he’s hesitant to serve me another drink. He puts a clean ashtray underneath my cigarette when I take a seat at the bar. “You eat yet?”
I haven’t. Hollowed by alcohol’s empty calories, my stomach gurgles at the thought of food. I need some grease.
“How about some fries?” I say.
His face lights up. “Cheese?”
“Yep.”
“Chili?”
“All right.” Chili is one of Marty’s specialties (specialties being anything he can put in a giant pot and leave on the stove all day).
“Diet plate coming up,” he says, and heads for the kitchen.
“And a draft,” I call out, hoping he’ll serve that first, but he pretends he doesn’t hear me and disappears into the kitchen.
I push the end of my cigarette into the ashtray and catch a guy watching me from the other end of the bar. He looks to be about my age, like someone I might know or used to know. Or maybe I don’t know him and he just looks like someone else I know. We make eye contact. He paints on a smile, and I know he’s on his way over. This isn’t a pick-up joint, so I’m not surprised when he knows my name.
“Samantha Mack?”
“What do you want, an autograph?” I ask. His suit and smug manner tell me all I need to know, but he pulls out a badge and tells me anyway.
“I’m Alex O’Connor. Internal Affairs.”
“Good for you.” I light up another smoke. He sits down next to me without an invitation. Like I expected him to.
“Can I get you something?” he asks.
“Privacy,” I tell him.
“Give me a Jameson,” O’Connor says when Marty walks by. O’Connor puts a twenty on the bar. Marty looks at me to see if it’s okay, but I’m not sure yet, so I don’t say anything, and he pours the drink.
“I just have a few questions,” O’Connor says.
“So you’re not here for the atmosphere,” I say. Marty winks, appreciating my sarcasm. He puts the Jameson in front of O’Connor and takes his money.
“I’m not here for your attitude, either,” O’Connor says. He’s got the intense look of a cop who’s never learned his cool on the street. I’ll bet most of his trips out of the office are for sub sandwiches.
“Is there a section about attitude in the Officers’ Bill of Rights?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. He knows he can’t come in here and bug me.
“You sure you don’t want to ask your questions officially?” I ask. “On the record? At the station?”
Marty drops off my draft. I turn away from O’Connor and take a sip, but I can feel him sitting there, watching me. He pushes his glass around on the bar without taking a sip.
“All right, what do you want?” I ask. “I’m not psychic, and I’m not in the mood.”
“I need your help,” he finally says, once Marty’s out of earshot.
“I already gave my statement,” I tell him. “Didn’t you read the report? It’s all there.”
“There’s nothing there that says you shot your partner.”
“It’s the consensus,” I say. “Don’t you watch the news?”
“You want to use this time wisely? I might be the only guy who’ll help you.”
I know what he’s doing. He’s being the good cop and the bad cop. I’m not playing this game.
“You’re IA, you’ll tack it on whoever you want to tack it on.”
“And that’s you, apparently.”
“Yeah. I shot my partner.”
“You’re going to take the blame and let my department write it off as an accident.”
“It was an accident,” I say, trying not to break. If I’m gonna take this up with anyone, it won’t be some guy from IA.
Marty comes back with my fries. Oil glistens off the potatoes I can see underneath the overly orange, hand-shredded cheese and I can smell the spicy chili beans. They look so good, but I get the feeling O’Connor’s not going to give me the chance to eat them. I get the feeling this whole basket is going to end up in his lap.
“Why are you so loyal?” O’Connor asks. “The money? No. Your district probably pays your snitches more than they pay you. Maybe, hey, maybe it’s that code of silence you patrollers talk about—like you’re some secret elite fraternity. No, if that were true they’d already have Trovic in a box somewhere, taking a permanent nap. It doesn’t bother you that no one’s looking for him?”
I consider this, but if the guys on my force aren’t behind me, there’s no way O’Connor is. He probably got Trovic’s name from one of the legal advisers and now he’s using it like he’s in the know. Like he has a clue. I take a sip of my beer. The alcohol only parches my throat. My fries are getting cold. Still, I’m not talking.
“You’re so loyal you’ll let someone else get away with murder?”
His eyes are intent on my reaction. I try not to offer one. He slides his glass of Jameson over to me. Before I decide whether or not I’m going to take it, and what it’ll mean if I do, Mason comes up behind O’Connor and slaps him on the back.
“Mason Imes. Long time no see,” O’Connor says. They’re smiling at each other, but they don’t mean it.
“O’Connor. The body’s not even cold yet.”
“Thought you moved.”
“Came back.”
“Thought you quit.”
“Took a promotion.”
“You know as well as I do that she can’t talk to you now,” Mason says. They’re talking about me, but they’re acting like I’m not even in the room. I’m not sure which one I’d like to punch first.
“Always looking out for the ladies,” O’Connor says, prompting Mason to get in his face like they’re about to throw fists. I take the Jameson in one shot, slam the glass on the bar, and get up. I can’t take any more of this testosterone.
“I’ll leave you two,” I say. “You deserve each other.”
“If you change your mind,” O’Connor says, toasting my empty glass as a last-ditch effort.
“If I change my mind, I’ll see a shrink,” I tell him. I make sure to give Mason the evil eye before I storm out. They can pay for my fries. They ruined my appetite.