Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [53]
Dead-Eye at least had a job to fill his idle time. Boomer’s plate was empty. He refused to take any of the standard ex-cop details, passing on offers to work security, tend bar, bodyguard the rich, or turn private investigator and chase deadbeats for short money. For Boomer it was either be a cop or have nothing, and right now he was standing up against a blank wall.
Boomer and Dead-Eye could look at one another and sense the pain of what each had lost. They wore a mask of anger alongside the rigged scars of battle, frustrated to be pulled from the game at such an early stage, fearful of journeying toward that final step taken by many disabled cops. The one where a single bullet was all that was needed to free them of their misery.
A bullet fired from their own gun.
“You didn’t bring me any coffee,” Boomer said to Dead-Eye. “I had my heart set on a black.”
“The only black you gonna see in this car is me,” Dead-Eye said. “Besides which, I don’t drink that shit anymore.”
“Suppose you don’t have any smokes either.”
“Cigarette’s just the thing for a guy with one kidney and a scarred lung,” Dead-Eye said. “Got a mint. Would that do you?”
“I’ll stick with the gum.” Boomer shifted the Caddy into drive and pulled away from the hydrant.
“Where we going?” Dead-Eye asked, popping the mint into his mouth.
Boomer ignored the question and stopped at a red light. “You working door detail tonight?”
“Start in two hours,” Dead-Eye said.
“Can you call in sick?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you need,” Dead-Eye said.
Boomer put his right hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out a photo of Jennifer Santori, and handed it to Dead-Eye.
“She’s twelve years old and I need to find her,” Boomer said.
“Snatched?” Dead-Eye asked, staring down at the smiling girl.
“Three days ago,” Boomer said. “Over at Port Authority. Cops working it got nothing. Father’s an old friend. Called me to see what I could do, and I called you.”
“Pull over by that phone booth on the next corner,” Dead-Eye said. “Next to the deli.”
Boomer eased the car between a dented Chevy Caprice and a VW with Met and Yankee stickers covering the front and back fenders. Dead-Eye searched his pockets for loose change, found it, and opened the passenger door.
“While you’re out there,” Boomer said, “would you get me a coffee?”
“Fuck no,” Dead-Eye said, and slammed the door behind him.
• • •
BOOMER AND DEAD-EYE worked the city streets for two full days and nights. They walked into old haunts looking to scare up some familiar faces, only to end up staring at blank eyes. They drove past familiar corners and saw new players in control, players who didn’t even bother to give the two ex-cops a second look. Two years away from the action is a lifetime in the underbelly, and the names Boomer and Dead-Eye dredged from their memory banks were now either dead or doing hard time upstate. They felt old and rusty and were in constant pain. But the more they came up empty, the more determined they grew.
They were in the final hour of their second day when they spotted the reed-thin pimp in the black leather raincoat and purple felt hat. He smiled when he saw the two ex-cops walk up to his Times Square station. The rain had let up, replaced by a soft mist.
“Didn’t know you two had any taste for the deuce,” the pimp said, his smile exposing a long bottom row of silver teeth.
“Cleve, that tinfoil look you got is gonna catch on,” Dead-Eye said, patting the pimp on the shoulder and pointing to his mouth. “Let ’em laugh much as they want. You stick with it.”
“Be hostile, bitches,” Cleve said. “I’m still happy to see your asses.”
“We’re lookin’ for a girl,” Boomer said, reaching his hand into his jacket pocket.
Cleve held his smile. “Don’t know what your action is, Boom-Man, but I’m sure I got the muff to cover it.”
“A missing girl, asswipe,” Boomer said, jabbing Jenny