Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

“Okay, Malone. Look me in the eye and tell it to me again. Roberto Diaz takes a shot at Miss Gilpin as he’s spraying bullets all over the Thanksgiving Day parade, and not fifteen hours later, some fry brain who has also gotten the bright idea to go after the mayor’s special friend is up and running with a fripping bomb that he manages to place in the coat-check room of a joint where Miss Gilpin is sipping merlot with a private eye?”

“Chardonnay,” I said. Sanchez showed me the fire in his poet’s eyes.

Crime-scene tape had been set up outside the damaged restaurant to keep the onlookers at a distance. Half a dozen ambulances were parked in front, along with two fire trucks and I couldn’t say how many cop cars. The news media had also arrived in force, and minicam lights were floating and bobbing on the sidewalk as if a band of coal miners were outside the restaurant doing calisthenics. I spotted Kelly Cole, as well as some reporters from the Times , whose offices were just up the street.

“Malone!” Kelly started toward me, but Sanchez directed one of his cops to head her off.

“You’re welcome,” he said to me.

The injured were being taken out on stretchers. Remy Sanchez and I stood next to the EMS crew stabilizing Rebecca for her trip to the ambulance. She had gone into shock soon after I’d tied off the tourniquets. A little crying, a little laughing, a fixation with the flowers in her dressing room that she wanted delivered to area hospitals.

“I’m going with her,” I said to Sanchez as the EMS crew kicked the collapsible gurney up to its rolling position.

“The mayor is on his way here,” Sanchez said.

“Of course he is. And if I were you, I’d make sure that not a single one of your men or women make a peep to the media about her.”

“I don’t like this,” Sanchez said. “I don’t care if Diaz was killed, you can’t tell me this isn’t related. There’s a connection, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

“Hey, when you find out, let me know.”

The EMS crew was clearing the way to take Rebecca out. I looked around and grabbed a damp tablecloth off the floor. I asked Sanchez, “You got a handkerchief?” He pulled one from his pocket. I stepped over to the gurney. “Miss Gilpin?”

Her head had been secured. Only her eyes could move. I was surprised to see how much venom they held.

“Rebecca. It’s fucking Rebecca .”

“Rebecca, I’m sorry about this. But I think an incognito exit would be favorable.” I unfolded the handkerchief and set it over her nose and mouth and eyes, then lowered the damp tablecloth on top of her.

“Looks like she’s dead,” Sanchez muttered.

The gurney started forward. I turned to Sanchez.

“Hold that thought.”

MY LEFT SHOULDER WAS DISLOCATED. I’VE HAD THIS HAPPEN TO ME once before. That time it had resulted from a plunge off the top of a building. A man with a gun had encouraged me to take the leap. Four flights down into an industrial garbage bin, just like you see them do in the movies. I’d landed on eggshells and coffee grounds, but those aren’t what separated my shoulder. It was the thing underneath the eggshells and coffee grounds. An accordion. A nice-looking one, too. Red mother-of-pearl. Shiny white keys. The thing gave out a discordant yelp when I hit it. I’m sure I did, too.

The EMS crew popped my shoulder back into its socket at Barrymore’s. The doctor at St. Luke’s-Roosevelt outfitted me with a sling and a handful of painkillers and moved on to the more seriously injured. Rebecca was in surgery, having her leg worked on. I’d been able to get Margo on the phone before she heard about the explosion on the news, a phone call that had featured yet another long silence from her end of the line. “You do know,” she had said finally in a quiet voice, “a very nice, stable dentist did ask me to marry him once.”

I was still waiting for Rebecca to emerge from surgery when Martin Leavitt arrived. He was flanked by his deputy mayor. Leavitt came on like a hurricane. “Where is she?”

He spotted me sitting on one of the molded plastic chairs in the waiting area and veered in my direction. “What the hell happened? What were you two doing in a public place? I thought you were supposed to protect her. Do you call that protecting? Goddammit, what happened ?”

His face was the color of my chair. Philip Byron pulled up behind him and watched with a look of bland amusement. I couldn’t tell if he was amused at my being dressed down or at his boss’s outburst. Maybe both.

“I’m waiting,” Leavitt fumed, planting his hands on his hips. All heads in the waiting area were turned in our direction.

I rose slowly from my chair. My God, I was aching. “What say we go somewhere private?”

Leavitt took a beat, then looked around at the gawkers and understood what I meant. He snapped, “Philip.” Byron lost the amusement and quickly escorted the two of us through the swinging doors into the ER hallway. “We need a room,” he said to the first person he saw. A fellow in green scrubs led us into a small, dimly lit room with a solid metal table in the middle and a hulking X-ray machine hanging from the ceiling. No chairs. As I leaned against the table, Leavitt opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it.

“She’s going to be fine,” I said. “So am I, thank you. There’s a woman who was handling the coat check at Barrymore’s who is not fine. I’d say she was in her mid-twenties. Attractive Asian girl. She’s dead, Mr. Mayor. I’m guessing the bomb went off very near her waist, because she was blown apart. Add her to the tally from the parade this morning, and I think we can all agree that it’s been a bad day.” This last part I emphasized with a simple barking of the words “bad” and “day.” The mayor blanched.

I continued, “If you want to try tagging me with the blame for Miss Gilpin’s injuries and cutting me loose, go right ahead. I’ll even give you my services gratis for the day. It’s your call. I’m in or I’m out. Executive-decision time. I’m sure you’re up to it.”

“Look,” the mayor began. “What I-”

I wasn’t finished. “Whatever the hell this is all about, this shooting, this goddamn explosion… something is not being handled right.”

Philip Byron spoke up. “You can’t talk to the mayor like that.”

I ignored him. An image of Margo having joined Rebecca Gilpin and me for drinks after the show flashed through my head. I held up a finger and placed it directly in front of the mayor’s nose. Solid as a tree. No trembling.

“I’ve known Tommy Carroll a long time. He worked with my father. Any obedience you’ve gotten from me so far, and my putting up with this need-to-know bullshit, that’s because of Tommy. But I just want you to know before you say another word that, Tommy or no Tommy, we’re finished with all that. You can bounce me or not bounce me, I don’t really care. But I am now officially curious. I want to know exactly what the hell is going on. Need-to-know basis? I damn well need to know, and I damn well intend to. This is my city, too, Mr. Mayor, and this is my body. And I am not sticking it between your girlfriend and the next who-knows-what until I get some answers and know some things. Call me nosy, but I either get those answers from you or from Tommy Carroll or from whoever else happens to know them, or I start kicking over trash cans and knocking down doors. That’s what I’m trained to do. Ask Tommy, if you want to. I’m good at it.”

My finger was no longer without a wobble, so I withdrew it. In any case, Leavitt no longer looked like he was ready to bite it off. Philip Byron did, though. He looked like he wanted to eviscerate me for speaking this way to his boss. As for the boss himself, he was considering me with a placid gaze.