John Lutz - Pulse

“I’m sure you will someday,” Pearl said.

She wondered as she spoke, had Jody been active in any kind of sport?

T his was odd, Renz thought.

Jim Tennyson, an undercover officer on the vice squad, had requested a private interview with him. Ordinarily Renz would have told him to go though the proper channels; scroungy undercover cops didn’t just call their way up the telephone ladder to Harriet Gibbs, Renz’s secretary, and have the unmitigated-or maybe it was mitigated-gall to leave a message asking for an appointment with the police commissioner. It was one word in Tennyson’s rambling message that caused all of Renz’s orifices to draw up: Olivia.

He’d granted Tennyson the interview.

Olivia’s name also prompted Renz to request Tennyson’s file and learn what he could about the undercover cop. These undercover guys could get too close to the goods sometimes and cause problems. Could, in fact, become the problem.

Tennyson had been in uniform for five years before becoming a plainclothes detective, then had almost immediately transferred to Vice and undercover work. He’d requested the transfer.

He’d used his gun once, winging a dealer who was waving his shotgun at the occupants of a crowded subway car. Renz thought about that. A close call, deciding to fire a shot in a crowded subway car. Turning loose one bullet to keep a scattering of deadly buckshot from being fired. Took some balls.

The shotgun had turned out to be empty. As far as Renz knew, Tennyson had had no way of knowing that. The review board had seen it the same way. Tennyson had not only been cleared by the board but had received a commendation.

Renz had to admit, the man’s record indicated he was a good cop. Still, those undercover guys… especially the ones who’d infiltrated the drug world.

Here he was standing slouched in front of Renz’s desk, wearing a dirty sleeveless T-shirt lettered CRASH CAB, equally dirty jeans, and worn-out brown shoes tied with white laces. Renz noticed that the bows were double knots. The shoes wouldn’t let Tennyson down if he found himself on either end of a footrace. Renz saw that the UC wasn’t wearing socks, and his ankles were dirty. All in all, he looked like Robert De Niro playing a role.

“Nice disguise,” Renz said.

Tennyson smiled. A front tooth was missing. Probably only during working hours. “It gets me by.” He didn’t seem at all nervous, even though he was seriously outranked. That worried Renz.

Renz said, “What the hell do you want?”

Tennyson looked genuinely confused. “I don’t want anything.”

“You mentioned someone named Olive Krantz.”

“Olivia. I came across a conversation about her.”

What was this? Blackmail? Renz thought he’d get out ahead of it.

“Came across?”

“In an indirect but reliable way.”

“If you’re here to tell me Olivia’s a call girl, I already know that. And I know she’s damned good at her job.”

“She works for Prime Escorts,” Tennyson said.

“Right again. Now get to the point.”

“Word is she’s playing you.”

“We play together.”

“Different games, maybe.”

“You mentioned a word? Whose word?”

“I don’t know the source, and that’s the God’s truth.”

“Leave God out of this.” Renz leaned back in his desk chair and expanded his already bloated physique. He looked almost as dangerous as he was.

Tennyson’s bearing changed. He was a pro who could see a storm coming. Doubt had found its way in. Maybe he’d mishandled this.

“I’m not interested in any word from any drug fiend or psycho who doesn’t know shit about what he’s yammering,” Renz said. “Why should I be?”

“Olivia might be a fine person, sir. I don’t care squat what she does for a living. But she’s in the trade, so I came across her, and what she was doing. What was the source? Like I told you, I don’t know. But it might’ve been Olivia herself, when she was under the influence.”

“Influence? What trade we talking about?”

“Coke, heroin.”

Heroin! Jesus! Why did Tennyson have to come walking through that door?

“Olivia’s not a user.” Renz heard the hollow defensiveness of his own words.

Tennyson said nothing. His self-assurance had returned.

Renz deflated and sat forward again, his elbows on his desk. His stomach felt like rats were running in it. He didn’t look so threatening now. More threatened.

“I’m not wearing a wire,” Tennyson said.

“I know you’re not. I got a little thingamajig that detects those and electrocutes anyone coming in here wearing a wire.”

“Really?” It was impossible to know if Tennyson was asking a serious question. Toying with Renz now, the asshole.

“Of course.”

“Like I said,” Tennyson told him, “I only wanted to let you know. Avoid any possible trouble. It goes no further than me, whatever you decide to know or not know.”

“You gonna name a sum?”

“I don’t want a sum,” Tennyson said, almost angrily.

“But you wouldn’t mind an angel looking over you from the dizzying height of the police commissioner’s office.”

“Sure, I wouldn’t. Let’s be honest. I wouldn’t mind at all if promotions came to me a little easier. Or more fairly. I don’t want anything I haven’t earned.”

“And you think you’re earning something coming here to me with this bullshit?”

A thin smile ran across Tennyson’s lips. “I took a helluva chance.”

“You did,” Renz said.

“My good deed for the year.”

“Humph! Loyalty. That’s what you’re selling.”

“I don’t think you can put a price on loyalty.”

“And it should work both ways,” Renz said.

Tennyson nodded. “It’ll run both ways. If you want, I can see that nobody repeats the word, that nobody bothers this Olivia.”

“That’s Harry Primo’s job.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“So many of us are.” Renz stared hard at Tennyson, who seemed unperturbed. “You all done here?”

“That’s it.”

“Now leave.”

Tennyson took his time sauntering to the door, going out.

Renz thought, There’s a young copper with a bright future.

What exactly does he know? How much does he know?

How brief is that future?

C razy Legs. Weird.

Neeve hadn’t been crazy about this new manuscript, a biography of Elroy “Crazy Legs” Hirsch, when she’d picked it up from the editor at Hamilton Publishing. Who the hell is he? Neeve had wondered. It had sounded like the book’s subject was a gangster, like Legs Diamond.

But Crazy Legs hadn’t been a gangster. He’d been a football player, and a great one, known as Crazy Legs because he ran so wildly and unpredictably he was difficult to tackle. Neeve was a football fan, so how was it she’d never heard mention of Crazy Legs Hirsch? Well, people often ignored four-leaf clovers they were standing over.

Truth was, Neeve felt lucky. She’d really gotten into Overbite, and wound up enjoying it immensely. And now here she was back on her bench in the park and all wrapped up in Crazy Legs: Elusive Legend. Two good books in a row to copyedit. Life was at least okay.

She did wish Crazy Legs was on disk rather than paper, or had been sent to her electronically. Instead of using her computer, here Neeve was again lugging around a thick stack of twenty-weight copy paper.

Suddenly she realized she was chilled. Leaves rattled above her, and she looked up to see that the sky had darkened and a breeze was wafting through the park, swaying the foliage. Dark leaves silhouetted against the gathering gloom did their restricted dance in the wind. Off in the distance, a man and woman hurried side by side along the trail, in the direction of the exit onto Central Park West. The man had his arm around the woman’s waist. Neeve felt a pang of… what? Envy? Loneliness?