Jonathon King - A Killing Night

O'Shea got in and settled. He had a three-day beard and was wearing jeans and a dark windbreaker. He had on a Phillies baseball cap and black soft-soled shoes, like an umpire would wear. I reached back behind the seat and brought out a thermos. He looked through the windows.

"What, you're on surveillance?" he said, trying to guess ahead.

"Yeah, in a way," I said, pouring him a cup. He blew across the top before taking a sip. I was matching his unfocused look outside, waiting, like I was at the edge of some cliff, unsure how deep the water was if I jumped.

"I was up in Philly for a couple of days," I finally said, still not looking at him. "I talked with your ex. She wanted me to tell you she wished you the best and didn't think you had anything to do with this or with the Faith Hamlin deal."

He didn't react, just kept looking forward, but I could see blue veins at the side of his forehead starting to bulge. He was holding something in. But after a few beats of silence, I knew it was going to stay there.

"You going to give me any kind of inside on the grocery store clerk missing up there?"

"No. I'm not," he said, and the veins pulsed back down.

"Christ, Colin. You can carry the old loyalty to the blue brotherhood a little too far, you know," I said.

"It's not loyalty to them," was all he said and then put the cup to his mouth and went quiet again.

"Look, Colin. I don't think you're in on these disappearances. Maybe I'm missing something, because IA in Philly and Richards down here are on you like stink. But I'm on your side on this, man. For some reason, I'm trusting you."

He stayed quiet but then turned and faced me.

"You said you needed me to help you help me," O'Shea said. "That kinda gave it away, Freeman. So let's get to it."

"Right."

I took out the cell phone and handed it to him.

"You know how to use the camera in one of these?"

He flipped the set open, looked at the face and turned it over once.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?" I said, thinking of my hour-long self-lesson.

"Yeah. What? You think I've been living in a fuckin' cave down here, Freeman?" Or a swamp, I thought, but didn't respond.

"But they don't have any range to 'em," he said. "Pretty useless for covert work."

"This is close-up," I said. "That's why I need you to do it."

I told him about my visit to Kim's and as much detail as I could about the man I'd seen slipping out the back way. I didn't mention Richards's presence.

"I'm thinking drug dealer," I said. "He and the new girl have something going. If he's got women bartenders selling over the counter for him, maybe they get caught up in the action, try to skim him or some shit. If he's ruthless enough, maybe he gets rid of the ones that he's partnering up with."

"I don't know, Freeman. I been in and out of these places for a couple of years now and never saw it," O'Shea said.

"Right. And you never told any of those bartenders you were an ex-cop?"

"Well, it does have a ring to it, you know."

"And they don't pass that around to their coworkers who might avoid doing business when you're in the place?"

"OK. OK. I get the point," he said and slipped the camera phone into his pocket.

"Like I said, six-foot, dark hair, clean-cut. Probably likes the same seat at the bar, down at the far end and he's probably alone."

"Down under the TV?" O'Shea said.

I looked at him.

"I know the layout."

"I figured," I said, still watching him. "Just hang at that end and leave the seat open. See if he comes in," I said.

"You want me to hit him up for some coke or ecstasy or what?"

"Like someone's going to buy first time from you, O'Shea."

"Hey, I could have been all right undercover," he said defensively.

I let that comment sit.

"Just the photo, all right?" I said and took fifty dollars out of my shirt pocket. "Stay till eleven or so and meet me back out here." He took the cash without a word, got out and walked, unhurried, toward Kim's.

I refilled my cup from the thermos, took a sip and when I looked over the rim I realized that all during our conversation I had been unconsciously staring out at a patrol car. The guy hadn't moved for nearly an hour. Nice work if you can get it, I thought. But I had to admit there had been some slow rainy nights on the Charlie shift when I'd huddled in the dry stairwell of the First Pennsylvania Bank entrance to the Broad Street Subway and lost myself in a paperback when I was supposed to be walking a downtown beat. But this guy's head had never even turned around to scan the rest of the lot. He was awake. I watched him put what now I was sure was a cell phone to his ear several times. But he seemed to only be focused on the side window of Kim's. For a paranoid minute I thought maybe I'd sent O'Shea into the middle of some kind of sting operation. Then I saw the cop snap his hand away from his ear. His brake lights flashed as he started the engine and he jerked the patrol car out of the space in reverse. His headlights popped on but not the blue light bar and he dropped the transmission into drive and pulled a screeching hole shot out of the lot. He gunned it past Kim's and a couple coming out of the Thai place had to jump back between two cars to keep from getting hit.

"Christ," I said out loud to myself. "I hope that B amp;E is real important, pal." And I reflexively memorized the number of his car that was stenciled on the left rear corner of the trunk.

I took another sip of coffee and checked my rear mirrors all around. It could be the only excitement of the night. This time the rap of O'Shea's knuckles on my truck woke me out of a half-sleep. My eyes may even have been open, but I could not recall what I was looking at other than the pale glow of neon and lamplight out in front of me. I unlocked the door and checked my watch as he got in. Twelve fifteen.

"Sleeping on the job will get you a write-up, Freeman."

I let the comment pass. O'Shea settled into the seat, letting his body relax and deflate as if he had just done a hard shift down on the docks of the Delaware. He'd dragged in the odor of cigarette smoke and the sweet smell of whiskey came off his breath when he spoke. But his eyes were still clear and he would have convinced a highway patrolman that he was just tired. Some guys just had that capacity.

"Nobody that fits your mark in there tonight," he said, taking the cell phone out of his pocket. "Few old regulars, a couple I recognized from before. Some kids that I eavesdropped on who were from some alternative newspaper staff and your typical football experts blattin' on about how they would run the Dolphins' offense like they were on fuckin' talk radio. Bartender is new, though."

"Yeah," I said. "Marci."

"Good-looking little blonde. Marci," he said, looking away from me out into the night.

"But if she's running drugs, it's over the phone, 'cause she was on the damn thing every fifteen. Speaking of."

He held the cell out to me.

"Keep it," I said. "I want you to go back in tomorrow. Maybe stay till closing. It's a Saturday night and maybe something will be different."

He shrugged and pocketed the phone.

"You say so, boss," he said and sat silent, making no move to get out.

"You want me to drop you someplace?"

"No, I'm good. I'm just wondering, Freeman, if it's such a great idea for me to be hanging out in one place night after night, you know. Considering the circumstances."

Both of us were looking straight out over the lot now, showing no interest in each other's faces.

"You thinking about running, Colin?" I said.

"Shit, no."

"If Richards is going to grab you up, she'll find you anyway. You know the drill."

"Too fucking well," he said, popping the handle and stepping out.

"And if she gets you here, I'm your alibi," I said. "I'm trusting you."