FUDGESICLE LEANS OVER a curbside counter, grabs a slice, and continues north, a paper plate folded in one hand, a Duane Reade shopping bag dangling from the other. He wears a white V-neck tee and light blue surgical scrubs, and O’Hara is amazed by how little attention an obese sociopath in a porkpie hat and translucent pants receives at 3:45 a.m. in the East Village on a summer night. For O’Hara the sight of the long-sought perp releases so much adrenaline, it’s a struggle to think clearly, but to pedestrians, who surrender the curb to let him pass, he is a jet-lagged tourist who stepped out for a slice and a toothbrush, or a hospital orderly just off work. He doesn’t rate a second look. O’Hara suspects the incongruous hipster lid is part of it. Somehow, it helps him blend in.
Moving directly toward them up Third, Fudgesicle appears smaller and larger than his description, more like five-nine than five-eleven but also significantly heavier, as if he’s packed on another hundred pounds since the last entry into the database. His face is more bloated than in the picture, his eyes little more than slits, and, with those thirty-eight seconds of video fresh in her mind, there’s something obscene about the laxness in his face and the way he’s barely contained by his clothes.
“We got to call backup,” says Krekorian as he reaches into the glove compartment for the Taser, and attaches it to his belt. “He makes Goodman look like Buscemi. I don’t think I’ll be able to cuff him.”
“If the two of us can’t arrest this load of shit, we should pack it in. He can barely walk.”
“He moved well enough to stomp his partner to death.”
“Let’s see where he’s headed. It’s too crowded to grab him on the street anyway. Particularly if he’s got a piece.”
When Fudgesicle gets within thirty feet, O’Hara and K scramble out of the car, and when he turns east on St. Mark’s, they dodge the two-way traffic on Third and trail him from the north side of the street. From behind, Fudgesicle only appears to be rocking from side to side, his weight shifting from the outside of one green shoe to the other, yet somehow that propels him past a sunglass stall and a sports bar, where the jersey of the pitcher on TV is reflected in the window. A couple steps before Trash & Vaudeville, he turns his back on them again, and when he hitches up his pants and steps into the narrow entrance of the St. Marks Hotel, O’Hara sees that he’s wearing lime green Crocs.
“So now we call backup,” says K.
For a second, O’Hara doesn’t respond. She’s back in Sarasota in the foul-smelling efficiency with the grifter mom, the man on the toilet, and the scruffy girl staring at the TV. It’s doubtful that under any circumstances, O’Hara would have the wherewithal to twiddle her thumbs on the curb as the perp disappeared into the hotel, but after realizing that she had been within fifteen feet of him before, it’s impossible.
“We do that,” says O’Hara, “brass will close off the whole street and turn a simple arrest into Iraq. I’ve been this close to this motherfucker for weeks. I’m not going wait around all night while they play soldier.”
“The perp’s not going anywhere, Dar. We have time to do this right.”
“Let’s give him five minutes to get to his room. We don’t need a shootout in the lobby. Give him a chance to get separated from his gun, if he has one, maybe fall asleep. Then we go in and suss it out. If it’s more than we can handle, we call in the cavalry.”
Although O’Hara’s voice sounds reasonable, the words coming out of her mouth aren’t, and even she knows it. For a couple minutes, the two stare across the street at the fleabag SRO turned cut-rate tourist motel, the more astute hustlers in the crowd noting the twin bulges beneath Krekorian’s blazer.
Since logic didn’t work, Krekorian appeals to her self-interest.
“We need someone to cover the exit. What if he makes us, goes out a back door, and hails a cab. I know you’ve been on this guy for a long time. All the more reason you don’t want to be the one responsible for letting him slip away.”
“You’re right,” says O’Hara, stepping off the curb and nearly into the path of an eastbound cab. “We got to go in now.”